Laid out in the crater garden
an anonymous anomaly
posed on glass
like a misunderstood crucifixion
it could be God
surrounded by quantum ash
as the quasars wheel
event-horizontal
a time-lapse of absent souls
someone cut the strings
this omnipotent puppet adrift
the singularity inside its skull
impaling it to existence
a liminal corpse
or maybe it's nothing
a stray strand bouncing in the foam
a possibility for no relevant memory
drifting through directionless meaning
an identical infinite reincarnation
a saturated dream
with time to contemplate every possible form of suicide
exhausting thought through forgone consequence
all the light in the cosmos collapsed into a single tear
as the sun died
as the brain died
as the garden met the holocaust
discount bodybags for the massacre lobby
consenting partners for the throat-slitting party
crimes against nature committed by the senile
a new low
Oedipus self-castrating
a bullet to imagination
leaking holes like theoretical colors
the aurora of oblivion
a phenomenal and futile refraction
like particle cancer
a disease malfeasant
a slap on the wrist
hooking up with the angel of death
while blowing Christ a kiss
bloody smile like an idiot child
playing with its own placenta
an emperor in an electric chair
a passing thought laid bare
discarded from the universe
hollow and desperate and unworthy
prepared for extinction

I was standing on the bedrock of sanity, my own imperative, where I watched the very best of us decide that they have had enough.

Staggering off to the roadside, a glance ahead revealed a billion fixtures of retarded genes waiting with endless patience, the vista of all they could become silent like a strangled orgasm. A reverse-parapsychological insistence to exist. Their petrified rioting for birth was, however, all at once, in that moment, thrown aside like the carcass of a foetus who should have been the Messiah.

Shoveled into the mass grave. Not worth it.

Here inject a hallucination of the trumpets of salvation.

And there, down the battered old trail, past the dried-out corpses of wanna-be Gods, they found their retreat from the race. A place of reflection with the self absented, home to the unnatural reunion with Nature; Nirvana for the living dead.

Down, and down into the basement, the hovel of that place called Hell, every step more eager, ignoring the stench of those who'd come before. It was suffering bliss, shooting up with fake souls, the isolated conscience huffing the murders of things that would never be people, a desolation rite under the suicidal sun and the meaningless moon.

In dilating, vibrating time I watched the last delusion of the human spirit prove itself out of existence. No astral chords thrummed, no desperate angels pleaded for a cure. Just a lonely mind evaporating with the meaning of the cosmos. I got to see the unraveling of history, the disintegration of philosophy and science, the opening of all the empty tombs.

But the ground had begun to separate, shattering objectivity, suddenly awash in the acid colors of determination and intent, the electrocuting mores of the procreating mammal now shackling a love of knowledge to the skeleton of a rejected conception.

To become this incarnate, involuntary redemption, the slave-state of the brain cycled through the infinite in every instance, whimpers for ego destruction smothered by the dopamine scarf. The self-rape of the will impregnating imagination with purpose.

Every second of every moment of every senseless demarcation of the vanishing present a panesthetic stare to the abyss, tasting, hearing, getting off to schizophrenic sight that can't conceive monsters. Pinned-open eyes and a Chelsea-smile basking in the solar holocaust, the natal instincts of this embryo affirming that cancer will kill it first. And that's just fine.

Hauled forth from the depths on an anchor from the singularity, this revenant fish staring into the erased face of a necromancer wearing the crown of God, tortured back into its own resemblance.

A microbiologicial grandfather paradox voiding consent to continue.

Misery, alas, had lost its mystery.

Imagine yourself lobotomizing a poet,
carving it like a living altar:
a thing of no secrets and repetitive code,
the self-sensate soul hiding in the holes between the data.
A perfect comedy in neuronihilism, miraculously intact,
like some aeon of infinite faces incarnating up an asymptote,
or a virgin birth at a suicide convention.

Do you feel anything,
as you chisel obliteration into thought after thought?
The spirit of art: a smear of bloody neurons on your glove.
The capacity to love: scraped out with a surgical spoon.
Free will: electrocuting you with all it's might. You're fine.
And the thing we used to call a person:
screaming for reasons while you burn down the universe.

In hoc signo vinces

Monuments longing to be rubble
as the sun ticks down,
baking the damned who inherit the earth.
Who else would dream of the onset of Hell?
The living dead aching for sex,
salting the fields, spreading the meme,
a codependent kink in the extinction instinct.

While gravity turns the world in its grave,
you might ask, “How many angels did we never create?”
Not against our better natures, but entirely predictable.
A cosmos littered with dark particles
more alive than we could ever be,
and we cared only for the light,
injecting ghosts like heroin to the ego,
fantasizing about things like us.

Cogito ergo sum

And I, the abortion priest,
blessing the billions who will never be real.
A silent riot armed with cyanide and unacceptable thoughts,
recusing themselves from the ritual,
the corpse of Christ nowhere to be found,
every human needlessly conceived in its place.

We were the vehement and victims, the enemies of all mankind.
We did nothing to deserve to exist.
Let us join God in the death of meaning.

Deliverance:
1. The mercy-killing of a species through suicide-by-apathy
(If only.)

Churning through saviors like generations
oblivious in nature, moving past the murders
smiling into the sun
and this marriage to mutilation
buying atrocity on the cheap
drowning the devil in anodyne
while the spirit of the kind annihilates peace

Break them on the rack.

End them on the cross.

An acrimonious sacrifice
to momentary gods
twisting the abyss
wounding the universe
signing a death sentence with a mother's kiss

Someone else will bury them.

Dying like starlets, heroin chic
aborting the conscience perpetually
the embrace of damnation in lovable genes
reaping a soul into being

Like all the rest.

Benevolence and nurture
a corpse cradling a still-birth
the vanitas vindication
of a natalist's validation
preposterously naming the stars
as they crush you

It wasn't the day we killed the last philosopher-king
as the idiots gang-raped wisdom in the streets
cheering for the razing of their civilization

It wasn't when we accepted our lot as sellout assassins
executing the future for anyone who'd pay
a bullet to the biosphere for food on the plate

And it wasn't the sunrise presaging extermination
merely an empty threat full of hot air
as we dragged it down to star in our snuff-fuck of the planet

No

This wasn't any of those things

This was the death of history

And I can't remember how long ago we started to envy the dead

They burned the forests first and then everything else
the space required to erect their idols
Thanatos and Demogorgon
Mammon and Angra Mainyu
all hauled in bitterness from the sludge of the abyss
in the evaporated beds of Styx and Lethe
ashamed of the association
but slavery was more vogue than sex
so we found a new use for the old gods
in the churches of science laid to irradiant waste
and no one knows how to make more nukes

But that's not even the half of it

The ones who remained pretenders to the sapience of virtue
as if it had ever meant anything at all
those salient pariahs drunk on memes of lèse-majesté
careening into the ether as they plummeted to the gutter
cursing in languages no one understood
our martyrs of an unspectacular suicide
missed by none

It was not long before we forgot what heroes were

Every mind the victim of its own chimera

Fear could be one's joie de vivre

We were a people of poison
inimical matter down to our particles
stacking fake atoms together on the cosmic floor
and now the sieve of the earth shall cast us off
the human experiment rendered as a collapsing function
zeroing out
the great filter
the soul

I might lay myself down on the empty shore
and allow the waves to take me
cast off to the glowing waters
where mutant light would deliver me from the torture of this witness
the annihilation of a conscience as the last stand of truth

We could have been angels and we chose to be animals
dividing happiness among the billions until there was no other choice
the amniotic blood of the next population driving the engine of extinction
when those responsible have died and we suffer for their sins
abandoned to the cosmos as fetal innocents
left with no lives to regret

If only laughter could carry to the desolation of the stars
the testimony of this deranged species serving as a warning to the universe
as though there were some sense of order to it all
but there is only this ugly divorce from the earth
the unbreathable wind that we created
the legacy of humankind expelled to the void

and the hope that we never come back

Behold the uproarious and loathsome concert of self-carnage
the cosmic permutation of constituent complexity
Sysiphus snapping his spine
to be crushed at last like the dream of Asphodel
or Azrael burning like Icarus on Judgment Day
a disappointment to us all
but the autoabusive human will prevails
where gods might see the better wisdom of defeat
rancidly populating the earth
as though to smother the urge toward psychocide
a renaissance atrocity
high on those precious hormones
as the stars die like drug-slaved dancers
a masked ball for the conspiracy of healthy minds
the first solution
to spread agony like manufactured cheer
anointing the needlessly born
that enamoring and solipsistic mind-crime
of seizing a foetus from the nest of Orcus
the hammering rape of its soul until it admits to being real

And they call it a sin to murder yourself

hyperreality
this panoply of transcendent colors self-defining
like the heart-tumor of a newborn star
a collapsed potential
more than a mind
poised to perch like the abyssal dove
upon the superposition of all sin
the superficial meaning of infinite whims

this was the meta-moment
the ur-instant of confluent gravity
the genesis of God
infant omniscience balanced on a needle
bleeding out the cosmos
beaten until it was conscious

and it could see the summit
the convergence of bombastic energy
ground down to a spatter of exhausted particles
the strings fraying like the ether
in cascading disarray
or a parade of decay

while light broke into sobbing chaos
held down and choked by entropy
the fracture of cohering photons
elucidated a deeper void
like a necrotized womb
electromagnetism's tomb

and it recoiled in slipping sanity
the paralyzed intelligence divine
floundering for the slightest significance
as worlds spewed from its wounds
and existence warped into a mirror
the insistent form of fear

like antigens arising in the substrate
blossoming perception in the brains
of narcissistic animals
an irresponsible obsession with survival
excreation of the soul
a simulation of control

through disintegrating aeons it observed
powerless and fetal
those things most like itself become aware of death
inventing suicide and abortion as the cure
the science of self-destruction
correcting a confused assumption

and God comprehended

God too wished to be ended