If the sky should hit me soon
it would be fine, I think.
To have Creation shatter on my skull
and leave me in a Carlton gutter
shaking in the wreckage of the night.
It should be fine, I think.
The city towers are a jagged staircase,
Stretching up and ever up,
a rough-hewn ziggurat of grey
and glass, glinting darkly.
Surely you, of all people, should know
what confusion shall crawl from our throats
dropping like serpents from our mouths
and slithering away,
surely you should know
what a chaotic miasma of screams will rise
when those awful piles pierce the Heavens
and some chunk of broken cloud strikes me dumb.
Yes, it should be fine, I think.
Life flakes from spectral trees.
shadows huddle round the harbour,
the sky darkens:
the dead are rising from the sea.