Imagine the good fortune of the generation that gets to see the end of the world. This is as marvelous as being there at the beginning….. Jean Baudrillard
Exfoliating beads were turning up in all the major lakes;
islands of plastic, foam and bones
had formed like unwanted new limbs
around the pacific and you could almost see the air.
There was probably a war on somewhere-
there’s always a war.
Seals came ashore catatonic,
shucking their skin like bad dreams.
Polar bears found religion
and lit themselves alight for nature documentaries
as something ancient turned to vapour in Fukushima
and melted into a sea
reaching into dry places
hurling up waves like fuck you middle fingers.
A red flower bloomed across the digital pacific;
another map unfurled across a dead territory.
Fishermen saw signs of the apocalypse
in the keloidal skin of jellyfish that threw themselves
in wet desperation from the water
and some dolphins suicided.
Salarymen offered themselves up like fresh hearts
as holiday plans were made, remade and finally unmade.
We talked of throwing ourselves from cliffs
onto the rocks below but decided against it
on grounds that radical critique
had become self-negating
and we were more or less dead already anyway;
passion was for the young and their starry eyes-
only passionate because they were young
and had starry eyes.
I thought of us that way
-so full of light,
so full of new and fresh flight- and wondered
which gap we’d fallen through on landing
as we sat huddled like good ghosts,
locked away in doomsday bunkers,
curling our slow selves round tiny HD screens,
reading ghosts back into machines,
waiting for Revelation after the one Big Crunch,
waiting for the all the lights to finally go out