Quiet Queer Apocalypse – Poetry


Image Credit: Srabon Arafat


No magpies bridged the Milky Way, but this greater flame came and ate our nebula of simmering, shimmering miseries.


What are we now, void history?


Acid burned our hands but melted our cages where we’d stand for ages waiting, waiting for a due and undelivered key.


What do we now, that we are free?


Reap devastation before reformation, and say, We’ll take it, because Armageddon is a rabid gift horse with a rusted gag bit in its mouth. I, on this mount, with you ride out where mutant birds still chirp, somehow, far past charred, vast, smoldering ground—

And on green enclave build a house.


In the back of an armored charter bus, cracked windows, muddied steps, on your torn knuckles press my bloodied lips, till you sleep. Fungus grows from mildewed seat.

Crows dance on rooftop with black clawed feet.


You give me radioactive rose, all thorns and teeth, uranium leaf. Here, few flourish, scanty keep, but we strange three can all be freaks, just you and me, the rose with teeth.

Somewhere above us, the red sky screams a melody.


We are Romeo and Juliet who survive the night. It’s our houses that light bright with fire, for all their fruitless hate and ire. Was it wrong to will that hearts might still in chests who for some gentle sin of us would kill? Fall their poison spires, forts barbed-wired.

Bitter castles lie bemired.


Revolution died when the tide went by—might of glaciers liquified—and washed away all shame and pride. Who can we blame?


Rage dissipates— like gas and dust.


Thank the world for slaughtering itself so swift and thoroughly that we may rot— soft, slow.


Together, love.