The End Of Days...

Poem By Werner Schmidt

... should have been 70 AD/CE, remember?
Or no,150.
Or no, sorry, finger error, it was supposed to be 380.
Or no, no, no! It is going to be exactly 24 September 20XX, after
the fourth blood moon …
This last one clearly prophesied by men.
Else there would have been hundreds of bloody moons in the formula.

And the world keeps on spinning like an RGB rolling stone.
People catch first breath and stand up from the mud
like goose flesh buttons.
Struggle for a time to keep standing
and then disappear, like autumn swallows.

But, by all means, insist that the story has already been told
and we're just living it - zombies - as prophesied before.
Then we don't have to take responsibility for any chicken poop
in and around our coop.
We only have to wait. Godot to the rescue.

Maybe we should air
CNN, Al Jazeera, Radio Beijing and the BBC
concurrently, on four wall to wall screens
in our living rooms.
Remember to squeeze in a fifth channel
for sports, and a sixth for soaps.
Prophetic texts chronologically
pinned on large pin-up boards
so that we may keep up with
the unfolding of our truth, on a daily basis.

Let us tick off crucial events on our
doomsday dashboards, until we know exactly
to the minute, when the day has come
for our TV accounts to be settled
whether we believe it or not.

Comments about The End Of Days...

A refined poetic imagination, Werner. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.


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Trying not to blink. What am I looking at?

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He enters a black forest.
Perhaps because he tried to read Freud.
Narrow path. Some sort of enchantment.
Is he flying or falling?

A Red Heart Rises

over a suburban garden.

She lays a landscape A4 sheet in front of me.
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Treading On The Tail Of A Tiger

is a bit like tiptoeing
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I wish I could choose