that is all it came to amount to:

a history of failure and destitution;

tirades of empty moralism, 

exhibitions in shallowness,  

 contests in vice and vanity; 

glorifications of hedonistic inhibition…

coyness, resolve, constraint, mystery:

   all abandoned!―here is no strife,

        here is no sacrifice!

      “just we fuck, drink, and dance enough!”

in the end times, only the surface nuisances

of a planet burning at its core seemed interesting― 

nothing was real in those last days.

  fuck the hedonistic rapture you ushered in!

       for i am part of it

       and this part of me i hate…

   how am i to put on some pedestal

   this toilet-paper literature,

   and how i am i to hear these broken poetics

   of mute and wing-torn nightingales,

   how they twitter their false 

   and weak spring-song

   muttered and stuttered deep from the syrinx

   of their debased subterfuge?

We must know,

that the Devil is a gas

   seeping through

   the tiniest of cracks.

And we must know

   that His breath

   is a foul perfume of existence,

   infernal smog of supremacy.