even the TV static sounds like music to us now

the earth is in ruin
and my hair falls out.

good god, the line is so long!

the air smells like hot breath
and everywhere around me,
wherever I look, is just flesh flesh flesh.

we’ve turned a corner,

we’ve put a brick on the gas,

we’ve juiced the last dinosaur
and something is next.

we turn our eyes
toward a worried face
with
murderous intent.

“you there! yes! you!!”

they run. we run after.

this soup has all become slop,
and it’s no wonder no one
wants to taste it.

eat from my ribcage. drink from my wrist.

good god,
we’ve been at this for what seems
like
forever!

even the TV static sounds like music
to us now!

Allen Seward is a thirty-something poet-thing and mill worker. His work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, DEDpoetry, and JAKE, and his chapbook sway condor is available on Amazon thanks to Alien Buddha Press. He currently resides in WV with his partner and three cats.