the picnic at the end of the end of it

 

 

We try to stick to canned goods these days.

Not that it’s particularly easy, mind you,

As the expiry dates have come and gone;

You have to have a feel for what ages well

And what simply can’t be trusted.

Some of the stuff in jars is OK, if the seal’s good

And it hasn’t had too much unnaturally bright light or heat.

Sometimes, in frustration or fear or just plain madness,

We’ll grab a couple of pieces of fruit or berries

Straight from a tree or bush (just a guilty nibble,

As our wiring for self-preservation quickly takes over,

Though that’s akin to insanity in itself;

Indeed, a considerable number of people

Won’t even consider stepping outside anymore.)

 

We have come here, then, carrying our threadbare blankets,

Our dented and dinged peas and garbonzos

To this portentously lush locale

(Nature’s metamorphosis, now running in overdrive,

Having its winners among its throng of losers,

Sitting among a recklessness of flowers

Which have smartened themselves up

In sizes and hues heretofore unknown)

As what passes for evening takes hold

(The daytime air so stultifying and adulterated

They don’t even bother issuing warnings and advisories any more.)

We watch the odd, unsettling out-of-place aurorae,

Not giving utterance to the obvious—is this the one?

But choosing to soft-shoe our way through the hours

With small talk, the odd kiss and cuddle

(There are those who have taken the humanity of affection

Beyond the foolhardy, cults of propagation comprised of odd Gnostic outliers,

Dreamy and staunch proponents of extraterrestrial rescuers.)

As the darkness takes hold, we lift our faces to the stars

(For the nights are always starry, clouds being relegated to only memory),

And as they sit above us, stark, awesome in the oldest sense,

It is hard not to think of what an ancient man

Wrote of one equally ancient to him,

That though they have seen the totality of our folly,

They remain wholly without fault.

 

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7 thoughts on “the picnic at the end of the end of it

  1. You have a real knack for creating atmospheres using strong narrative voices (I think so anyway!)
    For pure poetry I especially like – (Nature’s metamorphosis, now running in overdrive,

    Having its winners among its throng of losers,

    Sitting among a recklessness of flowers

    Another solid piece Mr Consistent 🙂

  2. It is almost as if you have written a shred of the dreams I have in the winter. Silly as it may be (because the more I learn about myself, Kortas, the more I learn I am a silly girl and that is exactly why I have gotten where I am), my faovrite part of this poem was the open of stanza two: the threadbare blankets and dented peas. Therein is a roadmap to my heart.

    This whole piece sings, but there was the beating healthy heart for me. I will need to revisit this, though I would pay cash (american) for an autographed copy. viva la

  3. You must know how I love a dystopian landscape, and with every line of this, I’m thinking… Sheesh! Why didn’t I write this. The answer is plain… You have such incredible vision when it comes to the human condition, and you know how to use it to grand effect.

  4. W.K., You write dreams of the essential realities of life, even if they’re not literally true. Your word portraits drill deep into our souls, without so much as a “by your leave” while doing so. Your stuff is not merely good, it is essential.

  5. We’ll grab a couple of pieces of fruit or berries
    Straight from a tree or bush (just a guilty nibble,
    As our wiring for self-preservation quickly takes over,

    … there will come a time when can goods are healthier? A future so bleak, and I hope it stays tucked away in your imagination!

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