Apocalypse

Ryder Martin

Her lips eclipse,

It’s right in the state

Where the plate

Stacks with mash-

Fast with cash-

And Acting brash-

Ordering Estate,

Gamble, some would call it love-

I call it fate.

There’s turning in her hips,

Street litter blue, bitter

At red sitter’s

Of Porch-Quitters

Whose words twitter

But that’s just down the street-

Motion without a transmitter.

Close-eyed glitter, can’t read scripts,

Walk my mind in the home

Where the coffee tends to foam,

Butler Yeats suggested-

Inside, done tending to loam.

This love is Apocalypse,

This skin is dragged by a grip

That’ll hold on tight, but slip,

This love is Apocalypse.