This is a new, long epic of a poem. It's not finished, needs some work.
It's a bit experimental. If you read this, sit down, relax, get a cup of
tea. It's long, enjoy the ride.

The Last poem.
This is the last poem my love.
For science has swallowed love.
What dreamers call real, we realists call illusion.
May these words never be followed by more words.
I pray.
Words, words, all we have are words.
They do nothing, they disappear after they are said.
We cannot feel them, they are cold.
Instead let crawling whispers become hushed echoes in the void.
Let language be smashed when there is no one left to utter it.
Will existence still exist when there is no one left to feel it?
Does it matter? It is a question not worth answering.
You will be dead.
Dead and unremember-ed
So say this slowly.
Balance the time.
I tell you in the end all comedy in tragedy is overcome by tragedy itself.
The fool can laugh but then he chokes.
The jester is buried, his skull is rotten.
And the musing man upon his grave a joins him later.
The joke is turned upon him; he goes to be dined upon, not to dine.
And all ceremony and speech cannot save him from it.
This is the last poem,
The last words croaked from dry lips.
Falling on silent air, mimic spineless space.
Repeat slowly in hushed tones.
Existence shames those who exist.
All else is done.
All else is exhausted and worn out by barren men.
All voices have been silenced by the sledge of time.
All hope has been extinguished by men hoping against it.
Jesus strips himself bare in the desert and whips his back.
A cross to bear, but with no direction, he knows not where to die.
The sand is inviting him.
The second coming! No, it is not.
This is the final going. All things flowed and came together.
Came together and then fell apart for the purpose lies within
purposelessness.
Sprawling misery from nature weeping for industry
And industry gnawing with hungry teeth upon nature's womb.
Visions of the sightless predicting the future.
Blind men lead the way best.
Night eclipses direction.
The future ends in the next second, doom bells rings.
Proclaim the monstrous man our new king.
Bring on the future for within it lies our deaths.
Roll on inevitable defeat for the wait is too much to bare.
Crumble Atlas legs, bring down the sky, put out the sun.
Snuff the stars out like wet candles before a winter rain.
All things turn upon the nature of themselves
And revert to the opposite.
The bride is shot in the head and buried at the wedding.
The corpse springs out and makes love to the living.
Decaying flesh fucks better.
It's moist and eager to give.
This is the last poem; this is the last sight, the last citadel to fall
Uncalled before the torrent.
Before we are washed away.
I communicate with you from the future.
From the future many years away.
This is not a warning merely a prediction.
You cannot change it,
It will come.
Your leaders will be like light houses guiding you onto the rocks.
Your leaders will be like Sheppard's guiding you into the arms of hungry
men.
Your leaders will melt into the blood and all petty society will follow
them.
The fields are cherry red with humanity.
The fruit is heavy in yield.
Do not fear the future, you cannot change it.
I tell you, you cannot change it.
You will awake one day like I did and find a factory outside your door.
A factory where the workers work to deconstruct the human form.
Then to deconstruct themselves.
Mankind is made into the machine by Mankind.
To be discarded upon the scrap heap of festering wounds.
The second going of all things, Jesus loves us no more.
God is a tyrant throwing thunder bolts down.
Ride upon the storm, it's all that's left of stability.
The only contingent is change.
The poet and the philosopher work to point out futility.
They work to make us despair.
Before the axe falls in swing try to take as many as you can into the void.
The cleverest of us find ways to kill as many as we can.
The roaring beast, the tranquil virgin, the placid scientist,
They are all transformed.
Animate into inanimate.
Why must we point this out?
Stupidity gets you to the same place as wisdom in the end.
Or so wise men say, before falling on their swords.
We offer no solutions only problems.
For every advance we degenerate.
From the engines we make the war machines.
From the medicines we make the sicknesses to counter them.
From hope we make despair.
From intelligence we make stupidity.
Mankind's greatest achievement will be to wipe itself out.
Self cleaning filth, ironic in an ironic way.
We awake today, I am alone.
Men hack each other down like trees.
My garden is empty.
I dream of you, to fuck on dead leaves.
On dead leaves on top of dead soil.
On top of these we like two struggling dead things spend our lives.
Fertile fields replaced by sterile streets.
The dead world and the dead universe yawns around us to swallow
And shake down.
And dead swirling time, for it does not exist without perception of it.
I'll make love to you on dead things
We can join them in the height of pleasure. Or so Freud says.
The best of us work to undo their work.
Animals buried on top of meaningless animal.
Shed no tear, all this will come.
And nothing can be made from nothing.
Toiling hands have their work slip through them.
We fall like burning dust through the branches of the swinging cosmos.
Clutch me tight, your nails bite.
Spiral and spiral down into perfect symmetry of destruction.
Till our bodies decay in each other's arms.
And the skin boils off
And the flesh boils down.
And all that's left where we stood and fell is perception less nothing.
Made of nothing and falling into nothing.
Let the philosophers ask how we can come of that.
We cannot.
We will not.
All things fall down.
Even failure fails in the end.
And in this there lies failure.
So after eon life even death will die.
The reaper falls on the cold surface of the barren galaxy.
With nothing left alive there is nothing left to kill.
Fragmenting fragments of the flaw.
Laws of physics break, therein lies the law.
Lovers dance across the stage
Lip rot, poetic fuck, rage.
Twirl, twist and disfigure.
To nothing to everything we send.
The end.
The end.
I call this the end.
When really it's only the end of myself.
Disintegration of the words.
Here comes the end.
Here comes it with bull rushed red.
Here comes it, silent and loud.
Here comes it, screaming and clutching like a babe to blossom.
Wither, wilt, bend against its back.
Last visions pluck out my eyes.
Of hospitals working to kill the patients.
Last visions of the living having organs cut out to feed the rotting dead.
The grave is our master.
Sealed up in the dirt of our mortality.
Last vision of a rose, petals melting into the sun.
Last vision, it is of me, having visions.
Having visions, of the last vision.
It is of me.
A sly unending trail of balloons.
All burst.
All flung down.
We spin, around and around.
The last word spoken in my world of words is, word.
And so your world crumbles.
We disintegrate
Until
The
End.
Where the words themselves stop.
And definition fails.