11th Hour

It is the eleventh hour –

The world is flat again, and

Babies in bars fall asleep,

Milkbottle still in hand.

They simmer into sweet slumber,

And see before their black eyelids

The depth of the White

Russian’s gun barrel.

So early it is for such

Carefully constructed corruption;

For when the babies wake, and

It is not yet the spring time,

They will think the shit

In their diapers normal –

They will not even smell it, –

Just as when they hang

From the sharp edge of this world,

They will not feel

Their fingers bleeding.

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