Judgement Day

We when rise out of our graves,
Naked (as the Dead alone
Can be naked at the end),
Nakedly thus, you and I face

Seven angels, trumpets, battalions,
Curses, mothers, plagues:
We the damned, with our
Eyeliner in creases and our
Supermarket red hair,
And our shocked morning faces.

We are naked before them,
And they are not at all like
The chiaroscuro forms we told
Ourselves they would be, but march us

Their thousand-eye wings hidden,
In Kevlar, their batons and shields
Neatly bounding, thrumming.
These helmed and neon-stippled seraphim,
This host of snipe-necked birds.

Some weep and clutch the thin
Leafed gold, the delicate film
On the edges of their hymnals.

Some run, in their dressing gowns
And last night’s jackets,
Streak straight into maw of the abyss.

Judgement Day

In the end what is always, remains:
Seven staves, seven cups,
Conquest, War, Famine, Death,
Blood, rain, gravel roundabouts,
Various kinds of bastards.