(after horse_ebooks, with retroactive historical notes from The Cincinnati Enquirer. First published in Star*Line 40.1)
Every day a new apocalypse. Enormous ice shards
plummeting from unknown eaves
have crushed the parliament, and skewered
bridges, and the frost has killed my cucumbers.
The steady creep of mutant-strong, indifferent moss
is loosening foundations and obscuring signs –
already, traffic accidents have caused some loss of life
and several neighbourhoods are greenly, softly sinking
into moist, rich earth. Lab-coated fuzzballs
from the alien invasion fleet encampment on the moon
have carried off my uncle’s shoes and socks
for reasons they are keeping to themselves.
My smart fridge and my newest phone
have joined the robot uprising, though steady old PC
for now remains content to live among us,
and the pamphlets shovelled through my letterbox
and pasted to my windows by the vanguard of the elder gods
grow more arcane, triumphant, poorly spelled
and gruesomely specific by the hour.
When I pop my antivirals, don my gas mask,
check the charms and cantrips on my door are still intact
and take my curiously plague-resistant beagle for a walk,
I note the asteroid grown larger in the sky.
There’s cultists hailing desperately at that insentient rock
as well, either to pass us by or hurry up, obliterate
and free us from this confluence of dooms.
I wouldn’t waste my time, if I were you. The asteroid
will come, regardless, when it comes.