Quickly We’ll All Be Doomscrolling on Mars

Swan Fucker

Did she placed on his information along with his energy
Earlier than the detached beak may let her drop?
— W B Yeats, "Leda and the Swan"
Going deaf from the clamor of too many dooms,
balancing life like an egg on a spoon,
dreaming of a beautiful, baleful wave:
liquid obsidian. Who knew that planets can lose their atmospheres? 
It occurred to Mars. However—Chill! This ain’t all about us,
some sage rebukes the overall wail: We’re fucked.
Kathy Acker dubbed Leda the woman who "fucked
a swan," quaintly figuring god-bird as ingenue’s object. Doom
like that she mothered, factor of grandeur from afar, strikes us
in closeup as a congeries of pratfalls: plastic spoons
not pitchforks. In the meantime, the chic (e.g. music of the spheres)
disappears as we scout the skies for radio waves
replying to our zealous SETI crew, these specialists at waving
whereas drowning. Hey, come on down and share our unfucking-
plausible buzz, our surf’s-up thrill in glowing spheres
of achieve effectively juiced by grief so huge it dooms
element, all that’s small and neighborly. Spoon-
cuddled lovers trill, "This world belongs to us,"
cocoon of their angsty kitsch plurality—however what of "us"
writ giant? Who dares say "we" and imply that summary wave
of species-being; converse for all particular drops? We’re spoon-
fed schemes for terraforming Mars, framing epic fuck-
ups right here beneath as reculer pour mieux sauter. However our doom
wasn’t in-built a day. What nerve, anticipating the larger heliosphere
to welcome the pirates who ravaged Earth’s glorious environment!
Simply breathe, be right here now somebody chirps as I mourn that whole us,
multi-billion-headed, foundering, self-doomed.
Or say the fail-civ will get a clue; seems like annihilation’s waived—
however wait! Don’t suns flame out? After which their planets are fucked,
perforce. O what to do when the dish runs off with the spoon?
"You might kill a person," my boyfriend quips, "with a spoon."
It’s 1966, I’m reasonably new to the girl-o-sphere,
so indulge these stoned, mock-macho bon mots. Fucking,
what am I considering? Guys’ strutting perhaps isn’t even aimed toward us
chicks. They star in grisly drama (there’s a draft); we chattel wave
from the burning tower. Identical as Troy, actually: enhance their doomsday.
Spoon up the grief-soup, lick your plate. Then flip, salute the never-us:
environment, Earth system, dark-carved whelm of my magical dream-wave.
Fuck glory, feathered or naked. Pull up your drawers. Now die undooming.

A Consuming Sport

When it got here to the remedy of illnesses, the traditional Romans had no scarcity of magical treatments . . . . Nails from tombs and crucifixions had been generally even worn across the neck as talismans in opposition to fevers, malaria and evil spirits . . . [Bent] nails that had been strewn round burials . . . . [were thought] . . . to bind the spirits of the lifeless to the grave to maintain them from wandering round.
— "'Dying Nails' in Tomb Reveal an Occult Apply" by Franz Lidz, The New York Occasions, 3/28/2023
It’s zero hour. One Trigger—by no means thoughts the causes.
A soldier says what he sees: "corpses, corpses, corpses."
These glossy with the mom’s milk of spells and curses
(however science is actual—we’re nonetheless ready on fabulous cures)
pop temper capsules within the ruins. Slava Chaos!
If solely it will cross, this reeking chalice.
If solely it may cross, this preposterous chalice.
Suppose the occulted causes
of putative chaos
had been unveiled? Trench burial for the corpses
of the indigent. Stillborn. The despised incurables.
Nails filched from crucifixions counter curses,
genuine element for the accursed
mise en scène.  And right here it comes once more, the fool chalice.
Good individuals jog in T-shirts, "Run for the Remedy!"
However how can cures be one, or causes
straight? Stochastically strewn, these uncollected corpses
are a metonym for chaos—
however what if within the chaos
somebody’s monetized the curses
that rend our enemies? (We will harrow the mud with corpses, 
slurp the dregs from this risible chalice!)
Ignoring such conundrums, the cause-
kings maintain sway: technicians, after we needed curanderas—
for isn’t it true that probably the most ingenious cures
predictably foster variant strains of chaos?
The search to nail a definitive trigger
of demise by no means slowed the conglomerate curse
that canine our days. If solely it may cross, this overdetermined chalice!
If solely we didn’t share our beds with corpses.
No magic nail has energy anymore to maintain the corpses
mendacity flat. They warned you years in the past: there isn't a treatment.
If solely it may cross, this illustrious chalice,
final mouthfuls laced with Gehenna’s signature chaos.
And but. When driving a curse
down the chute of contemptible causes,
deal with courteously with corpses. Remedy for chaos.
As if who can’t be cured may but be healed, trim your curses
like sails. Raise the ferocious chalice, sum and tomb of all-powerful causes.