The End Game of Bloom

Has it turned out we’ve wasted our time?
We’ve wasted our time.

Our magnificent bodies on the dissecting table.
Our day after tomorrow.
Our what to do now.

The stink of us so undignified.
The end game of bloom.

We will lose the sun
struck and disassembled
lightly down and crawling like a worm.

This earth it is a banquet and laid on its table we.
A puncture in the wound room, crude and obvious.

The raving lunatics they are upon us,
but we are raving too.

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