When the chips are down,
when the fuel’s
gone,
when the sun has
set,
when the planet’s
dead,
then the deepest cold
of the universe
will claim
the remnants of our
planet
for a convenient
black hole.
Graffiti on a wall,
weapons so immense
to wipe out Mars as
well,
loos’ning bonds of
sense,
dogs and gods of
war,
rabid presidential men
bent on taking out
all others than
themselves.
Is this Eliot’s
whimper?
Will it make a
noise
when tokens are
cashed in?
We won’t be there
to see
all this
intelligence destroyed
art, music, all the
animals,
trees – so will we
care?
No, not at all.
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