The seams of this plastic earth

will melt apart like cotton candy sugar

under a wax sun

when it’s time for the Big Shift

to take the old guard

under the parting sea to meet

the wrecked remains of Atlantis.

Version 2.0 hasn’t been a big hit

up here in the Kingdom

of a lackluster Empire

where rabid dogs bark orders

to mutts that march in lockstep

to the drumbeat of war

despite hazardous health conditions

and a lack of benefits

in the retirement package.

Compassion is a curse word

in the red zone,

and empathy is a silent scream – 

raging loud but signifying nothing –

when apathy plays the role of just one more

trigger warning for the eternally brokenhearted

who weep like their own personal martyrs

upon any cross they happen to find

out in the blistering blitzkrieg desert heat

where they hop aboard and hang

until everyone in a thirty-three mile radius

comes along to boohoo with them

in some sort of cursed ceremony of the damned.

It’s a bullshit paradise

of make believe cognitive dissonance

where all the lemmings leap

right off the ledge

once ordered to do so

by the wolves who dress up

in sheepskin lingerie

when they are full of wicked intentions

to fuck over the competition

in a dog eat dog

fight to the death

where the winner receives a bloody biscuit

processed in a slave shop factory

across the dead black sea

where suicide nets hang heavy

to catch those who are too weary

to continue bleeding their veins

day after day for a corporate monster

that pretends to be a master

while hiding behind ornamented curtains

like some powerful occult wizard

who slings feces in the face

of all the rational non-believers.

There are cracks in the system.

There are liars living in the tower.

There are no codes of regulation.

There is wormwood in the liver.

There is cancer in the brain.

But there is one hell of a big flood

heading this way to reduce the skyscraper utopia

to rubble and ash as the End of Days

makes its triumphant third-act splash

on the scene with a director’s cut finale

sure to wipe the shit smug grins

off the face of all the bad apple actors

who have been pulling the strings

on a kabuki theater production

that’s destined to meet the maker soon

and pay for all the sins

that have tipped the karmic scales

to the point of no turning back.

Dust to dust for dry flaking bones

that lack the proper mineral composition

for long term survival

as they wind up face down in the gutter

where an open yawning grave

cuts its teeth and fills its belly

with a final decadent feast

upon the flesh of a fading disease

before entropy vomits forth the apocalypse

into a belching black hole of dissolution

and cancels out the credits,

as if anyone still gives a shit

after the final curtain drops.

Poem Sweet Salvation by Scott Thomas Outlar

Grass stains in my mind
where I tripped through your thoughts
for a flash, for an instant,
for a moment
captured (click-click) in time.

Big hope on the wire
where birds balance their souls
with a feather, with a fire,
with a heart
fluttering (kiss-kiss) across the scales.

Rain drops through the sky
where the winter takes aim
with a shiver, with a shake,
with a dose
melting (drip-drip) on wet tongues.

War hawks on the rise
where the old gods have fallen
for a ruse, for a hoax,
for a hope
cutting (snip-snip) through illusions.

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, and books can be found. His work has received nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Scott serves as an editor for The Blue Mountain Review, Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Peregrine Muse, and Novelmasters.