The Gonzo Wolf

I’m sick

Skunked of it all

The heat of winter

Late December darkness

My body craves cold; slapped with fire-warmed gloves across an unsuspecting face

Sick, but so is she

The planet loathes modern man, if she ever loved us in the first place

How could she?

Rivers dammed, seas trashed, land plundered

Bitch to the billionaire as the rest assume fetal positions for future history books, but for whom?

Who would read of our misdeeds; our rise/demise

Festering end

Humanity shall cease; rotting flesh turned crude to fuel the mechanized inventions of the next

And to think, it all began on a rather moist, post-Christmas evening

An old man mounts his porch swing, adding flame to flower

Visions of what’s to come forces a smile

He told you so.