Our Last Hope

I wrote this today while totally cracked out after too many cups of coffee, 12 hours of work, and two hours sleep. But it really spawned from pulling the “Judgement” card out of a Tarot deck this morning.

Our Last Hope

Nine hundred seagulls later,
the good people of Zion
were saved.

Left alone with locust lunchboxes; a
breathless barrier in seven
plauges; a plug-in
to the post-mortem
majesty mayday.

And yet, everything
worked out
okay.

Yes, each of us will die
in a different way.
And Pharoah may sit
upon our graves,

but if we listen yet to the sanskrit scribe
unfolding a torn scroll:

- “the scarab beetle scurrying,
just scratches the surface of your
immortal soul ”

perhaps we will rise
from the judgement tombs,
these earth born wombs,
each of us hovering six feet over ground,
the holy sound! trumpets blaring!
bombastic and terrible!

See, the last hope leans
astrally undulating

and under udders sagging
the sores of
the reborn;

you think,
what luck to have found yourself

here again,
sucking your mothers
great big boob?