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John Fenlon Hogan




Post Apocalyptic 



I never thought I’d be the one to elegize the walking dead—


Sooner Hitler. Sooner money. Sooner my father,

preemptively, or, preternaturally, myself.


But here, in The Age of Sequels & Remakes, I can’t shirk the image

            of taking a nine iron to the Western Hemisphere

            of my best friend’s head.


I begin to wonder if human ingenuity amounts to just that:

            betrayal and blunt objects.


Where is my fire-and-brimstone?


Where are my sins spread out before me for even my mother to see?


It never occurred to me that the Apocalypse is a disposition,

            that it transpires on the inside—


I suck it up and do my best, and then I do my best

to keep my aesthetics to myself— 










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