Doomsday
The monkey's wrench has blasted all machines;
We never thought to hear the holy cock:
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.
Too late to ask if end was worth the means,
Too late to calculate the toppling stock:
The idiot bird leaps out and drunken leans,
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.
For nine years, we have been making comic books. We are about to publish our masterpiece...
We need your help.
Friday, October 5, 2007
For A-Rod (#13) in the poetry corner: Let's try Sylvia Plath
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