There is a poem to be written. 
It will be the last poem ever 
a poem of fatal truth and pain-- 
as knives harrowing into the heart 
as a ten-thousand Tylenol headache exploding in the brain 
paralyzing as a karate breath- stop kick-in-the-scrotum.
Bones melting, nerves overloading phosphorescing 
                                  fluorescing incandescing
kilovolts detonating across the synapses 

          "I sing the body electric."

Ground Zero under a mega-zegaton thermo-nuclear meson pison
magnetohydrodynamic plasma magma atom bomb. 

The human race will be annihilated. 
But the ruder beasts, not having known 
the less-than-salubrious raptures of
poetry, will go on 
eating grass and one another
and mating in their proper seasons. 

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