Slouching Toward Apocalypse

Thought I would REPOST this now that I have started a BLOG!
Perhaps it is a message or maybe a warning...Perhaps more shall come forth.
 Slouching Toward Apocalypse
Copyright © 1999 / 2011 S. Vernarelli
A sense of entry provides the Enchanted Traveler with an exalted chance to stop and gawk at unforeseen miracles that pop like tarts from a toaster in the Morning of Tenderness after a Harrowing Night. Burnt and sweet pick-me-ups ridiculize the headway gained as lunacy and madmen plagiarize the masses in the fray.
Indemnity rises like dough-conditioned bread baked by the sweat of hot-air breathing Hard-Knockers banging down the Doors to Freedom while billowing young whippersnappers flinch at the falsely sweetened smell that lures them to risk everything because their bellies aren't full.
Idiots beat drums of superstition while shouting incognito remembrances, urging all to climb into sinkholes without a rope or ladder. Flies greedily rub front paws in anticipation of the apocalypse and rot that will reek to the high heavens the stench of civilized excrement that once poured from forthright society. Elusive fairies fawn excitement at the passing of them who had stomped both the high ground and low into pulverized battlegrounds. Eager tongues lap slush doled out by overactive imagination. Sponsorship of freedom falls into the tempest hands of the Free-Dumb now roaming the putrid plains that once waved biliously toward Purple Mountains Majesty. The roaring cries of the forlorn recede into apathy. Salute Hats, Habits and Helmets of the Mystic Marchers who profess to bear no evil but who stand ready to torch and set fire to reality as they see it. Salute and perish.
Stretch a banner of Fidelity across the heads of the gaping-mouthed crowd of Onlookers caught in bizarre tension of suspended disbelief as the sky parts with a barely audible snap. Ears hear Stardust falling as Horses swish their Tails and Rabbits rush onto empty roads, unafraid of being smashed. All signals and directing signs are meaningless. All the Pigs have become Pork.
Ignorant Mojo-Maniacs move mountains of millionaires into asylums by spending nothing for Nothing--all underwritten by Everything. All of it's gone when there's nothing for the Plug in the Sockets of Connection, and Amounts vanish into void.
Dreams festoon the miracles that "just can't be" with Party Balloons with leering faces; sharp Teeth gnash and rip the flesh of Ideas to confetti and spit out Dribble for the fledgling Decanters of Wisdom.
All around, Horses clomp to rigors of Shielded-Eye Protectionism, unable to see the Hay held out to them by anxiety-stricken World-Travelers guilty for having marched off to battle without a saddle. Cows come home to friendly, smiling Butchers who claim their integrity in matching their prowess against Morons who mingle in the shade of uncertainty. The Cows congregate in unreasonable anguish, awaiting milking. Bells about necks clang warnings as, one by one, they fall mooing for their Salt.
Touting whistles in factories of fomenting Rebellion shriek last calls for industrialized multitudes left with nothing to do. Quirks of fate reside in their places. Shouting matches recede into Quagmires of Reciprocal Thinking that bog and swallow the slow-witted Winners of the End. Tides ebb from Billion-dollar beaches of prosperous Philanderers as Bigots scour the Sands of Time for Pebbles to place in jars to remind them of their accumulated insanity. The Slouching is just beginning...