Apocalypse 2012

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

According to the Mayan Long Count calendar,
come Christmas in the year of our Lord
two thousand and twelve AD
(or maybe just before or after,
depending on the source)
we might well see the end of the world as we know it.
It could be curtains for poor old humanity,
because by then we may have spilled
all of the blood and jism and menstrual fluid
and sundry other libations in our limited reservoir;
by then we might have burned the last lump of coal and consigned
the final few drops of oil to our ever hungry collective engine,
its devilish whine screaming bloody murder for more;
by then we might have squandered all of our sparkling gifts
and be shocked to discover that we have nothing left to sacrifice
to a bewildering array of gods.

By then, perhaps, the Head Honcho will call an impromptu assembly,
and maybe He'll proclaim
“This is the last straw! You are the poorest bunch of students
I've ever had the questionable pleasure of teaching.
You're all insufferable wasters,
you have the ability to do tremendously well in the tantalising game of life,
but like so many others before you
you flatly refuse to utilise your talents properly.
You'd sooner hang out with your no hoper buddies,
you'd sooner pointlessly gather nuts like psychotic squirrels
than utilise your treasures wisely.
I find that an awful shame, but nevertheless
I can't say I didn't expect it.
I've had it up to here! Do you hear Me?
I'm tired of your consistently poor grades,
I'm sick to death of your general silliness, your inherent viciousness
and your penchant for petty destruction.
There will be no more detentions, boys and girls, because
you're all fucking expelled.....”

Then, I guess He'll wipe every last detail of our shoddy credentials
off His chalk board in one fell swoop
and scribble out a more sensible equation
for His A band Ancient History group
circa year one of the Newest New Covenant to consider.
Or maybe not. Who can say for sure?

Regularly I walk my dogs across places with colourful names in local parlance,
but you won't find those names on any map.
I cross the Yellow Mess, the Old Tip and the Monkey Hills,
a broad swathe of open land that just a few years back
was a pig-ugly industrial wasteland,
a bloated tumour spewing its poison across a gasping landscape
peppered with spoil heaps of mining waste and furnace ash.
When I was a kid the area was cluttered with vacant buildings,
extinct factories and old locomotive sheds,
the only surviving remnants of the grand dreams
of numberless great Black Country tycoons,
buildings broken and stripped bare, torn wide open
for nature, the oldest buccaneer, to plunder.

Now those memories are gone
and the rotting aftermath of the Industrial Revolution,
a war greater than all other wars lain end to end,
are hidden under wild flowers and grass and trees.
All I see is vista upon vista of greenery, chaotic thickets
infested with diverse, scurrying life.
God might be cruel, I reflect,
and according to the experience of countless individuals He is,
but though we like to think we are divine
individuals like you and I are ten a penny, we're of little consequence
in the grand scheme of things.
You only have to open your eyes to see
that over time God's tears are infinitely cleansing
and they grant more forgiveness than mere mortals could bestow
if we lived a billion lifetimes.