Category Archives: Uncategorized

Man’s Work

There exists a specific
gravity to the
of being a pallbearer
delivering a dearly
belovéd to
the open grave

such undertakings
hang heavy on the hands

the honor and finality no gentle
reminder of the fate each of us
waits patiently
in line for

to commit and surrender
the freshly dead unto the earth
a mother who devours
her children

now finished with
heavy labour

having accomplished our task

we fall back darkly
from whence we came.

Broken Promises

Climb into a pipe dream
And settle you there amongst
The soothing cradle imagery
See thee the angels, sitting there also
Knees tucked up to their chins
All chained all in a row their wings
Tipped with snow
Pretty burnt flowers left to wilt
And decay into silence
Festooned in their angelic hair
As you now breathe in
The afterglow of sapience
This clinging to the rocks of
Charybdis, while waving down
Another shipwreck
Lost in the haze of your
Habitual and most
Favorite malaise.

The Missing Zero Apocalypse Corner Welcomes You to Another Instalment of…

Apocalypse Thursdays


The Revelation of St John: 4. The Four Riders of the Apocalypse (Albrecht Dürer)

Where the eternal question every week is: 

And what rogue blog, its hour come round at last
Slouches towards the Apocalypse Corner to be reblogged?

This week the answer is Jack Chaser’s The Walking Dead Story, please read his reblogged post below…

So, people, let’s get busy immanentizing the Eschaton!

Irregular Apocalypse

Here’s a pulchritudinous poem about the aesthetic apocalypse. Enjoy, all you “beautiful monsters” out there!


It started with one

A single caterpillar was infected

With beauty

It grew like normal

And transformed like normal

And became a butterfly.


This butterfly was pulchritudinous, as usual,

But when it came to mating,

It laid thrice as many eggs.


Caterpillars turned butterflies-

Leaves being demolished by ugly little insects

Turning into beautiful monsters

Flying throughout the sky.


The skies were made of wings,

The ground covered in dead grass

Due to the aesthetic apocalypse.


View original post

The Empire Falls

Although the word Apocalypse doesn’t actually appear in this poem, it still has a real end of times feel for me. Enjoy!

Cody McCullough Writes:

Power fades slowly
Over the centuries.

When it dies
It devours the willing,

And suffocates
The reluctant.

The genius of Augustus
Fails eventually.

From the ashes
Chaos reigns.

Anarchy is
The future;

Unless the new

Walks along the
Unprecedented path.

Oblivion may be

But only if the blind
Can see again.

by Cody McCullough

View original post

apocalypse of self

This poem has already appeared in the Missing Zero Apocalypse Corner,but it’s too good not to be reblogged as part of the inaugural Apocalypse Thursdays post…

Come Dino with Me

One can get mighty hungry, waiting around for Armageddon. So check out this recipe for Apocalypse cupcakes…

I wanna be a rollergirl

Steg-CDWM-invite3Okay so I’ve been wanting to post this for ages – but also wanted my derby dinner guests to be pleasantly surprised by Sara’s Dinosaur Apocalypse Brownie Cupcakes – so HERE THEY ARE! (All fully vegan, so true herbivores can appreciate also.)

You may notice that mine differ ever so slightly from Sara’s, but I totally blame that on the UK’s pathetic attempts at red food dye and Waitrose’s lack of cinnamon for the boulders! (Also my printer ran out of ink so I had to use a real dinosaur as a topper 🙂 )

Thanks Sara for the fab recipe; the almond made them soooo good; I’m officially putting almond in everything now!

And big love to my two dining guests who pulled out all the stops with their costumes: masks, a tail and even dino toes! (awesome, no?!)

(There were also two other food courses for the evening…

View original post 13 more words

Bosco dei Mostri (Monsters’ Grove)

Bosco dei Mostri (Monsters’ Grove)

today i slouch in shadows
of the monsters’ grove
a lazy dilettante of words
carved in atonal stone
built to astonish and frilled
with ancient verdigris
kept pure by the
toothless yawns of fetid
cannibal idols
hungering to consume all
all too soon, the eschaton
i spit these loose last moments
in the face of the
holy fuck, the gods themselves
wage war
with me. at this very place mt olympus
shed its last splintered tear, here where
cocteau and dali adored the
sacred form of chaos
housed in a twisted house
string pull and the final curtain fall
a revelation arranged just so


to set

the eye, head

and heart of the apocalypse

free tomorrow



The Apocalypse Corner (apocalypse of self)

To help celebrate the inception of the Missing Zero Apocalypse Corner, I have selected the following poem by shrinksarentcheap to be the inaugural entry into said hallowed corner:

(NB. Inclusion is open to all. So please send any of your apocalyptic prose, poems, photos or other paraphernalia directly to the Missing Zero blog!)

apocalypse of self by shrinksarentcheap

MY kingdom is in ruins,

who tore all my flocks to shreds?

Who murdered all those weary peasants

slack inside their freezing beds?

And who set fire to all the towers?

Who has butchered all the herds?

Who has summoned every demon

on the earth to speak its words

over my sullen population,

and my aggravated throne?

Who has acted on an impulse

to abandon and disown

the favored tenants of my city,

and the newborns of my cattle?

Who has hurled out canon balls

in haste, destroying us in battle?

Who has sent their soldiers up

the ladders down into our homes?

And who is slamming down her scepter,

shrieking, mouth all striped with foam?

And…Jesus Christ, is that a mirror?

Am I centered in that frame?

Is that white film over my eyes?

And are they really so aflame?

My hands are grasping feathered books,

all lined with vast torrential curses,

and my mouth is sputtering

the words to all their vile verses.

All the angels who visited Job

were nothing next to me!

My light is brighter than their suns,

and sings more awful than their seas,

and I am ravaging myself,

and knifing my skin off in strips,

and drinking poison to the numbers

peeling from my severed lips,

and breaking stones over my feet,

ripping my fingers from my hands,

so that my body can lie still beside

my felled and gutted lands.

apocalypse of self.