Zoos Of The Apocalypse

Zoos Of The Apocalypse

Skateboarding across all the ransackers left;
giraffe necks, whale tails, some peacock's plume...
A jackal appears, somersaults then coasts,
flippant, into an old toppled rain tower.
Together we start a rink, a couple of museum
pieces selling extinction like a pelt.
Business has been rather slow this year.
Except for a few regulars, the chicken-legged
ocelot and okra bellied anteater
now subsisting on canned spam, there isn't
too much interest in such curiosity shop trends.
We make ends meet by splicing them. Pray
the grafts hold, put up a sign: Gone Fishing.
The joke's pretty stale, this carrion on its spit;
what's rotten in Denmark is the stench of
the whole globe.
Are we cherishing flesh then or milking sanctity
like a resource whose use lies in fire, the dead
man's bluff when the sun's yolk has been devilled
and the moon is a cyst since leprosy pocked everyone
into some kind of hybrid7.
Only now that we're the same race
it's harder to tell just whc is the fittest.