From the sun lounge I see It suffocating, masked with prints from sweating fingers;

I, in safe solitary contentment, sip whiskey in the depths of the Barcalounger.


Debris cartwheels round the remains of It, a cosmic carousel of splinters,

of covert cold war creations and the last of the American dream.

DJ Kessler’s desolate shriek is on repeat through the toxic fog.


With fading memories vacuum packed into photographs

scattered around, I sit in slippers and dressing gown.

Today is my birthday, and It is going to die

with us final few flung deservedly off

across the distant candle light stars

and I’m blowing them out

I’m making a wish

as we drift off into


the wasteland of