the end of the world, take two

butterflies fly out of queasy stomachs
to meet the new day
and the cold sunlight of thursday afternoon

there is still no news
although the news says
that cars can now lose control

when the city sleeps
its aging flesh littered with condoms
and bulletholes i sing

all glory to the necrophile
who makes love to our bodies
long after we're dead he knows

not to attach any special meaning
to the neat square boxes of pizza corpses
or to the just deserts of legs

walking out of tartan skirts