A Transhumanist's Decent To The Grave Poem by Shannon Walker

To gaze off the roof is to look into Hell.
The twinkling limbs burn, breaking into
Charred little pieces of bone and fat,
Which then get ground to powder by
The wheels of passing mini-vans, and sub-compacts
Before finding their way into a storm drain.

You like? Their transition is holy and cold.
It's a microscopic view of the end of the universe;
Not hot, like everyone's afraid
Of, just greasy like motor oil
That's been smeared across the concrete floor
Of a parking garage, level four.

It's going to be there forever, you,
Like blood in the clay of battlefield soil,
And you and I get to feel it all;
Every twitching ephemeral breath
That rises off that mass of chatter.
Just slide your hand along this seam.

See there; you can feel all their trembling shame
Vibrating in the cement and limestone
Pillars that hold this place up,
Like a car bomb in the basement
That couldn't even blow up right.
And you and I get to feel it all,
Parked on top of a four level mausoleum with a stolen tombstone
In the trunk at midnight.