These feelings are a goddamn nightmare.
The world could end at any moment,
New York could be vaporized as I write
these words, but all I can worry about
is if she still likes fucking me.

God, I’m not even dressed yet and
I hate the way my bare stomach makes
me feel like an animal, but if only she
could see me like this, hunched and
twisted over my Chromebook like my life
depends on it, I think she would love
me even more.

This night is the epilogue to the Book
of Revelation and the tension in the air
is so biblical I’ve got an apocalypse
beating in my chest.
The eighth seal is broken and for the
space of half an hour there is silence
in this room where I’m stuck in
black underwear and black socks
wondering what would Stone Cold do?

These thoughts are a goddamn nightmare.
I could take a hacksaw to the moon the way
it feels like a Stunner to the heart every
time I think she’s getting bored of me and
there it goes bouncing off the ring and
flailing and flipping like The Rock in his prime.

Oh, God, just one more verse and I’ll be ok.
This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.
This is the start of the fourth turning and
the doomsday clock is at midnight.
I’m neck deep in my own eschatology
while Stone Cold sits on a lawn chair
somewhere and laughs to himself as
he sips from a beer and remembers
his fateful proclamation,
Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass.