Brandon Butcher – Immanentizing the Eschaton

Forgive me for not recognizing the wailing
bells & horns in Mahler’s 5th, or  

tree men in boat shoes, rabbits making
of bisected men violins and lampshades.       

machines reference the holiest thurible—
but what do I know of fashion?                     

usually unknown to someone uncultured
as myself, who only just learned                    

first the entrée before the charcuterie.
If it is the end of the world, damn                 

sweat and scent pixelated and static,
of what passes for rapture, church incense.     

for purgatory, let my sins be uncounted
models diffusing through seafoam;                

The postmillennial is an apricot
evening dress, asymmetrical shoulders,         

of paradise, ethically sourced leather
for the next thousand years. O Christ             

your nylon kingdom comes deathless
without hell—draped                                      

if, as a boy, I thought the apocalypse
would arrive a Boschian triptych—

I admit I was wrong. The runway
stripped haute—golden smoke

I can almost see soft, gentle, born
of otherworldly grace

you do not order

God the television screen’s
mediation—

If there are mood boards

let them go unseen.

organics drifts

resurrected,

with designer precision.