top of page

The sound of the Apocalypse

Jeremy Mullen

It starts on a pleasant summer afternoon

Ferris Bueller blue skies

first your neck hairs stand up

then that godawful sound begins

you can hear it through the open windows

a high humming staticky whine

like the endless revving of an angry motorcycle

for minutes nothing happens

people stand around

what’s going on?

like they’re gonna tell us

I heard it’s a power line

               nah I worked power lotta years THIS ain’t that

what then

I don’t know


Then you hear a gunshot in the distance

and it finally triggers everyone

you run back inside—shout pack rush 

and speed smack dab into the traffic jam at the end of the world

which morphs into the tailgate party from Hell


You pace the famine highway up and down

you want the BBQ very badly

it smells sweet and spicy and good

but you cannot—you dare not

you’ve seen what meat they butcher

your eyes sink into the black holes of their sockets

but you won’t eat—you’re not that hungry


so you stalk the BBQ truck back and forth

a reluctant vulture at the feeding site

as the hurdy-gurdy vibe of doom grinds on

Jeremy Mullen is from Highland Park, New Jersey and has been writing poetry for 35 years. He has been featured in each of the last four issues of This Broken Shore, a NJ literary journal. Apocalyptic poetry is kind of his obsession--especially since the pandemic.

Diego Gonzalez

Jeremy Mullen
The Family of the Grand Matador Kept His Statue of the Bull

bottom of page