By John Reinhart


I’m busy
writing a manifesto
for the second coming
and, Jesus Christ,
it’s too dramatic –
I mean, I could do without
all the fire and brimstone,
the wailing and gnashing –
let’s substitute some wood fired
pizza, eaten around the hearthstone
in an alpine lodge while the Wailing Jennies
perform while the crowds nosh –
maybe the original plans were misunderstood,
maybe the Author had just taken a big bite
from a peanut butter sandwich –
on second thought, let’s just
scrap the whole thing. The end
of days doesn’t need a fucking manifesto
or roadmap or bullet-pointed agenda. Just let it
come, blow holes through our socks, rattle the window panes,
and disrupt our scrabble games, playing Johnny Cash songs
at top volume while lightning and thunder and volcanoes
erupt like pyrotechnics – I’ll write the grocery list:
beer, cookies.


John Reinhart is an arsonist, father of three, and a poet. He was the recipient of the 2016 Horror Writers Association Dark Poetry Scholarship, and he has been a Pushcart, Rhysling, and Dwarf Stars award nominee. He is the author of seven poetry collections. Follow him @JReinhartPoet and find more of his work at

Liked it? Take a second to support Suspect Press on Patreon!

Leave a Reply