Conrad Gamble

Writer | Director

Dissidents amongst the Dissonance

This is us.

This is not the divine.



like the wars.

By your hands,

And mine.

Let’s clasp,

To the quickening sands of time.



The jaws of our of decline.



Before it’s all maritime.


Can we stave off the waves,

Of the apocalyptic broth?


Or gasp,

As our graves our enslaved

Under the sallow, unapologetic, froth.


It’s difficult.


Being at fault.


It’s difficult to grasp,

Four horseman riding like tomorrows our last,

Tide coming in fast,

With scorched canvases,

Nailed to splintering masts.


The rasp,

Of raging rum guzzled neat.


At her progeny’s scrambling fleet.


Blown off course.


Toward posterity,

A lonely land,

Where there is only the past.


We are in the middle of a mass extinction.

Plastic in our blood.

Megafauna is dying.

The insects are dying.

We are dying.

This is not poetic.

This is happening.

Denying is just a synonym for lying.

Yes, things happens in cycles,

Until they don’t.

They aren’t skeptics, do not offer that credit.


It’s critical.





It is not just the deserts first trickle.







Or we fall,


Ice caps




Cap it all.



When mother nature called

Were you engaged or on your phone?

Did we throw out the marrow to develop the bones?

Will you only get the message in a bottle,

When it floats into your home?

We’ve come so far, but how far can we go?

Will we die on the rooftops of leaking bungalows?



When words will no longer build bridges.

When words will no longer build bridges.

When words will no longer build bridges.


Evening eyes adjust to the gloom

Blood deltas burst through their milky white

Life light runs across our retinas, a trace

Reflecting concerned stars,

Our whispering audience in space.

They see our sinking scars,

Jagged across our face.

And know humans and their memoirs,

Are in one a hell,

Of a race.


See if you don’t make your stand,

In the embroiling fray, you stay seated.

Your kids won’t understand,

Through boiling tears they’ll say, as they’re getting heated.

“You said you travel to end’s of the earth for me,

I suppose you didn’t mean it,

they say you hardly watched,

let alone competed.”


For Maybes are yesterday fling,

Migrating swallows tire how long will they sing?

Shadows lengthen under their wings,

As Humanities vertigo, sits on a cliff

Is this writing on its wall….in hieroglyphs.


This forecast, was it all prophesied?

The man in the sandwich board,

Tucks in his frayed shirt

And searches for the element of surprise.

He’s being ignored

So looks to the clouds,

Who are browbeating the sky.

It’s not his record that is broken.

Spoken, once more

A red glint in his eyes.

As he lassoes at the hordes,

We must grab the paradigm.

Or his time has come

And “The end is nigh.”