the future used to be a garden

myopic giants tear at the edges of the world, their vast gullets fed futures in quarters by pharaohs, doomsday rulers furnishing grand and lonesome tombs. kings ransoms transmuted into gilded chambers beneath paradise, consequence contingencies for the eventualities of exploitation.

better to bury billions than give up a cent.

time bleeds from open wounds, paid for in pennies and examples in the name of hydratic growth and rotten dignity.

complicity is mandatory and airborne, do not acknowledge the stains, do not look back on the bones and keep your eyes on the dimming horizon.

history is haunted, and ghosts grow restless when perceived.

ice swells in cities, frigid hearts wield spears of bitter entitlements, cosplay commandos prescribed kevlar and rifles, some people burn the world around them to avoid bitter pills. worldviews locked in fish eyed perspectives that deny others humanity.

long winded martyrs serve the most powerful, while wearing toilet paper chains of oppression, victimhood donned to ease the glittering guilt of privileges granted for horrors enacted, vulnerability doffed to project strength while demagogue symphonies drown out the voices of the drowned.

ice thins at poles, where swollen seas nip at the gills of fish and turn to bile, their waters fed to and expelled by hallucinating machines. crooked prophets race against sunset as they hunt for digital messiahs, screaming prayers into black boxes which carry the sins of their fathers. proselytizing factories manufacture consent, while porcine men ensure it is unneeded, they have chosen the simplicity of violence.

the future used to be a garden, communal and bright, tended to and then bequeathed. it was where hope lived, safe from the cruelties and swine of the past and the present, a nourishing muse to light the way, full of potential and imagination and promise

the future is a cold and sterile room on the skin of a raging planet, where the remains of human expression are stored in blinking canopic jars. reconstituted by silicone spectres into line and circle homunculi.

the future used to be a garden, its possibilities hemmed in by chicken wire, it’s perimeter guarded by the houndss whose masters salted the earth

the future is a tunnel, bored through the vacuum of foresight, where anxieties and data slam into each other, and there is only so much time in the day.

it is hard to be a person, it is easier to be kind when your basic needs are met.

a choice between working and starving is violence.

you can only ever do what you can with what you have.

ancient magic. . .

be safe

fuck ice

Comments

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i started my dungeon for the dungeon jam

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acolyte, for the love of god

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