This poem has held up terrifyingly well
since I first wrote it in 2020.
Incredibly terrifyingly well.
We refuse to learn, and call that refusal sanity,
to riff off of Einstein.
And oh, look!
Another election cycle is upon us,
now fortified with AI!
A time divided.
A nation sundered.
Pipe bombs and a political party that
celebrates them while craving absolute power,
while the other one whimpers and whines and sits on its hands.
I write about soullessness all the time.
It’s called “fiction” to the closed-off masses.
But here it is right in front of everyone, plain as day.
“The will to power,” so it’s called by some philosophers.
It’s all that matters, they claim.
It’s all there is, they bleat.
Morality doesn’t exist.
The soul doesn’t exist.
God is dead.
Dawkins and Dennett are in a heavy 69 heavily televised,
and the unliving mobs cheer and sway in the toxic dark.
Election in two weeks.
May be the last.
The monsters are shrieking and pipe-bombing,
and the so-called opposition party schemes
and tweets about civility and compromise.
The orange boil, demented and flaccid,
shuffles the media like a master puppeteer,
and they cry and moan for him to do it more! more! more!
We are so near the brink now, so near ...
I pray the world we leave behind when we destroy ourselves
can forgive us someday.
For we know not what we are fucking doing.
Digital Art: The Fall by yours truly