Written during Trump's vile, illegal, and illegitimate presidency,
but just as true today, unfortunately,
during Joe Biden's middling, indecisive, and silent presidency.
These days are like prison.
The illusion of freedom.
An incest of hours, moments, experiences.
Simplicity dressed as complexity,
whoring itself on the corner of
Mundanity and Terror.
Here at the precipice
we pretend it’s all the same.
We pretend nothing awful is happening.
We pretend we love our children.
But it’s clear:
Isn’t that amazing?
Think of it!
Here, with reality staring us in the face,
the only possible conclusion reachable is:
we do not love our children!
Who would have thought that the apocalypse
should come in such a fashion?
The movies and video games and the
rest of the mindless media have it entirely wrong.
In them you see parents hugging their kids in horror
as doom comes,
huddled lovingly in each others’ arms.
But that’s bullshit.
For here, in the actual apocalypse,
what you see instead are automatons
cogging off to their jobs,
unconcerned, apathetic, indifferent.
“The science isn’t settled,” they say,
contradicting the simple maxim that
science is never settled, ever.
Here, at the actual End of the World As We Know It,
the unloved children are taught:
nothing matters beyond the end of your nose.
Nothing is real out there.
People don’t matter.
Only our toxic three thousand square foot corner of suburbia does.
Grab, and grab hard, and grab harder still.
Steal if you must.
Lie and cheat.
Consume as though your life depends on it!
All the right people do!
Here, plodding to our doom,
we see only a virus killing off its host,
unconcerned that when it succeeds,
it will kill itself too.
Digital Art: Home is Where the Light Is by Shawn Michel de Montaigne