Tag: Society

Baudrillard in the Bathroom

Sitting on the toilet seat in my bathroom smoking weed and cigarettes while reading Baudrillard, as my teenager sits on my bed playing Minecraft on my realm with their friend who is pretending to be a famous British streamer.

 

And writing. Writing this nonsense about nonsense for no reason, while thinking of the hyperreal, as it spreads across all of what once was real, consuming and destroying and replacing everything in its wake. I don’t even know if I care anymore, because what is the point if we are all just being dragged and drugged by inertia and dopamine away from the real, the tangible, and into the hyperreal?

 

This is my horror. This is why the only safety I can imagine is a log cabin deep in the woods, on hundreds of acres, with a good source of fresh water and fish; a river or a large and clean lake. Nowhere else is safe, and even there, buried in the depths of the woods, no doubt I would soon begin to see drones advertising VR, or the Metaverse, or AI, or Elon’s Next Big Savior Tech.

 

Soon after, I’m quite certain, the government, in their great “concern for my welfare,” would forcefully move me to some infested rat hole in an overcrowded digitally run city, and have me prescribed daily doses of VR (under threat of confinement in a psych ward) to cure my delusion that reality has inherent value, simply for being real. Simply for the truth of it. We are all well and truly fucked, my friends, and I’ll toke and smoke to that.

2/11/2022

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Infested City

The city streets

Are a tangle

of pheromones.

 

Reptiles

Huddled in the

greasy sand

Sleep

Amid tired

Butterflies

Flitting lazily

Towards

Annihilation.

 

Strange figures

Walk slowly through

The alleyways.

Devotees of rot

Draped in yards of

Fine woven

Fabric,

Dyed the colors

Of mold

And the city

At night,

Make a solemn

Procession

To nowhere.

 

Their robes swirl

Violently

Behind them.

The fabric dances

In the fetid

Breeze

That gusts

Perpetually

Through the

Concrete valleys,

Like storm clouds

Raging

Too close to the

Ground.

 

Infants wail as they pass,

And shadows

Cower.

They scatter their

Mildewed seed

Amid the waste

As they chant

In empty

Melodies,

With words long

Forgotten,

A spell to wake

The end.

 

They invoke,

As they scatter,

Something hollow.

Another,

They say,

Who will arise

From their garbled

Invocations;

One nourished by

Apathy,

Who will take root

And grow

In the barren soil

Built up

In the cracks

Of a crumbling

Infrastructure.

 

The equator

Of the dark of the moon

Is reflected here.

 

Here,

Hidden from the

Lifeless shops,

Where monks chant

And worms

Slither,

The mirror

Is held high–

Showing

The mosquitoes

Their faces,

While they suck

On the life

Of their

Artificial

Host.

 

9/19/25

 

 

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Something

Rain hits the pavement

like millions of tiny diamonds

falling from the sky

and bouncing in the reflected light

of a digital city.

 

The smells of coffee and artificial pine

leak out from open doors

of brightly lit shops

with painted windows.

 

Ghosts huddle in shadows,

tucked between buildings

like old boxes between furniture

in a spare room.

 

Holiday music invades the streets

in short, offbeat bursts,

as customers rush in and out,

frantically emptying their wallets.

 

Cars roll by

in a slow and halting gloom–

stop, wait, roll three feet, stop,

as their drivers curse the world

and its banality.

 

There used to be something else here,

something important,

something underneath it all.

It has faded,

but still teases the edges of my memory.

 

I’m afraid,

because I’ve forgotten its name,

and without that

it will die,

and somehow,

so will we.

 

12-14-19

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While the World Erupts

Clover fields

and sun-drenched skies,

wispy clouds,

they are but lies.

 

Everyone

is shrill, is cold–

nothing’s real,

they’ve lost their souls.

 

Smiling kids

with viper’s fangs

ring their bells–

for death, they clang.

 

Lovers in

their secret rooms

turn to dust

inside their tombs.

 

Nations rise

while others fall

but this time

death comes for all.

 

Shadows play

before my eyes,

whispering

what next will die.

 

Go along

and play your games

while the world

erupts in flames.

 

7-7-19

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Thought Control

A needle

pierces my flesh

and contortionist memories

begin to twist

through my

mind.

 

I try to blink,

to open my

eyes,

but am pulled back

to the phantasm display

whirling

behind my lids.

 

Real and unreal

blend,

then separate,

then blend again,

like a kaleidoscope,

and I try to focus

on one single

spot,

like a spinning dancer,

to keep steady.

 

The imagery

swirls before me,

challenging my

past

and taunting

my future.

 

I try to scream,

but my saccharine

coated tongue

rests heavy,

like a sandbag,

damming up

a river of

sound.

 

The world seems

off balance,

tilting,

and I fear I might

roll off  the

edge.

 

I can feel

the other bodies

in this living graveyard,

hear their moans,

and smell

the sour

of their frightened

humanity.

 

I remember

when they brought us

here,

or I think I do,

and I try

to hold on

to their reason–

their lie,

amid our

threatened truths.

 

They said

we were dangerous.

A threat

to order.

Enemy combatants.

 

But that

is absurd,

for the only weapon

I’ve wielded

was a

pen.

 

7-3-19

 

 

 

 

0

The Foundations

It’s all

crumbling.

We ignored the cracks,

now rebar whines

somewhere deep inside,

and the foundations begin

to groan.

 

A cloud crosses

before the moon,

and I wonder how close

Hati is to him now.

Someday he’ll be caught.

The wolf will

devour

the moon,

in the end.

 

Even the music

has faded.

Each note blurs into

the next,

as they all rush past,

without notice.

 

Everything reeks of mildew

and rot.

Neglect.

I hear crows

in the distance,

and the foundations

groan louder.

 

It’s time to wake up,

dear ones,

or we’re lost.

 

5-12-19

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Cultural Graveyard

The roiling masses

scoop ashes of yesterday

into purses of gold,

as they crawl through fog

unaware of its caustic fumes.

 

The scent of lavender

and a glint of emerald light

sneak out from cracked-stone monuments

to dead and misplaced dreams.

 

In the distance

A low wail begins.

 

3-21-19

 

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A Haunted Imago

You seep through my veins

and my mask shifts to accomodate.

The past is swollen, bloated,

yet they worship it,

so we hide in alleyways

surrounded by decaying things–

A haunted Imago,

and misshapen wings.

 

3-21-19

 

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Night has Fallen

A cradle lay abandoned

in a darkening room,

as one by one a dozen candles

expire near a forgotten shrine.

 

A bird of prey

perches atop a barren olive branch–

Lord of a dying habitat.

Night has fallen.

 

3-21-19

2

The Liar

Silver-tongued duplicity,

Through languid eyes

Pretend to see.

False confessor,

Plastic friend–

Illusions fade,

Your game will end.

 

02-19-10

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