Time, the solitary oddity.
Out of angry clouds, spat from the underbellies of roaring airships, bombs fall like candy from a pinata.
And the kids, ground forces, clamber for the treats. Pushing and shoving as they pillage the village, rape the women, throw their babies in the fire.
In the west, people stay wrapped in warm oblivion, craving cheese, eating meat, watching TV, getting fat, drinking, doing drugs. Safe and cozy. For the Time.
Time, that delicious bittersweet flow melts like ice in the summer sun. But I retch in the taste of its human fluidity. The turbulence of their wake sends a shudder through my…
No. Virtue has fled. Insanity fills the void and burns like napalm the scars of my survival.
I have escaped myself, only to become a prisoner.
A stranger in the fold.
From the birds, I hear a different song.
I follow a different creed.
I am feral, living beyond the common culture, an anomaly biding Time.
Alone and fallow.
But I seed, seeing, with an undesirable gaze, the glaze of dystopia in the icy frost of humanity’s sanity. Seduced by their traditional, political, religious, patriotic zeals, The Guided see nothing. Nothing beyond the glorious propaganda they hail.
The pinata bursts, the candy falls.
It’s all fun and games.
But on the other side of nowhere, sunshine warms the meadows.
Birds sing a sweetened song, but their tune soon sours in the rabid conventionality.
A slaughterhouse makes its quota. Sentients tremble and die. Blood flows a merciless river and no one hears their cry. It’s good. The bacon, they say. Fuck whatever.
But still, the birds sing as the meadows sway in colorful spring fashions.
Fashions, songs, and sway, as if all were right.
All is not right.
Cities sprawl, devastating wild spaces, giving acreage and precedence to crime-ridden infestations and the greed of corporations feeding the insufferable addiction of humanity’s unrelenting consumerism.
Among the civilized, primitivization holds no ground.
Still, in the smog of industrialization, atop a stoplight flashing an ominous red beacon, a sparrow sings a warning.
Ignored. Life goes on.
A shark losses its fins for a wedding.
A dolphin its life in The Cove,
an elephant its ivory,
a rhino its horn,
the orangutan its habitat.
Wild boars their roam, rapid fire from a helicopter. The dregs love this sort of shit-sport, they Like it. I hate it. Detest it. But I am the angry savage, the opposition to custom. They are the Children of Consensus, protected by an overburdening Authority.
Now, the birds sing a song that brings a sad song to mind.
But the worshipers sing a song of joyful praise to their imaginary God. They become rapturous, yet they possess the heart of a rapacious demon. Abominating all that does not conform.
I do not conform, I am individual. An advocate of the Damned, yes. But my individuality is my strength to keep my insanity from going sane beneath their sain.
Still, Time is a setting sun.
And still, the birds sing. But their songs send an overcast to the meadows that bare a graying shade of grandeur.
And still, there is a disconnect between what people do and what they say they desire. What they wish to create and hope to destroy, what they want to remember but cannot forget.
This disconnect, I call Dystopian Dissonance.
Now, the minutes are gone, the clock has stopped.
The moment has come, the candy’s spent.
The birds sing a somber finale,
a fading farewell, waning into the last.
The meadows, silent beneath the ash.
And Time, Time buries its past,
in the only peace you’ll never know.