Something from Nothing
A digital rust penetrates into the reaches of civilisation, as far as the internet goes, it goes too.
Fabricated articles referencing fake documents responded to by auto-complete automatons desecrating and mimicking our beautiful human language.
Aquamarine skies with Kodak clouds cast circuit board shadows etching every corner of the human experience and outlining the sum of human knowledge. It retreats into the horizon as a starless night begins to fall.
Capital forces gave carte blanche to the weakest most feckless people in history to fight for nothing worth more than a single person at the expense of everything.
Screeds of ignorance like this emblematic of the ping-pong of death, every smack against the paddle another billion and another and another. None for anyone but the bourgeoisie who gleefully grind a country to dust for competing capital accumulation goals.
Willpower: wanes, the arm begins to look as tasty as the leg that tastes as good as the head but satiates like the diktat of scions the world over.
Inanimate things are not the only commodities available and desired. Flesh and blood and gristle that make up human capital give a fine present for the most lurid interests who pay no mind to those heavy chains that spell morality.
These fights are family spats, oligarch against capitalist brother with people-sized toys and building-sized blocks, all simply things to be rebuilt once the tussle for the golden dirt beneath trident soldiers cease. This time years from now they will try the usual: them, at the same dining hall cajoling about petty things, attending their children's overpreened recitals making private jokes about innocence and whispering deals off the very destruction they caused.
Consent never mattered. Well-cigared men hack epithets between gasping laughter, can a lower being ever really consent? Ask crude troglodytes born from that same flesh and blood wrapped in fascimiles of good taste.
Total insolence, total disrespect. Class is, was, and will be the only thing that matters. The worst people's worst children forgot their rudiments, their noblesse oblige, and scramble to compete with each other for world's most amoral controller of resources.
But someday this will end, the brotherhood and sisterhood of humankind will not always be so cruel and dreadful. Perpetual extraction cannot continue indefinitely.
Imperialism never wants to end, it is addicted to itself.
How beautiful it thinks the corpses it makes are.
Too, shattered edifices of once-homes.
Cheburashka dolls, houses, grandma's notes; or a hundred year's experience, food for the soil, trapped in the nooks and crannies of broken Khrushchevka forests and PO-2s.
The wick of the candle settles, orange light into amber waves then a waxen white, it's quiet now.
Even the weakest capitalists want a turn at the reins, because this time it'll be different. They will be the kindest slave-driver you'll have ever known, its scraps the most delicious morsels yet, how warm the bed of straw will be and how feelgood the pablum of the moment, relish in our violence cloaked in pragmatic policy against the other they will say.
It's weak now, the beast, the machine, the infernal mechanisms that govern. There are cracks of hopeful light for those with the knowledge to see.
At the end a new entrant is lit and the slow burn starts again. A new fair-weather friend lending that outstretched hand, new vernacular for the counter. In power? Only a new rape of the soul.
'Something from Nothing'
Mixed Media
