High above Central City, Above the neon, The smoke, The endless din.
Dennis Hotham sits upon the edge Of a rooftop. Seven storeys between him And the concrete below.
Behind him, An old air conditioner Grinds and rattles, Its rusted housing Shivering beneath the rain.
Around him, The rooftop shanty town sleeps. Makeshift shelters Built from corrugated metal, Plastic sheeting, Broken signs, Old machine parts, Anything that can keep The rain from getting in.
A city above the city. Far above the streets. Far above the noise.
Dennis has come here For the silence.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years Since his family disappeared.
Fifteen years of searching. Fifteen years of sleeping badly, Waking frightened, And wondering If today might finally be The day he stopped looking.
The disconnection continues, Self-expression is becoming strained, Creative stores and levels are low, The world feels like so much weight, It drains all energy to appear human, Conversational connection is awkward, Reality is being challenged internally, Line between thought and speech is blurred, And, as though swept away by the wind, Thought patterns are scattered and unclear, Effective stability, control, and delivery is limited, A numb comfort exists within mental shadows, This house is slowly becoming darker, With the termination of each light, The outside causes the system to overflow, Retreat into the within means survival, The disconnection continues.
A trauma lives in the heart of every survivor, Under the skin lies a poison growing darker, Piercing the flesh like a black metal splinter, The earth feels trapped beneath an endless winter.
The broken exist using the little strength they’ve found, Fearing the new world, every click, every sound, When mechanical noises once meant instant death, When every 3am could mean your last breath.
Do they still search the world by night as we sleep, Or in daylight, concealed where the shadows run deep? Do they watch from the ruins, hidden and still, Waiting patiently for the moment to kill?
The weight of breathing, the cost of each day, Every step feels one closer to a shallow grave, A ghost lives in the bone, a darkness has grown, Every road I walk leads deeper into alone.
The world keeps turning, but something has changed, The familiar is foreign, the safe rearranged, Every sudden movement, every unexpected sound, Reminds us that monsters once hunted us down.
We survived the machines, But the machines left their mark, Their shadows still follow us Long after dark.
The world is asking for strength I’ve never known, And I carry its weight like a heart made of stone. I would drown in sorrow, if sorrow would even try, But I’m too empty now…
In the darkness we forever sleep, Locked within her blackened keep, Our sleeping eyes will not see, Locked away no longer free, In the darkness we all fall, Past the light a distant call, Harvested at 3 am, Filed away, erased by them, Our sleeping eyes cannot see, A future where the light can be, No more breath now, no more plea, We are her dark machinery.
This is an Infinite Black poem, visit that page for more info.
A short distance from the heart of the machine, Within a black mechanical cube, she slumbers, The Queen of the Black Dawn, Tended to and protected, Affixed to her mechanical throne, She is the keeper of arcane knowledge, Curator of a library of occult facts, Monarch of the portal witches, And controller of the Dream Surgeons, Those who deliver her nightmare payload, Into the minds of the enslaved. She fertilises the nightmare gardens, Growing her awful terrors for mass consumption, Through her, all human energy is converted, Into a black lifeblood that flows through pipes and hoses, Invading bodies and powers this realm of shadows. She is the receptacle for the poison that tortures, The provider of knowledge extracted. A sinister machine, her only purpose is agony, The queen is answerable to only one, That which is a part of everything, Creator of this world, Her own tormentor, Bringer of oblivion, The one beloved, Mother.
This is an Infinite Black poem, visit that page to learn more.
He could feel it down deep in his bones, Changes fundamental as if lost in the snow, Blinded by the white light that the sunlight throws, Forcibly upgraded, from a bird to a drone, Here in the black, far away from it all, Reluctantly evolving as the future calls, From cold cave stone to circuitry, His veins now flow with mercury. His metal teeth hum with new lullabies, A new world of hatred paints black his eyes, Pressed into service that he lives to despise, It’s the gravity of reality that he fights to deny, He could see it way down deep in his bones, Incompatibility with a world full of clones, He covers his eyes as they cast their stones Fake is the smile masking a sadness he owns, He won’t go forward and he can’t go back, From birth, against him the odds felt stacked, It’s a spectre of a past him that they all attack, He keeps the real him away, safe in the black.
Farewell Instagram, you will not be missed, I was ready to go when my followers were dismissed, But when you throttled my posts and censored my art, You gave up on being what you were at the start, You’re now a platform of racism, woe and American hate, And I have zero interest in that country’s disgusting state, Instagram is a love letter to that leader, the pedo groomer, So I’m cutting you off like a malignant tumour, Your removal saves me from a generation of reality refusers, I’m free now from your world of skewed, toxic users, Farewell Instagram, you will not be missed, For now, it is you who is being dismissed.
Humanity has placed creativity in stasis, Imagination lost to technological prostration, The slow deprogramming of individualism, The slow programming of conformity, A world where colour is no longer financially viable, Home is a small safe white featureless existence, Where we live laugh love, Like a programmed flock of electric sheep, A hive mind sharing one unspoken mantra, Obey.
