The Grey New World

Dusk falls on a tired dusty rural landscape,
The long shadows of the late afternoon have faded to grey,
In the distance, bright city lights flicker to life, lighting up the sky,
The distant volume of Central City’s chaos rises to a murmur,
There is a comfort to be being isolated, distant from humanity,
Away from the energy, constant sound, and movement of the city,
Tech still fills this rural space, but it is subtle, used where needed,
Out here it is functionality over convenience, tech for survival only,
No unnecessary body mods, or implants, some city escapees do have them,
But out here they are few and far between, chop-shops are a city thing,
Grove 18, or G18, is some distance from the hot spot of Central City (G0),
Since the war, most people are cautious of machines, however,
Salvaged tech has been repurposed, constructive rather than destructive,
Varieties of hover vehicles have replaced the wheels and tires of old,
Important, considering the surviving roads are overgrown and damaged,
Raider crews on hov bikes can be a threat to farming communities,
But the Syndicates keep them in check, for a price, a cut of your proceeds,
But, don’t pay your Syndicate, your property burns,
Or worse, you and your family are deleted,
Aside the turmoil, nature still exists, savage and beautifully untameable,
Forests reclaim dead townships, creating new habitats and secrets,
The grey new world is brutal and unfair, but that is the way of all things now.

Beyond my machine world the Infinite Black, exists 'A Grey New World', a dystopian future  set following the war with the machine hellworld as outlined in my art series, and book I co-created with Jeff Oliver.

I have been (very) slowly fleshing out all aspects of this new post apocalyptic world for a while now, and I will continue to release parts of it here. The final product will consist of poetry, art and short stories.

Megacity Morning

As twilight fades, a new day begins,
This vast metropolis never sleeps, however,
A voice awakens inside a pod, activating the lighting,
A gentle white light illuminates the chamber,
The sleeper stretches, then requests coffee,
A glass emerges from a countertop flap and fills,
They rub their eyes as the outer window shutter raises,
And a glistening cityscape is revealed as they drink,
Breakfast consists of synthetic fruits and oatmeal,
Morning ablutions are brief and efficient,
Once clothed, they head out into bright morning sun,
Voice activation secures the apartment pod as they exit,
And they step out into the shadows of Megacity skyscrapers.

World Thirteen

Welcome to the future, where clocks now strike thirteen,
Individualism is no longer celebrated,
That human condition has been politically corrected,
One central government keeps humanity in stasis,
One totalitarian leader wields blind control,
Sprawling interconnected megacities rise,
Tech controls the nihilistic mindset of a dead generation,
People disappear by night without warning,
Artists, journalists, writers, free thinkers,
Lives are deleted as the world embraces sterility,
Psychological pharmaceuticals are outlawed,
Desperation fills crowded dystopian city streets,
Populations sleep in instability, controlled by fear,
Supervised, manipulated, punished,
This is not the promised bright new world,
This is despotism,
This is now.

Jettisoned

I feel like I have been jettisoned,
Newly arriving on an alien landscape,
Here, beings exist that are not of my make,
They behave in a confusing manner,
Their language is untranslatable,
Their beliefs, the opposite of my own,
It is as though each being is a planet,
All squeezed into one tiny galaxy,
With no room for expansion,
No space for personal expression,
No room for creativity,
There is no place for your opinion here,
There is no silence, it is deafeningly loud,
Life is like closing my eyes while watching a movie,
And it rolls on regardless,
This, is now.

The New Age of Revulsion

The world feels like it’s on fire,
Greed and stupidity pollute the air,
People suffer the reign of megalomaniacal pigs,
Morally corrupt child-adults influence and advise,
Disrespect and violence grow from desperation,
The stink of self-entitlement bites at the nostrils,
All beauty on Earth is violated by materialistic hunger,
Bigotry and self-indulgence are the new faith,
The new age of revulsion has begun,
Self-immolation is technologically delivered,
Mankind’s final act has been scripted and is in play,
A dystopia is birthed, screaming and untethered,
From this point there is no way back.

Great Southern Land

Clear light on a summer morning,

A horizon, dizzy in a haze of impending heat,

Grasslands ripe to burn lay drying,

What was green is now yellowed and brittle,

Large black birds shriek for the sun they follow,

Thirsting creatures in dark holes lay dying,

Death does not come to these lands in winter,

But with the clear light of a southern summer day.

Image: Mark Marathon

The Stand

I stand at the edge of a great precipice,

Eyes closed, I can feel a hot breeze on my face,

There is no sound, other than my own breathing,

The drop into darkness feels sheer and jagged,

The plummet, long and painful, and finally fatal,

I can feel the rock edge crumble under my weight,

I am waiting for the final slip,

The hands at my sides are sweaty and white knuckled,

Tense, I’m shaking within, the terror of waiting is intolerable,

The fall has yet to come, it could happen at any moment,

Vomit inducing anticipation, my body is racked with anxiety,

I can leave freely at any time and yet…

I stand here still.

The Heir of Saturn

Swirling colours, vivid and blinding, pulsate, in a cellophane coloured a sky,

A great blue door is beset by godly hands, vibrating in the colourful scene,

The hands hold a staircase in place, locked in an alien landscape,

Above the door a mighty skull sits, adorned with a golden lock,

Within the keyhole spins a whirlpool of stars,

The sudden arrival of the inner self is a spectacle to behold,

The door swings open revealing the inner self, naked and skeletal,

It glows, beautiful and newborn, emitting a soft blue light from its glassy bones,

My mind is stalled at this point, lost within the colours, one for every hurt,

The spiralling sky becomes a bright portal, spinning, slow, warm and inviting,

The inner self leaves its essence, before fading into that spiralling light,

Shadows fill with starlight, as a swirling green nebula slowly erases the vision,

I awaken in sudden darkness, the stars have faded, and life is reality once more.

The Distant Blue Cell: A Dream Sequence

A blue cubed dream cell vibrates with a deep resonating hum,

It contains nothing but an elderly man with long white hair and blue robes,

The dream cells translucent walls glow and dim in time with the hum,

The occupant slowly and continuously paces the perimeter of the room,

The bright cube is surrounded by a beautiful deep space panorama,

The dream cell rotates, powered by the occupant’s relentless trek,

With the Earth far in the distance, the rotating cell outwardly shines,

From the surface of that planet, the cube itself appears as a distant star.

Yeoman of Dreams

Still awake, he spent the morning dreaming,
Over-indulging in a world he created for the purpose of escape,
Unable to do so, he became disoriented and eventually lost,
He was found drowned, washed up on the shores of the dreaming sea,
In the waking world he disappeared, and nobody noticed his absence,
For he was never fully there, his existence was semi-transparent,
He kept one foot in the present, and the other firmly in the dream realm,
Fruitful was the Yeoman, this cultivator of vast dreamlands,
He sort solace through imagination, and found comfort in the world of dreams,
A rider of two storms, but ultimately he became the master of none.