Hot. Red pepper tamale hot. My god, she was so flaming hot I had to strip down naked, roll in the reeking mud like a wild hog to staycool, until even the fetid bog dried up and turned to graveyard dust. I then felt compelled to give up the proverbial ghost, leaving my bones to bleach white in the scorching heat of the Great Mother's alchemical furnace. What sort of cake would she bake next? What tasty stew would her cauldron brew? Only the thermophiles knew a sure future. For all the rest of flesh the chances for sustainable survival were not much more than a beggar's zilch as the temperatures climbed and the surface sparked, ignited, quickly combusting, leaving behind blackened charcoal, gray ash, and a thickening atmosphere filled with poisonous heat trapping CO2.
Purification by fire the Hopi prophesized and sure as shootin' they weren't just tootin' the horns of street corner apocalypse. This is the real thing. Turn on the air conditioner, fire up another power plant to handle the load, dump tons of CO2 into the atmosphere raising the temperature some more so we have to turn up the air conditioner, which requires higher output from the power plant, which spews more CO2 in a vicious circle spiraling out of quasi-human control. Ah, for the life of a mole …
We might have done better to leave well enough alone and maybe learn to build homes underground and gardens on top. But no, we aspired to bend the Great Mother to our will and testament, harness her to the wagon of industry, and make huge raping profits off the spoils of biosphere exploitation. What an artificial nation! Take a vacation and see her fading beauty before she dries up shriveled into the "hag at the crossroads" where we sit like poisonous toads dumping our loads before expiring along with the water hole. The deepest wells were finally sucked dry. We doomed ourselves while blaming everything and everyone else for our errors.
Do you dream reality? Does reality dream you? There is no actual escape. Fantasy departs when the grid goes down and we are left in the dark fending for ourselves. The whole city is a ghetto and much of the countryside is either owned and operated by fast food corporations and paved suburban malls or is another dried up gene modified mega farm powered by the self-consumption of biofuels, fed on the byproducts of dwindling crude oil. Where are the backyard organic gardens? Is there a backyard to garden and, if so, why aren't we busy replacing the well mowed lawns?
My videogame cell phone oracle has no sane answers. Answers are for sissies. We're planning on toughing and bluffing our way through the blistering reality straight into the lake of fire, stopping to roll like hogs in the mire before we expire and are discarded like burnt black toast. We call it the Great Mother's Roast which reminds the dead church of it's dark history of witch and faggot burning. Who needs midwives, herbal healers, and sane people of nature when there are cities to build, a population to control, and a Book of Revelation to fulfill? Sell them the swill. Give the masses bread and circuses
and wars of terror to entertain and consume a portion of the expendable overpopulation. Salute your damned nation. Remain at your appointed station.
Whatever you do you may not combine talents and resources for mutual aid and support. If you do there will be a secret report and horned lord cattle roundup when the Burning Bush decrees another divinely inspired God-directed attack. There is a glowing gourd of ashes out back. The Beast 666 sees no lack of opportunity for unleashing the solar current directly on already scarred skin, pretending it is not a sin to plunder, tear asunder, and cleave the Priestess on the rack. We are so far gone now that there is no turning back. We might as well get our kicks in before the whole shithouse goes up in fact. How is that for tact? No need for sugar coating the truth when the fundamental theocracy steals the votes before the peasants get to the booth. I can see the imperial ministers proclaiming wildly "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth" and filling the temple with money machines. Donate your deepest dreams so the deadly fathers and carnival conmen can spend them for you.
We need conversion surfaces rather than converting churches. This diatribe of the dark future is being typed on a solar electric powered computer as the solar electrified fans blows the cooler evening air over my bare skin, a lesser sin against nature, something she might be able to live with. Imagine a surface which both shades the body from the sunlight's harsh glare and turns that glare into pollutionless free electricity. Now we're getting somewhere that the oilmen of god don't want you to know about. Too late. The cat is out of the bag and it's not about to go back.
--- by a friend called Jade
Purification by fire the Hopi prophesized and sure as shootin' they weren't just tootin' the horns of street corner apocalypse. This is the real thing. Turn on the air conditioner, fire up another power plant to handle the load, dump tons of CO2 into the atmosphere raising the temperature some more so we have to turn up the air conditioner, which requires higher output from the power plant, which spews more CO2 in a vicious circle spiraling out of quasi-human control. Ah, for the life of a mole …
We might have done better to leave well enough alone and maybe learn to build homes underground and gardens on top. But no, we aspired to bend the Great Mother to our will and testament, harness her to the wagon of industry, and make huge raping profits off the spoils of biosphere exploitation. What an artificial nation! Take a vacation and see her fading beauty before she dries up shriveled into the "hag at the crossroads" where we sit like poisonous toads dumping our loads before expiring along with the water hole. The deepest wells were finally sucked dry. We doomed ourselves while blaming everything and everyone else for our errors.
Do you dream reality? Does reality dream you? There is no actual escape. Fantasy departs when the grid goes down and we are left in the dark fending for ourselves. The whole city is a ghetto and much of the countryside is either owned and operated by fast food corporations and paved suburban malls or is another dried up gene modified mega farm powered by the self-consumption of biofuels, fed on the byproducts of dwindling crude oil. Where are the backyard organic gardens? Is there a backyard to garden and, if so, why aren't we busy replacing the well mowed lawns?
My videogame cell phone oracle has no sane answers. Answers are for sissies. We're planning on toughing and bluffing our way through the blistering reality straight into the lake of fire, stopping to roll like hogs in the mire before we expire and are discarded like burnt black toast. We call it the Great Mother's Roast which reminds the dead church of it's dark history of witch and faggot burning. Who needs midwives, herbal healers, and sane people of nature when there are cities to build, a population to control, and a Book of Revelation to fulfill? Sell them the swill. Give the masses bread and circuses
and wars of terror to entertain and consume a portion of the expendable overpopulation. Salute your damned nation. Remain at your appointed station.
Whatever you do you may not combine talents and resources for mutual aid and support. If you do there will be a secret report and horned lord cattle roundup when the Burning Bush decrees another divinely inspired God-directed attack. There is a glowing gourd of ashes out back. The Beast 666 sees no lack of opportunity for unleashing the solar current directly on already scarred skin, pretending it is not a sin to plunder, tear asunder, and cleave the Priestess on the rack. We are so far gone now that there is no turning back. We might as well get our kicks in before the whole shithouse goes up in fact. How is that for tact? No need for sugar coating the truth when the fundamental theocracy steals the votes before the peasants get to the booth. I can see the imperial ministers proclaiming wildly "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth" and filling the temple with money machines. Donate your deepest dreams so the deadly fathers and carnival conmen can spend them for you.
We need conversion surfaces rather than converting churches. This diatribe of the dark future is being typed on a solar electric powered computer as the solar electrified fans blows the cooler evening air over my bare skin, a lesser sin against nature, something she might be able to live with. Imagine a surface which both shades the body from the sunlight's harsh glare and turns that glare into pollutionless free electricity. Now we're getting somewhere that the oilmen of god don't want you to know about. Too late. The cat is out of the bag and it's not about to go back.
--- by a friend called Jade
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