Exclusive Extract:

Virtually Here: A B-Minus Future in Retrograde

By Oscillation Jones

You Will All Die At My Feet

Roll up! Roll up!

All you good people

All you oily with honours ocular oralites

All you fantasists force fed fraudulent fatalist phantoms

All you beady eyed bipedal bean counters belaboured baiting belief

All you rigid road rashed racers riding righteous rails

Roll up! Roll up!

Kerb your tongue, clamp your teeth

Chain your bikes and tether your steeds

Even you

Dungeonating denizens delightful in dutiful desire drip fed drugs disguised as dreams

Even you

Piss panted postering poseurs perniciously plagiarising pleasure plagued poets

Even you

Caustic cadgers of crisis cracked commentary canoodling with kids in the corner

Roll up! Roll up!

Defy borders, deny orders

Throw off chains tie up warders

Sit down and SHUT UP!

Spark a light and lift a cup

Take a draft from your drink

Take a drag from your stink

Jack up a cold vein

Flair up a bold nostril

Even

Jimmy a slice of

Pope sanctified sulphurous saviour skin into the sucking scrum of your own anus

If that is what it takes

To snuff the snagging punch

Of your own thoughts into silence

Just long enough for you to listen to a voice

Other than your own

And that voice tonight I thank you

Is mine

You are welcome

I stand before you

A single voice suffering amongst the clanging dirge

Of dust choked lung lunging hack coughs

Oratory howls of diminishing returns baying

For your depleted attentions deficit

A singular voice amongst the white noise, slipped silently between disasters, canned laughter and tired promises meant to distract you from the sucking numb void that sits at the centre of your sold out sacrificial sub-human self serving salacious subservient sad excuse for a life

I’m not here to judge.

But, if I was, I would judge your life in this simulacrum of flesh in the cryotechnic cyber future

A sad excuse

Don’t tell me it doesn’t nag at the your throbbing head as you lay on your pillow begging for sweet lady sleep to pull you to her suffocating bosom for the few blissful hours of your existence

I just want to know—are you happy?

You tell me you are happy

You tell me you are living the dream

You tell me you are happy?

You are living the dream?

I ask, what dream?

Every child looks up to those smoked stained thinning haired dull eyed commuter herds wheezing their debt racked frames between featureless concrete glass canyons mincing themselves through the daily knives of this demented slaughterhouse of a world and says—

Mummy! Daddy!

When I grow up

I want to be a hopeless hollow shelled simulation of living breathing human being

Just like you.

I really do—

DO THEY FUCK!

NO!

Every wide eyed angel of abject adoration brimming with joie de vivre encapsulating more pure endorphin electric energy in one follicle than you have in your entire tired frame looks at you with their dynamic dynamo eyes and thinks

FUCK THAT! AND FUCK YOU!

Which is pretty arrogant of them...

How dare they have opinions and dreams...

How dare they take after their parents...

How dare they look just like you...

Just younger... Like mirrors in time...

Shared Simulation

I can’t sleep.

The singularity will happen

in our lifetime, Life will begin

to simulate itself, translate beyond language,

Flesh will become an amino acid cradled node

activated by waveform firmware riding light beams

escaping from the event horizon

of a white giant quantum logic processor turned supernova.

How do we know the singularity hasn’t already arrived?

Are we real? Are we holograms?

Are we virtual simulations of post-apocalyptic scenarios

rendered in 4D Euclidean space using NVidia DGX hardware

utilising n squared CPUS streaming omegaflops of data through the sub-quark strata?

We have always lived in this simulation,

no more than sub sonic ammunition

breaking in dark matter waves against pornographic fantasies

of bio-steel liquid compressed landscapes. Who knows?

Our lives Generative Adversarial Networks constructing

binary zero-sum systems in the data-mined ruins

of the last civilisation, an autonomous shadow city squatted

by the final forms of market force algorithms, our existence

3D printed on the inner surface of protons and neutrons,

We are Big Data, an economy of

conscious nano-souls, undead assets, copy pasted populations

haunting deep belief networks, fuel for a self-replicating model of

advanced warfare systematically targeting a

genetically modified population who mistake branded products

spliced with production line values for necessary nutrients.

I’m just a byte in the software of simulacrum.

We are neural networks corrupted

by the memory of meat

fornicating through a darknet lens,

our desires stretched to infinity.

Death is meaningless.

Now we are light speed data in a dark matter void.

We are now, and forever, until we start again, and again.

Death to the Haiku #1

Death to the haiku,

Nadir of poetic wit,

Haikus are quite shit.

Death to the Haiku #2

Death to the haiku,

Wellspring of dead intellect,

Like manuals for ghosts.

Death to the Haiku #3

Death to the haiku,

It’s a synonym for smug,

Self-satisfied cunt!