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.