These are times for satires. Here’s mine. Some of you might perceive an echo of a famous prophetic poem here, among other things. In Celtic lore, satires really do have venom.
Towers: A Satire
it rose obscenely pink
like a plucked turkey neck,
then it rose more,
slathered and viscous, not from
primeval slime but
from a polluted swamp.
it rose, its towers flung
upward into the heaven of circuitry
into money’s pure domain, where it was
sly at manipulating the currents.
forgetful of its place of emergence,
wiped clean of all traces of roots,
leaves, humus in a sterilizing chamber,
simultaneously calcified and virtualized it was.
it turned itself into sign
in the eddies of the monetary,
yet, its towers slipped having
lost their foundation, the muck and mire
from which they had emerged,
the fecund perennial glut and rut
of hordes of teeming soil, oblivious
it was to the seismic twisting of restless serpents,
slipping their fetters far beneath,
the lands and waters
growing ever more active.
rapturous with its penetration
of heaven, the phallic thing
now orange and lurid, smirked,
unaware of the scythed ones,
the raven-clawed ones, and
the red-mouthed ones rising in
fury, their cries echoed
by the shadows of the dead—shrieks
shivering the forgotten foundations
of the network of fruiting bodies
now turned putrid, purple flecked,
and blackening with rot.
the millennium tilted as
they threw down
sheets of blood, and
cursed with mists of confusion,
their cups of blood emptied.
the scythed ones
with a flick of wrists unseen
slice the lurid orange things.
the hitherto weightless circuits
drift down in ashy precipitate,
mad mangled metal work
and tarantellas of glass.
against the tower
a fortress wall of storm
strong as white steel glowers
over this spectacle.
the unleashed torrents lash
a bare fortress now,
crumbling, naked, defenses failing—
the high places that cannot endure
before the packs of wolves, the terrible storm birds,
the outlaws of the woods, the
reivers, the revenants, the enchanters.
a ghastly scene lit by
artillery of lightning reveals
corpses bobbing in the wash.
as floodtide washes away the wreck
a rainbow breaks and I see
an old lady with a basket of mushrooms grinning,
making her way through the salvage.