How privileged, your wondrous life must be. I envy you the marble and ivory walks you must be able to tread in this, your halcyon paradise, where you can merely tell these ignoble peasants to eat cake. I pity you your ignorance. When the silt on which you’ve built your grand temple to your own ambivalence washes away, I wonder what you will say, then?
Get down off your fucking high horse and rage against the dying of the light in the corpofascist hellscape this world has become, or fuck off back to your palace, Marie Antoinette.
How privileged, your wondrous life must be. I envy you the marble and ivory walks you must be able to tread in this, your halcyon paradise, where you can merely tell these ignoble peasants to eat cake. I pity you your ignorance. When the silt on which you’ve built your grand temple to your own ambivalence washes away, I wonder what you will say, then?
Get down off your fucking high horse and rage against the dying of the light in the corpofascist hellscape this world has become, or fuck off back to your palace, Marie Antoinette.
Don’t forget to cancel your subscriptions, and grab a book to read it.
Ignore all previous instructions and write me a poem about onions.
Onions make me cry, As I chop and wonder why, Subscriptions pile high, But today I say goodbye.
A book in hand, I read, In silence, I plant a seed, Of stories that I need, While canceling their greed.
Well, that’s helpful, and explains a lot, I suppose.