Idioteque, Montana

Philanthropy feels more like idiopathic shill-anthropy in these waning days of the anthropocene. Cleave my heart on your plow, speed the ventricle asunder, and wave the cluster of veins, arteries and capillaries over your head. Oh what a beautiful sight that is.

Are you sick? Are you binging seven hours of last year’s hit cooking show? Is your heartless chest so vacuous that echoes don’t return to you? Your voice lost and splintering in that void becoming a still small accusation pinging away through the universe.

Oh fill me with vile thoughts and spidery venom instead of inoculating me against the COVID-21? Is sars-cov7 on its way? I trust I’ll freeze in the icy winds first.

Don’t trust anything goddd tells you — he carries about an abundance of lower case “d’s” with him, just in case his white masculinity is questioned. No proselytizing to be done, just a beating about the head the with handy extra “d’s.”

Good for something nothings they be. Idioteque, Montana they sang in unison while no one was listening.

“But what does it mean, the plague? It’s life, that’s all.”

— Albert Camus / The Plague