The Tower

I awoke from at dream. Sycophants and ambitious underlings jockey obsequiously for power under a despotic overlord high upon the conch shell Tower of their living, dark, bleeding city. The city itself is innumerable toiling masses, their bodies & labour, fuel & fertilizer for the Tower’s machinery, its crab legs, crawling across a barren landscape of fires & ash, the cabal of oligarchs sit at the top, in the marble room with the despot who could not rule a sandcastle, they eat each other and the offal from their remains is swept from the marble floor; it is their blood that stains the walls red, but the offal is carried out, down the spiral outside of the conch shell, a dark red sludg that crawls & grows, joining with the remains from the city’s other ten billion members, becoming a bolus of gristled excrement, defecated on the scorched Earth, below.

This Earth, run wild with fires, where it only rains ashes for eternity, where the mountains have been leveled by war, and the valleys filled with its victims, where the seays have been bled to quench the engines that drive the great crawling vehicles of munitions, the skies blackened by their exhaust, and the craackle and roar of their firing is the only sound that fills the endless night. When Dawn breaks on this Earth, the sleeping soldier will not wake from his dream, nor will the songbird sing; only Ashes remain.