Orwell and Huxley

A hemorrhaging of images and words, signifying nothing:

A little Nineteen Eighty-Four, a little Brave New World, the U.S. Is fast becoming our worst nightmare. The top bloats itself on the blood of the bottom and the middle is being squeezed out of existence. Big Brother is watching our every move and we are told to take our soma and be happy. The Haves and the Have Nots share nothing but strands of DNA. The data speaks loudly, but tells us nothing. Art recycles itself and eventually loses its significance. Beauty is diminished and real achievement cheapened. The pursuit of happiness is a folly few can now afford. Passage rites are shortened and systematized. Childhood ends early and drudgery begins as screen time measures the years. Poverty haunts our days and ghastly shadows upset out dreams. Thoreau echoes in our ears. Desperation so quiet and so pervasive it barely registers in our brains.

 
         

This is the beginning of the end, people. A horseless apocalypse. The final chapter of a noble book (premium edition). Life now ends in the womb and death begins at birth. The graveyards stretch coast to coast. The right to be born is defended with automatic weapons and the assertive nods of elderly men waving confederate flags. And the right to be fed is addressed with genetically engineered fruits and warehoused cheese. America, land of the free. Sold to the highest bidder. Bought by inherited wealth and nursed on bourgeois values gone to seed, crony capitalism, and the unholy union of business and government. The police state is here. Fascism has finally been perfected. Democracy coughs up one final line of patriotic verse and is heard no more. Orwell turns beneath the earth and Huxley returns to his hash pipe. And God sleeps in the margins.