The bad stuff is everywhere now. It is a rot. Stale and stank, concocted and fused. Spreading from the edges of the darkest recesses to the center table, then to the flowers in the vase. Feeding on the mindless. The thoughtful-less. The heartless. And returning in kind. Decay as food for the masses. These are the spoils of modernity.
The bad stuff streams 24/7, on every channel, every program. Dare not interrupt as Mother watches, hidden away in her room before her god. She worships darkly in the dim cathode-ray light, the volume low, and the door only just ajar. She consumes the nonsense consuming her. She smiles, paralyzed by its pervasive endorphins. A mother, all smothering. Floor to ceiling. Head to toe. Her eyes hold dull traces of what humanity once was. Faded. Sunken. Lost.
The bad stuff sells itself. Wants posing as needs. Foolishness as wisdom. Suicide posing as creation. All depth and substance now asunder. People joyfully touch it. Spread it. Decorate with it. Some even eat it, dripping like honey from their lips. Desire and destruction couple with it. The dying bleed out with it. Oozing from their veins. Spoiling into the earth. And all we consume. Is this how worlds end?
— Dean Bowman
Dean Bowman