I predict
In another few hundred years
Humans will have evolved to have no legs
Our hands will instead have evolved
To have smaller, more dexterous thumbs
And our butts will have flattened
To make our tiny flying saucers easier to handle.
Why do I say all this?
Because it’s clear Life outside of an inter-net
Is increasingly irrelevant.
In the future there will be no need for books
No need for one on one interaction
No need for adventure
No need for challenge
And when I say no need, of course I mean
No desire.
The addiction to instant gratification
Will replace all previous human desires
Sex, food, sports will all be redundant
In a virtual world.
We will all be hook on the e-soma
And those who aren’t
The irredeemable Neo-Luddites
Will be somewhere else, marginalized
And minimized with their long legs,
Big thumbs and butts.
And we in our 24th century Mouse Utopia
Will be blissful
When the last of us
Dies.
(8/25/26)
The above organisation...Has a human story, one of way too many, hence they seek not
For glory.' Yet to overturn some statutory i'lls, kill laws that label; and denigrate living
Such gives me pause..And throws a chill'
Also a distorted lighting, of life stages eniugh to fill, me with the will.' To add my voice to Cindy, Taylor Jenkins mother who was robbed of her daughter by dry banal indifferent
legalitys, that by now; too many personalitys have smothered.' You might wish to join us from wherever is your
world.? Help raise a wave to sink deaths
Legal vessel that serves no good, may your
Voices loudly be heard.'
Oh, I was teased by nineteen eighty-four.
When the TV listened to all I said.
I didn't realize there was a backdoor.
Come on in the bright Utopian door!
You're part of a long bright Internet thread.
Oh, you're appeased by nineteen eighty-four.
We'll travel the Internet forevermore.
Our Bot's on a social media thread.
It didn't realize there was a back door.
Beings strive to attain good credit scores.
TVs, radios, and phones hear your head.
We have been seized by nineteen eighty-four.
Digital eyes will lurk forevermore.
Secrets will not be easily shredded.
Bots know there is information galore.
Nineteen eighty-four thrives forevermore.
Years ago, its mighty code was embedded.
Oh, we were pleased by nineteen eighty-four!
We didn't realize there was an entry door.
Chat GPT or whatever AI version you prefer
Is now the go to source for all things human,
Like what to know, or do, or even say.
Like a life-coach who not only mines your data
But your potential date’s as well.
When everything we think and do
- just like this -
Is increasingly online for the world to see
And AI to use,
What is there left to do
But surrender to the Borg.
(1/4/26)
They say it is, but I never see
Words from them, words for me
Venial sins, mortal deeds
Hallow what the preacher reads
They separate on race and creed
Their lustful hearts abound with greed
The fallow fields lack of seed
A prophet’s testament to heed
A ministry of lies and hate
No thinking, no breathing, no debate
The problems we face, they don’t abate
Rewrite the commandments on the slate
May God punish them for what they speak
May He burn them inside-out and let havoc reek
May at the Devil’s call they do retreat
To their gorgeous homes on Satan street
There will be many books, movies, documentaries, even libraries devoted to revealing the depths of endless lies, conspiracies, frauds, scams, cover-ups, and deadly treasons running like foul rivers churning through every law, statute, standard, or tradition. Our grand children and maybe their grandchildren will remember what has happened in this era of trumpian dystopia.
As the world turns…
Unfortunately anything’s possible
And so we must be monitored closely
And controlled thoroughly.
I’m sure this is happening somewhere
At this very moment
I’m sure it’s actually happening
In many wheres.
While outside that particular nightmare
My life is relatively perfect
And yet I can barely cope
With relatively perfect.
If we only stay on track
And live without question
Where will that deliver us?
Without question, a dystopian future.
(10/2/25)
and the good guys lost
all of us ‘got feet of clay
we are tainted, corrupted
and who of us will not say
"no, not me, I will be trusted"
we've come a long way, 'never stay too long
we'll have the last word if only to be wrong
evolution has gone to hell
myopic fighting for peace
ev'ry sucker for himself
all hail, this wily disease
you may point a finger 'til y' arms fall off
I might look away having seen enough
war is over, I said, war is over!
and the good guys lost
hand over fist, making it fit
continue, do as been done
4th world war wi' stones n' sticks
nothing new under the sun
a hungry ghost, frustrated with remorse
here's to it will be like it never was
war is over, I said, war is over!
and the good guys lost
no more than a tease to get it started
much harder to switch it off
war is over! I said war is over
and the good guys lost
and the good guys lost
in this
dystopic
nation
masked thugs
tear
babies
from their mothers' arms
raking them
off the streets
disappearing
inheritors of the kingdom
you who believe
in the ever-after
there will be
a time after
when evil visits the evil
payday
isn't always Friday
I can't wait to
write a poem then
a poke in your
blind eye
He knew the flower to be fair,
but he did not want to wait.
So he turned to the promises of the machine.
It offered quick solutions
-perhaps imperfect-
but they were on-demand.
Scalable.
Inexhaustible.
And they cried for nothing.
They had no need.
Perhaps there were flaws,
but they could be ignored,
and the machine was always improving.
But one day the man remembered the flower
and he realized the price of the machine.
Written 14:07-14:12 on 3 March 2025. Title thought of 9:35 AM that same morning.
Standing at the brink of our new world
I gaze into the majestic landscape.
I see a novel synthetic fraternity
Shining lights of discovery –
Teetering on the edge
Of a blazing dystopian inferno.
In the past we had to rip them from their mothers
screaming, crying ... afraid
and remold them in our image
antiquated traditions to be discarded
minds and values to be upgraded
by the Machine
Oh! The Glorious Machine ...
But the smoky, grinding beast of old has evolved itself
Glistening, oiled, sleek ... and quiet ...
Pure power - now alluring, irresistible.
Now they leave their mothers of their own choosing
Caught up in wonder of the Machine.
Oh! The Glorious Machine ...
All shall serve for they are served.
All are used up as they learn to use.
All must bow before it ... or break
Oh ... The Glorious Machine ....
2024-09-15 finished quickly by 10:51 AM inspired by article "Sacred places" by Phillip Whiteman Jr.
Utopia Dystopia
One man’s Law and order is another man’s oppression.
For an imposed utopia is a true dystopia.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
I am being forced to live
With horrible malformations
On my body
In my body
I am stuck with them for years
For who knows how long
The people want me dead
Simply for existing
They claim it is in the name of the children
But I am a child
Being forced to grow up
And I am not the only one
There are millions of us they want arrested
Or simply put to sleep
But that is too nice a word
For what they want
They want us dead
In their claim of righteousness
We want to live
Without the horrible mutilations
That we had forced upon us
They claim it's in the name of life
Yet children are shot in the streets
And the places meant to be safe
Are hotgrounds of violence and death
All we want is to live
As children are meant to do
They let children be parents
But they won't let us save our own lives
We are too young to know who we are
Yet old enough to tell someone else?
There is no possible way
For me to afford a roof over my head
But if I were to take my chances
On the streets
I would be thrown in jail or shot
For the crime of being there
I am being killed
In the name of life
And all this was only
From one news report
Half flesh, half steel, sinews and twined wire,
Begotten in the heat of half-love, tempered
By hatred and the axe, fathered by one
Who killed her mother, the male chauvinist boar
Whose eye-teeth, razor-sharp, saw through the spine,
Joy-sword in sheath. Wrought iron, blood vessels,
Bone and cable, one part conceived, the other forged
On the hard anvil where gusts of blood are seed
Of all the axeman most does fear – cast iron woman
With stanchions for a trunk, iron breastplate,
A malleable black heart, a metallic chastity belt
No man may boast of stealing and still live,
Who beats men at their own battle games,
A dab hand with the axe herself, as salty tears
And globules of mercury exude from grey glands
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