THIS YEAR AND LAST
And so it was, the year of their Lord, two-thousand-six-teen. And there was a Queen, with a large jaw, and a Duke, with a pale-face, rusticating on the throne of Eng-land. And, so, it was clearer than blood-diamonds – to the Lords of the State's reserves of gluten-free loaves and fanned salmon, at the very least – that things in general were settled for-ever.
Dispiritual revelations and miracles, of all transliteral sort and kinds, cause Social Media sea-level-rise. Star-signs, and moon-stones, and used chakras alike filled the store-shelves and pan-tries of nearly every brick-shop and E-. Ten-thousand plasti-blackened Knights stood against thread-bare child-ren organizing for the right to continue paying obscene school tuitions, and to breathe the clean-air, or to drink water (bottled in hor-mone disruptive petro-renderings.) The Lords and Ladies (Landowners and Lawyers) of the Land command "non-lethal" armies to gas and concuss, tase and trample, corral and kettle, and drag and choke and shoot, and cuff and jail to boot, all members of the Peasantry who'd dare seek their Lords' commitment to His very own laws.
Men in gilded driver-less motor-carriages (each pulled by no less than 255 horses, and fab-ricated from furnaced earth-ores, fueled on sixty-million earth-years of earth-life and death) needn't be bothered to notice the legions of Job-less and Food-less and Home-less, who squat the alleys and parks and storefronts and penthouses, building pigeon-traps and unreal-estate-flip-flopping apps. No. They're too busy pumping their fists (to synthetic operas composed by the great-grandchildren of slaves) while drafting infinity pools and psychic-yoga studios, for the street-levels of sky-stacked crystal mansions, on their face-time liquid-crystal notebooks (those re-charging touchy pools of light.)
It's purely un-imaginable, purely im-possible, pure-fantasy and pure-horror, and pure-contamination and smut. These Drafters and their unreal-estate swindles pretend to aim-not to demolish a not-decade-old dwelling for the purpose of... what? Not for thirteen starving Farm-hands or thirteen homeless Home-builders. No. Instead, for to sell it to one Persian Prince, who will sell it to one Silk Route Sultan, who will sell it to one Silicon Speculator, who will go bank-rupt and bust in the meanwhile; who will then have no choice but to pass it on to the Fin-Isnt, in trust, who will grant it to the City, who will gift it back to the Drafter (and in a front-room deal no less), who will tip it and flip it and sell all fourteen units, all in one go, to four castle-flippers to prop-up (on e-paper at-least) their flaccid business management consultancy firm, now over-leveraged, under-performing, and nearing the three square brinks.
Now it's all Newspaper-men (but made from the silhouettes of glassy algorithmic dislocations) amusing sleepy dreamers with the wallowings and fortune-tellings of dis-periodic tables. Those non-local binaries, those hot-dry cumulus clouds, entertain with encodings about baseball heroes and celebrity poets – who fail to write about children sentenced to death by plasti-blackened Peace-warriors (for the crime of possibly pilfering a food-simile [-like]) with twelve cannon rounds to the back of the knee and three conductive electro-shock darts, arriving posthumously, for good measure, to the anus. And the immunity, the righteousness, the daring, the courage, the heroism, and, yes, the foot-fetishing of the plasti-blackened, Jesus-loving, right-doing, death-making, non-lethal, Peace-Love-and-Joy Enforcers is captured in three dimensions of space and in one of time (and captured another ten million times more in shared-time-and-spacelessness) – but only for their own bemusement and, of course, to keep their much-prized Twitter-feed revenue neutral.
The Priest-men and the Banker-men go to work ceaselessly and with muffled tread. The order was disorder. Laws painstakingly crafted and enacted for the protection of public health and safety they go unenforced, while jaywalking a vacant street sends the undercovers out from cover. Tax-men and Law-men, Party-men and Highway-men together cure the finest Swiss cheeses for Middle-classers (all seven billion of them) and "small business", that are then bot-and-souled and traded (mostly by those same Saw-bones and Law-men) for degrees for their offspring, motor-cars for their husbands, and year-long sailing sabbaticals. As ever they've done. The Highway-men in the light were Stock-trades-men by night, confronted (mock-arm-wrestled really) by Party-men and Law-men (compelled by the "crass Left-Low-lifes"). And, in a wholly non-weasel-way, in exchange for retroactive, sub-dermal, para-legal inoculations, Highway-men trade one square seventh of all homes and retirements out from under the Low-lifes -- leaving the lot with styrofoam ("light-weightly and waters-proofly") and cardboard ("bio-degredationist approved") foundations.
And all these and a thousand deeds like them, came to pass within the dear-old year two-thousand-and-six-teen (or two-thousand-and-nine or two-thousand-and-three or 1916 or 1816) – the Year Without a Summer
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