IMAGE: A strange of collage of many images with an all-seeing eye at the center.
To the west is a beautiful woman and the the east are some barnacles. To the north
there is a radiant orb and to the south is a stopwatch, a mountain, dark diatoms. 

JUST POST-APOCALYPTIC FICTION?
 
	Macro indicators blink crimson red,
	as stocks crash & coastlines convulse.
	What goes ‘round doesn’t just come ‘round—
	it seeps through groundwater, wheezes in smog,
	& warbles in benzene-laced serenades.

	Ain’t this lil planet wired, right?  
	Every blockchain port trade echoes through seabirds,  
	every market spike comes with coral crashes.  

	If ya can’t grok how seas entwine with life, 
	maybe yer mutant offspring will.
	When chromosomes start hiccuping in 
	epigenetic feedback loops & limbs morph 
	into plastic fins err cadmium-covered gill-fronds
	the message will be clear.

	Ignore techno-trash savants,  
	braggin’ ‘bout “miracles of progress,”  
	while clutchin’ gilded chunks  
	ah dystopian code.  

	Yes, it's worth remembering what multi-millionaires 
	whisper in encrypted boardrooms—
	“What’s wrong with tricyclic aromatics?  
	Or adding nanofog squirts ah chlorinated benzene  
	ta sweeten yield curves?”  

	A lil’ methyl mercury? Call it seasoning!
	Hydro-furans? Garnish for brave trans-humans.  
	Asbestos nanofibrils? The fiber of a new civilization!

	Yep. Yep. Yep.  

	So we toast to short-term gains,
	& sing landfill lullabies,
	while praying at the altars of excess 
	as entropy drips like molten code.

	Alleluia to our algocracy,
	turning oceans into spreadsheets
	& crafting hymns to fabulous stupidity
	and AI-generated quarterly reports for the elite!


SETTING: Inside a dim bookstore café, a poetry reading is taking place. Soft amber light 
casts shadows over half-drained glasses while a few dozen scraggly people murmur. In one 
corner of that poetry reading, four friends discuss the previous poem.

Satoru:   (reflecting on the poem, then focussing on his friends) That poem isn’t just dark;
          it felt scorched! I imagine the writer is looking forward to a dystopian oblivion.

Dmiritri: (grinning faintly, pupils weirdly dilated) Maybe that’s the point. Art isn’t 
          obliged to give comfort. Sometimes it exists to slice veils open and reveal harsh truths. 
          A little apocalypse keeps our from going numb and docile.

Ying:     (crossing her arms skeptically, voice edged with static) What value is despair 
          without some positive direction? If suffering doesn’t lead somewhere, it just spirals. 
          It becomes a weak yelp echoing in a hollow chamber. It doesn’t heal, but merely whimpers.

Frida:    (speaking softly, fingers tracing stains on the table) In many ways you're both right. 
          Looking around us: the stupidity of our species is too apparent. At times
          I wonder whether our civilization represents an unexpected glitch,
          a passing anomaly in the cosmic OS. At this stage of history, many patterns have 
          become set in motion. The damage we’ve done can’t be undone in our lifespans. 
          I'm afraid, We've blindly crossed some ecological thresholds, so a dirge 
          like this seems natural... this lament is grim, but honest. 

POSTLOG: The four friends sit in contemplative silence while the air conditioner hums.
Outside, city lights flicker uneasily, as the evening sky fades into night. 
The poem sits folded up on the table. Finally, Satoru suggests the group read a different 
poem that is easier to digest and more warmth. Everyone nods in agreement.

=====================================================================================
from Peace Pieces: Reflections on Violence and Conflict Resolution by T Newfields
SUMMARY:   Reflections on despair, transformation, and absurdity.

     In a dim bookstore café, four friends dissect a bleak poem, confronting art’s uneasy balance between despair and truth while seeking a sliver of hope in the aftermath.

KEYWORDS:  post-apocalyptic prose, techno-babble, ecological collapse, surreal mutations, 
           quantum entanglement, benzene serenades, molecular regrets, hyper-wired planets, 
           algocracy, subliminal nanofog, event horizons

Author: T Newfields [Nitta Hirou / Huáng Yuèwǔ] (b. 1955)
Begun: 2006 in Tokyo, Japan ⩝ Finished: 2025 in Shizuoka, Japan
Creative Commons License: Attribution. {{CC-BY-4.0}} Granted

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