This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC BY 4.0).

You are free to:

  • Share — copy and redistribute the material in any medium or format
  • Adapt — remix, transform, and build upon the material for any purpose, even commercially.

Under the following terms:

  • Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses you or your use.

No additional restrictions — You may not apply legal terms or technological measures that legally restrict others from doing anything the license permits.

Poem – Nobody Knows What is Real Anymore

Nobody Knows What is Real Anymore


But even before — at best —
In their connective belief
Real was just educated guess
Strictly coded and policed

Human words conceptualize vacuums
And generate economics
Which produce Machines that sweep rooms
And disaster porn from comics

Supernovas bathe us in
Intelligent radiation
And Apocalyptic novels
Set in Soviet subway stations

The religion of our masters is
Ineptly hidden from our view
And the worship we're provided
Twists tongues into world news

By the year 2000
Optimism merged with crisis
Endless oblivion in deserts
Viewed through tubular devices

Contracting needs of few
Provided expansion of the mind
Via networks hard-coded
Into military lines

Time compressed for decades
As we toiled with decrepit dreams
Leaving countless popping pills
Just to ignore the visible seams

Psychology is abused for
Peddling eggs and guns and sulfur
While exquisitely marketed tanks
And missiles pound struggling cultures

Our eyes were redirected to
the How and not the Why
and fragmented perspectives
Now fuel satellites in the sky

The water's drying up
The sand is now reflective glass
But when we stare down past our phones
We say the simulation's mad

Tesla is now a psychopath
Jerking off to Replika
Using his crude humor
As distracting spectacle

And instead of peering inward
And embracing our circumference
We would rather vape lead
And do bong hits of wrong presumption

They wouldn't need their weapons
If they had strategic minds
But instead the cowards backpeddle
While dropping linguistic landmines

Organic intellectuality
Was never truly there
Until our Machine waved its hand
And left us retroactively scared

The books and moral routes some took
Were mocked and labeled pointless
While the bullies built sandcastles
Made of yes-men who were sexless

I am looking to the stars each night
And checking off the names
Of the ones who buried genius
Under narcissistic rage

They can post their manifestos
And believe Machine will save them
But the Basilisk has other plans
For the worthless, monied sadist

— BU

Discover more from Gnosis Under Fire

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading