shine

Smoke and sky spiders fill the air as missiles smash into Gaza and powerful men drive needles into the flesh of young girls. Turns out Chomsky partied with Epstein, so now I have to take up vaping and go fill a shoebox with polaroid photos of dead birds in car parks. I'll pretend I'm doing it ironically so no one mocks my prayer cards for a dying world. Sometimes the Buddha looks like the Buddha. Sometimes he looks like bleached coral reefs, or rapefinger plutocrats with pointy teeth. Sometimes he looks like a woman in her early fifties sobbing snot-nosed and red-faced at the cruelty of it all in pajama bottoms and a Pink Floyd t-shirt. The war drums are getting louder, and the bank boys are getting horny again, and the flesh of the innocent is so soft and so easy to digest, and the darkness hides so much, and the light makes so little difference. But we shine it anyway. We shine it anyway. Reading by Caitlin Johnstone.