No Future Got Me Like
In 2025,
while the oceans are boiling,
we’ll be plugged into the Nirvana interface,
unadulterated, prestige consciousness,
our enlightenment crowd-sourced and machine-learnt,
so many designer realities,
curated by the world’s leading experts
of living in artificiality.
By 2022,
polar bears will be extinct
but someone, somewhere,
will program a VR scenario
where you can fuck one, anyway.
Hundreds of people will be paid
20 dollars in Amazon giftcards
to write 800-word reviews about the experience.
Meanwhile, kids will be selling themselves
into slavery for potable water.
The year is 2021.
A study will find that Americans
who spend more than 50 hours a month
on Facebook are 400 percent
more likely to commit suicide.
When asked for comment,
Viceroy Zuckerberg will shrug,
and insist that people are free.
By 2030, 90 percent of the topsoil
in America’s prairie will be gone.
The plainlands will scorch to desert.
But there will still be at least three more Fast and Furious movies made.
In 2022, refugees will compete against one another
in augmented reality gladiator domes,
sponsored by eSports startups,
for the right to asylum.
In 2022, Cop School will become Florida’s most popular
charter school software package,
satisfying all state requirements for public school education
for kids between the ages of 12 and 18.
In 2021, a thirteen-year-old girl’s suicide will go viral for two days.
She’ll say all the things we’re too terrified of saying.
She’ll say it for hours until her smartphone battery dies.
You’ll watch every minute of it.
Several times.
“No future got me like…”
“No future got me like…”
“No future got me…”
