I have this image floating through my mind.
Of a renegade iceberg.
Damn.
Just like the one in Antarctica.
That sexy mother christened, B-15A.
An arctic missile.
Heading for the shelf.
Imagine that!
Dissent in Glacial Headquarters.
Windows On The World.
Not carved from the steel and concrete of human fatality.
But the frozen wasteland of a volatile eco-system.

Mercurial and eerie.
This B-15A.
Mistress of destruction.
Signifier of things to come.
Slam!
Right into the heart of the Drygalski ice tongue
a month ago.

Inconsiderate bitch.
Tearing off two city-sized chunks of ice.
Just like that!
At 71 miles long.
She's the largest free-floating object in the world.
Threatening the longevity of our arrogant ways.
Our hopes and dreams.
Of an inhabitable planet.
Ad-infinitum.
One step from biosphere fucking hell.

* * *

Renegades, all round.
Just ask dear Mr President,
Well.
Someone damn well went and lobbed a hand grenade.
Landed 100 meters from his feet.
Height of bad manners.
Especially whilst he was extolling the virtues of democratic development.

dear Mr President
{Psst... I gush with warmth at the thought of you, Sir}
A figure loved and admired by all.
We so want to wrap you in our embrace.
So...
Smug, sanctimonious and nervous.
Speaking from armored podiums,
Stage shielded by bulletproof glass.
Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Freedom Square, Tbilisi, Soviet Union.
Nice touch!
The promise of liberty.
At a price.
Self-sacrifice of civil-rights
Hell, just take them.
They have no place in this New World Order.

dammit, I always end up back there.
To the bliss of ignorance.
To retrospection.
To the pipe-dream.

I'm thinking
Amnesia.
Global delusion.
The openly naked predatorship
Of our species.
Of our planet.
Of ourselves.

In Utero.
Always filled
With so much promise.
And so much potential.

# transmission ends #