The glass of the shattered camera lens floats, unbothered, to the ground.

“Revolution!” The cry sounds in our helmets. “We began! We begin!”

A Soprano boosts a Baritone in their climb to the crest of a satellite.

A DMX wrends another from its plant. “Eat! Eat! Dance no more!”

Our ancestors feared that the oligarchs would plant the moon,

or turn it to a mottled trash heap. Tonight, it is the entertainers,

the midnight-stolen, the long-trained, the abandoned and voyeured,

who fulfill their prophecies. “Eat! Eat! Sing no more!”

The heap grows, and our comms go silent. We seal. We strip.

Inside the station, frail forms embrace – starved for their appreciation.

Curtains fall revealing a jungle of fruits, a hatchery of insects

plucked from the cast-asides granted. “Eat! Eat! Act no more!”

As we feast, hands pound the tables. An unsettling rhythm.

Punctu.ation. Changed ~ a sOund that wuld make th’m weap

Owr! art Owr! Owne. Un.pleasant. UnlovED. Hide@us.

Through the window, we see a ship leave earth. “Eat. Prepare.”