Posthuman Blues

Another Burroughsian cut-up (interesting lines in boldface):

The multinational corporations and bigoted governments whose "future" is as reassuringly glowing fabric of Sterope's genengineered sarong moved with animal intelligence, near as next month's NASDAQ or voter opinion polls. Is gilding her waist and breasts in bloodred light as it this how it ends, snuffed out into petrochemical oblivion before undulated on the floor. The screens on her bare arms we make the critical move off-planet? Our space shuttles crash flashed erotic poems in forgotten languages. Hieroglyphics morphed into Sanskrit; because they're obsolete, fragile museum pieces. But our smart-bombs are runes and mandalas blossomed like foliage in an Ernst painting. cutting edge: gleaming chrome and laser-light, avatars of technological cunning. Naked, we painted ourselves with the last of her image But if we have every reason to be deeply afraid, lotion. We patched into each other, turning our bodies into we also have room to be deeply hopeful. We possess mirrored Freudian billboards. Dreams swam across suggests that moving off into deep-space, solar sails wafted by cancer-radiance. Martian advanced ET intelligences will be able to provide for themselves? polar caps gushing and melting, flooding the empty sea bottoms Our time as an endlessly complacent species is running out. while Gaile watches over them with Olympian indifference, knowing that In a very true sense, it has always been running the seas will vanish once again, this time not into out, but our technological society is just waking to the ice but thick, writhing steam. The city passed us by fact...and perhaps wishing it was all a bad dream. Our in a procession of foreboding white thermal bunkers and tanks weather patterns are showing ominous new trends; global warming continues; of liquid nitrogen. We retired to the silent chill of deforestation and desertification hack away at our biosphere's roots with my apartment. The administration had paid a visit during my the unheeding avarice of out-of-control clockwork. Can we rouse ourselves absence, rubbing crystalline patterns onto the increasingly brittle walls to in time to make a difference? Or is Earth to keep them from shattering from sheer cold. I had left become a clone of Mars, arid and wind-scoured, any remains the wall-to-wall counters strewn with personal relics: incomprehensible electronics from of civilization consumed by dust? An ecological 9-11 might get the previous century, volumes of fiction committed to scaly yellow our attention, but it also might consume too much of paper.