Fall 6038 Years Later
︎︎︎ Kelton Madden
︎ Sept 29, 2026
If you really like it, you can explain why well.
You want to and people got paid for how well.
We called them critics—it’s confusing in hindsight.
He, though, needs a few more scabs on him
On the cross. He needs them to get bigger, harden;
Bubbled and wine-like, like footballs spaced
Like pads over and let them sit. A decent amount
More before he can be decent—a natural
Leader, no pain can teach that. Compliments!
Criticism is different when you hate: less hymnal, more
“Art as just the flower from the dirt of hating your
Race,” or the decay of it. Anatomize, what's the difference.
These days I’ve been meeting folks straight out of
The neolax, 2748, black-whip melt-a-run telepill
Maupassant type. Just arrived to Paris, spilling water,
Uppers, “when I run for office” type. No language
Fetish there and they were wrong—“Say hi to logos-born!”
The “I” was a great victory. The “I” has started to stink.
“What we had that day was a GREAT defeat, but we
Want a great victory”— “I” popped a pill down sou— I —
Back when policemen smoked and smoked in their cars:
Didn’t matter if they were just black and white.
A quarter native, the beady spiritual superior eye;
Hyper-Intelligence. Extraterrestrial, not even
This system; insect. Stunted, feather hats, bring
Them back, leave it in, leave your hand loose.
You can ring my bell, “You”— maybe—just do it
And don’t make it messy says the dang beauty
In heaven: his daddy. Different strokes.
The critics mattered ‘cause they liked an Irish
Play and novel best of the whole hundred years.
Different folks. Maybe, someday far-futured with the
Neon over the bed reading “Fax, Fax, Fa—,” Then
We can laugh maybe, over now. Ecloguey, griddy.
Get hit, get off the way the platform—the way
The platform of a gun—the way the 1911 platform
Just plucked off the wall of a bedroom empty
Excepting it, two blades of different—, and one
Mattress neat for use, beige burgundy covers
Thin enough to be sheets and sheets.—
Back to the other bed, animal blood, organs in
The mouth at some point, on some getting-getting—
Pale body. Good. Red. Hea—. Candle, wick first.
We still can’t start with the sun—probably distilled
Then when we get to it. The I was a victory.
You want to and people got paid for how well.
We called them critics—it’s confusing in hindsight.
He, though, needs a few more scabs on him
On the cross. He needs them to get bigger, harden;
Bubbled and wine-like, like footballs spaced
Like pads over and let them sit. A decent amount
More before he can be decent—a natural
Leader, no pain can teach that. Compliments!
Criticism is different when you hate: less hymnal, more
“Art as just the flower from the dirt of hating your
Race,” or the decay of it. Anatomize, what's the difference.
These days I’ve been meeting folks straight out of
The neolax, 2748, black-whip melt-a-run telepill
Maupassant type. Just arrived to Paris, spilling water,
Uppers, “when I run for office” type. No language
Fetish there and they were wrong—“Say hi to logos-born!”
The “I” was a great victory. The “I” has started to stink.
“What we had that day was a GREAT defeat, but we
Want a great victory”— “I” popped a pill down sou— I —
Back when policemen smoked and smoked in their cars:
Didn’t matter if they were just black and white.
A quarter native, the beady spiritual superior eye;
Hyper-Intelligence. Extraterrestrial, not even
This system; insect. Stunted, feather hats, bring
Them back, leave it in, leave your hand loose.
You can ring my bell, “You”— maybe—just do it
And don’t make it messy says the dang beauty
In heaven: his daddy. Different strokes.
The critics mattered ‘cause they liked an Irish
Play and novel best of the whole hundred years.
Different folks. Maybe, someday far-futured with the
Neon over the bed reading “Fax, Fax, Fa—,” Then
We can laugh maybe, over now. Ecloguey, griddy.
Get hit, get off the way the platform—the way
The platform of a gun—the way the 1911 platform
Just plucked off the wall of a bedroom empty
Excepting it, two blades of different—, and one
Mattress neat for use, beige burgundy covers
Thin enough to be sheets and sheets.—
Back to the other bed, animal blood, organs in
The mouth at some point, on some getting-getting—
Pale body. Good. Red. Hea—. Candle, wick first.
We still can’t start with the sun—probably distilled
Then when we get to it. The I was a victory.
Kelton Madden is a technologist in the Mountain West.