For William and Kristine
︎︎︎ Curtis Yarvin
︎ Nov 19, 2025
We all died in Covid.
Owl Creek Bridge. This
Ambrose Bierce future,
Increasingly surreal
And certainly virtual,
Brings virtual children:
Emigrants from an alien
Star. Here to learn
Our ways and take our place,
They come bloodied, blinking,
Demanding, with their first
Cauled eyes, instant
Obedience. And we are as dogs
Whose master has come home:
Souls made not just
To reign but also serve.
This first service now
First painful, then menial—
Work for a slave or a dog.
A splinter of the cross!
The male, of course, feels
Fractions of this crucifixion,
And consequent transformation—
Small for this third son,
Who will never know me
At my own age today—
In ‘77. Lol.
How is this the future?
A world too strange for words,
And my place in it strange,
A haunt of hanging dreams—
Remembering that I died
Like everyone in ‘20–
Or with Jen in ‘21.
The clouded newborn eyes
Of our alien overlord,
Bluing to his mother’s glass,
Care nothing for the past,
Our “beautiful oak door.”
That was your dream, they say.
Feeble as this being is,
His every cell is perfect.
Mine are raked with sun
And smoke and meat, bit
Decay and cosmic rays.
They will not always do
What I want: and this world
Prove as fake as I thought.
The child of late youth
Is later partner in crime;
The child of middle age
Will stand at your bed
As mine at their mother’s bed.
The family is a nation;
All politics is loyalty;
All realities are false.
In November the Pacific storms
First sweep brutally in,
Hard rain and blue,
Testing roofs and roots,
Rooting April’s grass—
Each California season
Unimagined by the last.
These waves are all we have.
Let faithful mother bring
Forth faithful child—
Though planets rot around us.
Owl Creek Bridge. This
Ambrose Bierce future,
Increasingly surreal
And certainly virtual,
Brings virtual children:
Emigrants from an alien
Star. Here to learn
Our ways and take our place,
They come bloodied, blinking,
Demanding, with their first
Cauled eyes, instant
Obedience. And we are as dogs
Whose master has come home:
Souls made not just
To reign but also serve.
This first service now
First painful, then menial—
Work for a slave or a dog.
A splinter of the cross!
The male, of course, feels
Fractions of this crucifixion,
And consequent transformation—
Small for this third son,
Who will never know me
At my own age today—
In ‘77. Lol.
How is this the future?
A world too strange for words,
And my place in it strange,
A haunt of hanging dreams—
Remembering that I died
Like everyone in ‘20–
Or with Jen in ‘21.
The clouded newborn eyes
Of our alien overlord,
Bluing to his mother’s glass,
Care nothing for the past,
Our “beautiful oak door.”
That was your dream, they say.
Feeble as this being is,
His every cell is perfect.
Mine are raked with sun
And smoke and meat, bit
Decay and cosmic rays.
They will not always do
What I want: and this world
Prove as fake as I thought.
The child of late youth
Is later partner in crime;
The child of middle age
Will stand at your bed
As mine at their mother’s bed.
The family is a nation;
All politics is loyalty;
All realities are false.
In November the Pacific storms
First sweep brutally in,
Hard rain and blue,
Testing roofs and roots,
Rooting April’s grass—
Each California season
Unimagined by the last.
These waves are all we have.
Let faithful mother bring
Forth faithful child—
Though planets rot around us.
Curtis Yarvin is a Bay Area writer.