Liturgy for the Damned of Progress

My wounded heart drinks deep from the rotting gut of misery, Humanity vomits its relics onto the oozing tiles of the real. I see kids chewing syringes like candy canes, Their innocence smashed, face down on the concrete of progressive decay, Strangled in the dungeons of a morality sold to the highest bidder. Starving bellies roar like weapons of war, But no one hears them—too busy bleeding the Third World dry, Oiling guns, painting absurdity on the walls of capitalism. Obedience is taught like pigs are fattened before slaughter. Ignorance is christened “tradition” just to hang it by the neck. Power comes in velvet salons, climaxing While the working class dies on its knees in the outskirts. And the laws—those velvet whores—put on justice like make-up, Ready to sell themselves to the first tyrant disguised as savior. In democracy’s graveyards, the blood isn’t red, it’s fiscal, And the corpses are recycled into stats for the evening news. I’ve seen fathers crushed under the savagery of liberalism, Mothers selling their days by the minute to fatten inhuman shareholders, Children learning to survive before they even learn to read, And old folks fading silently, Like rough drafts tossed before they’re even read. And I hear the greasy laughter of elites— Cannibals in suits, bloated with injustice and champagne, Spitting contempt at the bleeding peoples, While signing treaties that reek of legalized extortion. They call it “governing.” I call it the art of strangling man with the golden thread of his own hope. Progress is a chimera sold on credit, A digital trap where the self dissolves, A willing slave to an algorithm that profiles dreams, Prescribes pleasures, dictates hatreds. We no longer think—we consume thought, pre-chewed by tyrants, Delivered by drone on the sets of 24/7 disinformation channels. “The people”—just a sterile word now, waved like a cheap slogan, While fear is injected in industrial doses. We’re trained like dogs: bread-pellets, circus-sticks. They throw us elections like bones: Pick your butcher, pick your whip, pick your executioner, But shut up while they shred your dignity—clause by clause. Meanwhile, the prophets of growth Screw the planet down to the bone, Trade glaciers for ever-growing dividends, Life for numbers, the future for fumes. They promise abundance While driving debt through your skull like a spike. I will never turn the other cheek, Will never preach love while my brothers are flayed by financial vultures, While my sisters are pimped out to advertising as aesthetic cattle, While schools manufacture docile robots instead of rebellious souls. I spit on their dogmas, I incinerate their stock market gospels. I keep going, yes—because silence is complicity, Because silence spits on my own, Because silence signs a pact with the white-collar butcher. I keep going—because silence is now guilty, And the word, the last weapon not yet patented by Empire. They want you to doubt your own suffering, To see your chains as jewelry, To say thank you when humiliated, To vote for the man who strangles you cleanly. They teach you to smile at your own crucifixion, To self-censor to remain “employable,” To piss on your rage in the name of bourgeois decency. Their democracy: a farce administered by experts in social anesthesia. Their rights: privileges in drag to contain revolt. Their peace: a truce for the rich to keep feasting. While you slowly die— Buried under norms, bills, and expired promises. They drown you in shows so you’ll never write your story, Blast you with managed outrage so you’ll never feel raw fury, Pump you full of equality without justice, morality without courage, Fatten you brutally like livestock primed for social execution. I’ve chosen to curse their economic gospels. I trample their sugary newspeak that repackages exploitation as opportunity, war as profit. I refuse to chant their mantras of infinite growth In a world on the edge of systemic collapse. Think I’m done? I’ve barely begun. Because as long as lies wear neckties, As long as oppression bears the republican badge, I’ll hammer my writing like a slap across their hypocrisy. I don’t write to please—I write to dissect. I don’t write to soothe—I write to rip off the masks That centuries of compromise have glued to skin. I loathe these architects of decline, These greedy technocrats who turn human dignity into performance curves. They sold you progress like poison wrapped in honey, And you drank it like a lab rat chasing lethal happiness. They redefined reality with charts, diagrams, formulas, Converted misery into metrics, Patented even the right to breathe. They gagged intelligence with diplomas of submission, Replaced thought with calibrated AI-fed opinions, Swapped utopia for profitable cynicism. Their world is clean, sanitized, digital— But it reeks of slow death, soul alienation, and desertion of conscious minds, The slaughter of the living in the name of law and order. Surgical strikes on tormented, persecuted peoples— For a world order that serves the prince of darkness. I’m not here to entertain the lounges of good conscience, I’m here to set fire to their soft certainties, To disturb the comfort of those sleeping atop secret mass graves. I’m here to remind that every pact with this satanic system Is a vow of allegiance to injustice. I am an outlaw, Wielding the word as a weapon of mass destruction, Unprogrammed rage, A refusal written in blood, not capital letters. And as long as I have a throat, I will shake their glossy-paper walls With the only weapon I still own: The raw, crude, brutal, and undeniable truth.