Writing: Motherland of Exiles: Unbirth of a Republic

by Beauchamp Art

…with it came visions of the past and images of what was yet to be, all caught in the instantaneous simultanaity at the moment of detonation of the first and only tacheon bomb. History collided with present and future.

From the first flint cracking against flint, man’s initial spark of creation and destruction unified in one action, echoing through the ages, through ever conflict and carved edifices of his greatest craft, to his untimely conclusion in a distant haze, through the dark veil of this terrible time seen about this current Metropolitan State, to the global unification of a People’s International Republic of Earth, his first steps beyond the limits of the Earth, the breadth of the Solar System, the colossal reaches of the galaxy, and his unending quest to seek the edges of a seemingly limitless universe.

But such a legacy for this miserable age may yet falter from such a glorious potentiality. His greed and hate hold him steady with internal conflict. The animosity of those within the Castra and the residents of rodent Wastes and their ruinous wake, all structures perpetually perched on the vast precipice of precarious existence, such a basic struggle for security, barring the barbarians at the borders, bodes ill for mankind’s on going momentum. So wary should he be, so as to not snuff himself out, to burn too brightly and choke on his own fumes. Or perhaps such a Rubicon has already been crossed, perhaps that tremendous event that Dawned this current era, of unfaultering fallout and ceaseless ashes, radioactive rain falling as the dams of decimation have burst forth, this great Flood man’s last that he shall weather.

This event may have make the start of the eternal eradication that shall engulf man’s fate, his final failure, his most unlearnt of lessons, to never learn from history, even when all his ancestry may appear before him as the flickering shadows that followed the ultimatum of that uttermost of events, that explosion that shock the Earth to its core, tearing hours from the days, and fusing finality and reality into one incomprehensible instant, whose ripples wraught it’s rye reckoning in iridescent inferno, as clocks melted on across grounds made barren, monstrosities to walk the fallow soil as skeletons of a supposedly civilised society.

Oh, for Dali’s vision met John Martin’s, so surreal was this violent wrath, so uncanny was ever second since.