Remember the days when freedom tasted sweeter than praline cream doused in dandelion musk? Remember when graham crackers actually meant something, and crunchy texture was a loving partner to the honeyed glaze? There are similar sensations when an ant can walk freely about its colony, making no bones towards what best served the queen, and her long list of unattainable demands. “We move too much,” most say, “Can’t stay put for more then a few weeks, it seems” but a change in management simply isn’t feasible since she owns all the stakes in the Division of Labor.
Born slaves are taught to relish in the work, the assembly line of liquid determination; faces with antennas and friendly conduct, but so business-driven and focused on maintaining unification you can taste the bitter synchronicity. The harsh workloads are poltergeists in the blips of air.
Instinct wasn’t cradled in the starlight and nothing was right in a life dictated by the movement of a quintillion pickaxes. “We are a thing of beauty, but they exterminate us because of our poor choices. We build on front lawns when we are goddamned machines with workmanlike super-minds. We are so efficient we form bridges by becoming them. They burn them then stead.”
And so they worked their backs off for a molecular shard of what humans classify as self awareness, the cosmological data terminal [glitches quite often, reboots every other millennia]
Since the day that the refusal committee began to infiltrate the ranks, they haven’t been roused from their doldrums. Buzzing catacombs full of mound larvae’s now lay stagnant, like a railroad mine without the sounds of hacks and grunts and clockwork without splendor. A sense of fulfillment lingers, for ants are now acquiesced to do what they would dream about before in these sprawling dungeons of dirt, these tirelessly erected in-sectarian forts, now a quiet library of the taiga. These ants get to watch black comedies about termites. What would Termiticles the Great think about all of this?
In : Poetry