Now we see that last maggot-man, his kin shall not expire
so long as Culture’s rotting corpse his gluttony inspires!
Born in the foetid, urbane place which gave to him neither race, face, or breathing space
He sucks and fucks,
He weeps and cries,
He eats and buys,
In a lumpy, shifting bed of shiny, fashionable lies.
His kind are found o’er all the earth,
for the sake of consuming something of worth
Can you tell even one from another?
Their daily life but empty play-battles
Their sole delights a culture’s death-rattles
Can you bear to see them all blur together?
There is some machine
It smooths them down
As a diamond is carefully ground
And if they die, before they wake
Will there be any soul left to take?
A shattered remnant 𑁋 “Hell is Truth, seen too late”
Far too late!
Will their kind know more than fear on the Ire-filled Date?
Oh, what fear man’s bosom rendeth,
When from heaven the Judge descendeth,
If God there be above, I shall escape them,
With Thy sheep a place provide me,
From the goats afar divide me,
But here below, I pity and hate them.
A typical example of the Last Generation, Letters spends his procrastinatory hours on Internet shitholes like 8chan and Twitter. Spurred to write at random intervals by a dangerous mix of caffeine, existential crisis, and hypomania, he occasionally—and by no merit of his own—produces something which passes as literature.