Late-Stage Lamentations

O Capital, how you’ve grown grotesque,
metastasized beyond recognition —
even Adam Smith would weep
at your algorithmic avarice.

Your invisible hand now wears
a smartwatch worth more
than a month’s wages
of those who built it.

We measure progress
in apps and crypto,
while food banks overflow
with hungry gig workers.

The market corrects itself
like a snake eating its tail,
each recession digesting
another generation’s dreams.

Remember when we thought
it couldn’t get more absurd
than pet rocks? Now we sell
digital rocks for millions.

Productivity soars
while wages flatline —
graphs looking like
cardiac arrest.

We optimize everything:
sleep schedules,
bathroom breaks,
the art of being human.

Mindfulness seminars
in burning buildings,
wellness programs
for dying empires.

Self-care packaged
as subscription services,
revolution reduced
to Instagram filters.

Even our despair
gets monetized,
anxiety branded
as lifestyle content.

O Late Capitalism,
you magnificent disaster,
teaching us to scroll
while Rome burns.

We chart your collapse
in memes and threads,
watching entropy
trend on Twitter.

Your final form:
a subscription-based
apocalypse,
terms and conditions apply.

Yet still we dream
beneath the rubble
of your failed promises —
after winter, spring.