Apocalypse of Jude

Dawn peaks from behind the dragon-back peaks, lightening the firmament of the sky and pushing back darkness across the bay to where the city stands at the peninsula’s edge. The sun is now past its closest point to the earth. Darkness will grow now, the sun slowly bringing less heat, enough only to ripen the harvest, and then the burning of whatever has not yielded goodness from the earth.

In this growing darkness is the lone mountain and the river running softly from it, seeking to end its song under the suffocating overgrowth of alien vegetation that crowds its banks. The river winds downwards into the town, channelled all the way by cobbled stones cemented to the soil. Here its banks are drenched with leftover summer filth: empty bottles, sandwich papers, cigarette butts and condom wrappers. And its waters, once unsullied and meant as a source for parched throats, are now dirtied by those that have run after profit.

Finally it will open up into the false bay whose waters are neither polar cold nor tropic hot; to where the ships of the earth trade their wares with the merchants of the multitudes for the intoxication of the kings of the earth. And instead of infusing the salt mix with living fresh water, its pours out the dirty effluent of men who have cuckolded this town, and have eaten in it without the slightest qualm, pretending to be shepherds, but feeding only themselves.

Wasteland Mix: Fragment 56