The Earth has been taken over by hordes of Emo-poets. Under their dark rule the populace suffers a rain of soul-mashing mind-feces. Waves of anti-life energy emanate from their mouths, turning steaks from medium-rare to well-done, and dogs into cats. I’m fleeing their forces in a motorized skiff across the moonlit ocean, traveling parallel to the coast. I cut the motors so I can quietly paddle the rest of the way in. An hour later I’m docking at a safehouse—one of the last remaining stashes of comics and barbells—and unloading my gear. A second passes and then I’m attacked; I don’t just hear it—I FEEL the strains of emo assaulting my ears. I drop onto my back, my whole body clenching in an agonized spasm. My arms and legs curl inward, my fingers turn into claws, and the orifices on my face begin leaking blood. A metal-faced, pasty-skinned emo-poet walks into the safe house, crushing my psyche with melodramatic pauses and janky, fancied-up ways to state the obvious. I grit my teeth and mutter, “Now how did I know it wasn’t going to rhyme?” just as I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. A 5th dimensional Enochian voice fills the air, concatenating TS Eliot, Immortal Technique, and The Green Lantern oath into perfect stacks of resonant harmony. Each stanza is visible as a multicolored weave of prismatic shimmer that snakes through the air. This is REAL poetry, and it burns the emo-poet like flaming gasoline. The sallow half-man runs screaming from the safehouse, its skin shriveling and warping. I settle myself down and close my eyes. Ahhh…every second without emo is an undeniable gift.
When the emo-poets destroy our way of life and testosterone has become the equivalent of a long-forgotten magic elixir, tell them to get the hell out of your post-apocalyptic safe house. Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle