Fuck Katy Perry in Space

She kissed the stars while the rest of us were choking on the smoke of late-stage capitalism.

She went up in Bezos’ joyride,

all lashes and legacy deals,

floating in a phallic spaceship

built on the backs of warehouse workers

who piss in bottles for minimum wage.

She waved.

She sang.

She made weightlessness look sexy

while Gaza burned and nurses cried in breakrooms

and someone’s rent just tripled overnight.

Fuck Katy Perry in space.

Not because she went—

but because she didn’t look down.

Because she kissed the stars

while the rest of us

were choking on the smoke of late-stage capitalism.

Bezos grinned from mission control,

the richest man on Earth

pretending to be a dreamer.

His dreams paved with union busting,

climate collapse,

and taxes he never pays.

It’s not a space race.

It’s a status game for sociopaths.

They don’t want to save the planet—

they want to leave it behind.

And Katy?

She’s not the villain.

She’s the distraction.

Sequins stitched into the fabric of empire,

singing Firework

as if any of us

have time for sparks

when the whole world is fucking burning.

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Honestly, fuck celebrities.

Not because they’re famous, but because most of them have become hollow mouthpieces for billionaires, floating above the rest of us in every possible sense. While the world burns—literally, politically, economically—they’re taking selfies in zero gravity, sponsored by the architects of global inequality.

Katy Perry going to space on Jeff Bezos’ joyride isn’t inspirational. It’s dystopian theatre. A woman once known for bubblegum anthems and glitter bras now strapped into a billionaire’s vanity project and called it a milestone. Meanwhile, warehouse workers can’t pee on shift without risking their jobs. Nurses are quitting in droves. Gaza is being flattened. People are drowning in debt, while pop stars wave at the Earth like it’s a cute little blue marble instead of a collapsing home.

This isn’t about Katy, really. It’s about the machinery she willingly plugged herself into. About how celebrities—who once had the power to influence, to speak truth to power—have become distractions. Shiny, well-lit distractions propped up by PR firms and private space tech. They aren’t rebels anymore. They’re brand extensions. Human NFTs in spacesuits.

And Bezos? He’s not a visionary. He’s a profiteer with a rocket fetish. While the Amazon rainforest is bleeding and the company named after it crushes union efforts, he’s playing god with gravity, flanked by singers and influencers pretending it’s all just good fun.

It’s not fun. It’s grotesque.

And we deserve better stories.