The Ministry of Magic
The real magic is resistance— a fire raging in the bureaucracy, a refusal to be streamlined, an insistence on the mess of being human.
The Department of Government Efficiency
sounds like a trapdoor:
clean lines, chrome promises,
a Tesla steering itself
straight into a black hole.
Here, Musk wears his new mask:
wizard robes spun from Mars dust,
libertarian whispers tucked in the seams.
"Streamline," he says,
but it smells like layoffs,
like red tape burnt for kindling.
You can almost hear the hiss—
systems stripped to bone,
the poor ground into data points.
The Ministry of Magic stands in the shadow,
a wand snapped in half.
Once we believed in miracles.
Now, we’re told efficiency is the spell
that will save us all—
digital alchemy,
turning your rent into his rocket fuel.
But no one asks what happens
when the spreadsheet comes for you.
When the algorithm, with its teeth of code,
bites down on your humanity,
calls you "cost,"
calls you "excess."
Let’s not pretend
this is anything but late-stage sorcery,
capitalism dressed in the emperor’s new hoodie.
Let’s not call him a genius.
Let’s not call this innovation.
The real magic is resistance—
a fire raging in the bureaucracy,
a refusal to be streamlined,
an insistence on the mess of being human.
American brothers and sisters, the time to organise was long ago. When they cut the first tree, when they laid the first brick, when the ink dried on their sacred documents that promised freedom but delivered it only to the wealthy and the white. The time to rise was when they chained the first body to the machine, when they turned your sweat into their profit, when they built towers that scraped the sky but left you buried beneath them.
But if not then, now. Now, when they laugh at the fires they’ve lit, when they drink to the spoils of your silence. They will tell you to wait, to vote, to hope. But hope doesn’t mend the broken, doesn’t fill the empty, doesn’t shatter the chains. Hope is nothing without action, and action is the only thing they fear.
Do not be lulled by their slogans, their polished speeches, their promises of progress. They build nothing for you. They strip you of what’s yours and sell it back, packaged as salvation. They leave you hungry and call it freedom.
So gather. Not tomorrow, not next year, but now, in the ruins of what they’ve made of you. In the shadow of their towers. In the streets, the fields, the kitchens where you’ve been left to labour. Find each other. Build something real. Tear down what no longer serves you.
You are not powerless. They only taught you to believe that. You are not few. They only worked to keep you apart. Together, you are the weight they cannot carry, the force they cannot tame.
The time to organise was long ago. But now will have to do.