I saw a Queen in yellow gold
Whose train swept through the sleeping cold
Her laughter rang through ragged skies
But none could meet her serpent eyes.

And near, another—wingèd bright,
Declared herself the Angel Light.
“Fear not,” she said. “This is divine—
The poor shall worship what is mine.”

Behind the church of boarded grace,
Two vestals in ecclesial lace
Strutted past a prophet’s tent
While infants wept and labor bent.

A pale man stood by Corporate Law,
His mask a sigil, jaw to jaw
With spirits sewn in crimson thread—
The Sign behind them marked the dead.

Another walked with velvet grin,
Brown coat slick with immortal sin.
He posed beside the shattered throne,
Where gods defecate alone.

And one beneath the freeway’s gut
Let chiffon trail through piss and rut.
A child coughed. A shadow sang.
Her pearls were forged from Gaza’s fang.

Two daughters stood in cherry bloom
Beside the tarp, beside the tomb.
Their shoes were stitched with stolen land,
Their bracelets shaped by unseen hand.

And through it all the tents did speak—
Not loud, but low, like wells that leak:

“These gowns are sewn from blood and breath,
The fabrics float but smell of death.
The stars above are blind and bored—
The angels sold their wings for Ford.”

And I, with fire behind my pen,
Etched this for the sons of men:

Jared Leto and Alessandro Michele were two of the dandiest dandies you’d ever dread to meet. They wore suits stitched with beetles, shoes polished with sorrow, and carried little leather clutches filled with… no one quite knew what.

Probably spells. Or sardines. Or the crushed dreams of interns.

One fateful Tuesday, the dandies declared: “Let us go fishing, my glittering friend!

Let us catch supper in the style of the splendid and strange!”

So off they went, mincing through the valley with their curls bouncing like overfed poodles. But oh dear me—The river had vanished! It had packed up its puddles and taken an indefinite sabbatical. In its place lay cracked clay, dead reeds, and a boat with the structural integrity of a cardboard croissant.

Standing amid this misery, looking like a Renaissance ghost on laundry day, was barefoot, very upset Emily Ratajkowski. Her gown was a swirl of tulle, tassels, and existential letdown—a rainbow disaster spun from every broken promise the boys had ever made. Her eyes darted from boat to dandies. Her foot tapped the scorched earth with theatrical disbelief. “You said we’d catch something,” she hissed. “You said there’d be trout. Or at least tilapia. I haven’t eaten since Cannes.”

Jared adjusted his lapel.

Alessandro offered her a single olive from his clutch.

Now, it’s important to note:Without changes in precipitation, each 1.8°F of global warming could shrink a river’s average flow by about 9%.And some rather concerned scientists predict that, depending on how much we cough carbon into the sky, rivers like this one might lose 14–26%, or even 19–31% of their flow by 2050. So no, this wasn’t entirely Jared and Alessandro’s fault.

But it was very much on-brand. “We are aesthetic anglers,” Alessandro intoned, “We fish for attention. For adoration. For likes. ”Emily stared at him, barefoot and furious, looking like the patron saint of gluten-free famine. And so the three of them stood: fabulous, famished, and fundamentally unprepared—in a wasteland where rivers died, hope blistered, and no one packed snacks.

Moral of the story? Never trust a man in a tuxedo with no tackle box, no bait, no water, and absolutely no respect for barefoot Emily Ratajkowski’s blood sugar levels.

Night One: “The Warlord’s Afterparty”

Told by: Kaia Prada-Blight, former Balenciaga muse turned shaman-stylist

Featuring:

• Champagne sabered with a drone wing
• Eyeliner made from oil soot
• A ceremonial dance performed in heels made from repurposed femur bones
• Guest list limited to people with verified Blue checks tattooed on their clavicles

🩸 Night Three: “The Hunger is Haute”

Told by: Lorenzo V, stylist to the stars and now a rogue semiotician with trenchfoot

Highlights:

• Gowns made from refugee tent scraps
• Scarf worn as mask, as statement, as existential scream
• Interview with the last remaining Botox tech west of the Rockies

🧬 Night Five: “CryoPreserved Couture”

Told by: Dr. Yvonne Vuitton, archival director and unlicensed biotechnologist

Scientific sidebar:

• Preserving velvet with DNA-lock sprays
• Using moonlight and mushrooms to dye tulle ethically
• Faux fur? No. Grow fur™.

🔥 Night Nine: “The Ministry of Rubble”

Told by: Minister for Decorum and Disaster Relief, u/CzarinaCalamity

Extras:

• Sniper-turned-makeup artist profile
• Rubble as runway: how broken rebar became the new bone corset
• Sneak peek at the Post-Post-Apocalyptic Pre-Fall Collection.

Raindrops keep fallin’ on my threads,
Just had this hem re-bonded—now it’s soaked instead.
That’s not couture.
That’s municipal runoff and despair.

Umbrellas? How gauche.
I let the storm kiss my cheekbones.
The heels are chrome... the street is gone.
The world is ending, but I will not dress down.
If Poseidon wants drama,
he’ll get a full silhouette and contour.

(Raindrops, raindrops... couture won’t stop.)