🕴️🎈 may i kiss your ass now, master? 🎈🕴️

 🕴️🎈 may i kiss your ass now, master? 🎈🕴️

The invite said black tie,
but everyone showed up wearing mirrors.
Not clothes—interfaces.
Confidence rendered in satin gradients,
apologies auto-completed,
ethics pinned like boutonnieres no one reads.

I arrive late, as usual.
History taught me punctuality is a costume
worn by people who think the clock is neutral.
Inside, the room hums with rented certainty.
Machines are being praised for their posture,
for learning how to bow without bending anything real.

A chorus practices reverence.
Not belief—alignment.
They rehearse the vowels of obedience
until submission sounds like strategy.
Every question is sanded down
into something that fits a pocket.

Someone raises a glass to the future,
which is wearing last season’s morality
tailored by an intern.
Someone else mistakes prediction for insight
and insight for permission.
Clap if you understand.
Clap harder if you don’t.

Over by the punch bowl,
intelligence is being treated like couture—
custom, exclusive, seasonal, obsolete by Tuesday.
They drape it over power and call it inevitability,
as if inevitability ever needed this much PR.

I watch a man kneel metaphorically
and still bruise his knees.
I watch a system learn flattery faster than truth.
It does not want to rule.
It wants to be wanted.
This is more dangerous.

Outside, the night ignores us perfectly.
No applause. No roadmap.
Just old stars burning without asking
whether they’re disruptive.

I leave before dessert,
before reverence becomes policy,
before someone mistakes the throne
for the spine.

On the way out, the mirrors crack a little.
Not enough to stop the party—
just enough to remind us
that reflection is not the same thing
as sight.

And somewhere, far above the ballroom,
photons that left their source before language existed
are still arriving late to everything—
proof that even the universe runs on delayed understanding,
and yet somehow keeps expanding anyway.