In these times,
Following the book of 1985,
All smokestacks and cameras,
We are thrown ahead as fodder,
Little cogs in the machine,
In to a world full of radiation and bad men,
We are crash test dummies,
Emphasis on dummies,
Coins in a grinder,
Crashing along government lines,
Amongst all the other wreckages,
All part of some smoking room plan,
All we are worth is what we can withstand,
What we can suffer,
But this is no simulated test,
This is real blood and guts life.
The world is naught but pixels,
A video game,
A snuff film,
All high-definition screens,
No soul,
Just pretty graphics,
With stupefying fidelity,
As long as you don’t gaze too close,
If you do,
Expect to see the flaws of the world,
Electrical faults,
Dull non-player characters,
Shallow characters following ill-realised scripts,
The dead pixels,
Static that we all swim amongst,
Until our monitors breathe their last.
I walk this black and gold city,
Streets lined with circuits and voltage,
Chapels and shrines to chrome,
Midas kingdoms,
I’m a cyberpunk,
A loathsome hacker,
The disquiet is choking,
It entwines with the smokestacks,
Faces become metal plates,
Emotions reduced to lucrative algorithms,
Human no more,
Flesh has become a sin,
Corporate gods,
Mechanical preaching,
The world underwent body modification,
Its soul sold to the highest bidder,
All of its life has become mineral,
All black and gold,
I’m a ghost in the machine,
A former spirit of rebellion,
My heart was coldly dead,
Even before this metallic clone,
A facsimile of a pulse,
A life,
The augmented future is bleak.
WorldofHarley 