Do you feel that bass?
That tone in the atmosphere,
A low hum in sequence,
Pounding like artillery,
You begin to sway at the sound,
Intoxicating as it is,
It’s a legal high,
A sonic assault upon your composure,
A hysteria of the limbs,
It threatens to shatter your shell,
Make you move against your judgement,
It’s only a matter of time,
The beat continues unabated,
You’ll dance to this bassline,
With a grin that’d make the joker blush.
I know that monitor is not just a device,
I know what it means to you,
It’s your social safe space,
The real world was always too bitter,
You met these souls without seeing their faces,
Side by side exploring myriad galaxies,
Across battlefields rendered in digital space,
Amicable rivalries upon podiums that never were,
They were and are real,
They are not mere pixels and handles,
They are friends,
Past and present,
And perhaps future also,
People not profiles,
Place a hand upon the screen,
You can feel their palms against yours.
We are all data,
Little binary toys,
A horde of zeroes,
Leashed to digital space,
Simply prey to a carnivorous system,
Swimming like salmon through databases,
Pushing all of the opulence upstream,
While being picked off by bears in taxman gown,
We are just numbers to be counted,
A sticker book collection,
For some child in a highborn office,
A creature with a taste for silver spoons.
One day I grimaced at my hands,
And I saw that they were not truly mine,
Bound to schemes not my own,
Tied to some parliamentary puppeteer,
Oligarchs bluffing authority,
So I took a rotary saw to them,
With each rotating bite,
Every vein separated,
Muscle torn from radius,
Each bone bloodily gnawed through,
I felt no fire from the excision,
I felt relief,
Self-mutilation rapture,
The roar of petrol chokes any vice,
No longer can these hands commit the evils of others,
I’m no longer a tool,
If I cannot touch,
I cannot harm.
Some minds only deal in binary,
Mechanical lizards piloting meat skeletons,
True or false,
These are the only options for these droids,
Logic taken to its cold conclusion,
Statistics taken a gospel,
Your heart,
Your feelings,
The colours that permeate your words,
These things produce hinderances,
Human factors are glitches,
They do not fit black and white,
To these walking computers,
There is the right solution and the unsound,
Only zeroes and ones,
There is no space for varied perceptions,
Your tears do not factor in,
To the single answer in their crosshairs.
I gaze skyward,
Drawn by some click of great decibel,
The sky above seems unearthly,
Almost to a virtual degree,
Whizzing my eyes left and right,
My periphery scratches the side of the monitor,
It feels unreal,
Like a blanket placed by some unsung creature,
The clouds skirt around dead pixels,
It seems fake,
Birds fly backwards,
Stuck in an aerial glitch,
It all looks digital,
Like the horizon has been hacked,
Or formed in some supernal studio,
What is this?
Where am I?
Is this life all some fault in the skybox?
WorldofHarley 