Posts Tagged ‘Technology’

I’m seeing those models,
All pretty faces and curves,
Like goddesses upon the screen,
And wonder how they do it,
What sorcery begets such angels,

The computer claims to know,
The beauty is simulated,
A conspiracy of tech and objectification,
A scalpel shaped like an arrow,
Pixilated nip and tuck,

It’s not real,
The screen mutates the image,
Warped for the male gaze
Imagined perfection,
At the click of a button.

Oh to be a cyborg,
A factory-built Pinocchio,
To keep the undeniable qualities,
The cerebrum and heart and sensations,
Of a real man,

Blended with a physique of mineral,
Unfazed like an ingot,
A skeleton and carapace of steel,
Undeterred by time,
Impervious and cold,

The best aspects of each,
Iron and flesh,
The virtue and ingenuity of humanity,
With the force and adamancy of machinery,
In one body,

In one cyborg.

The web is a hunting ground like any other,
And has its apex predators,
Unfeeling Cossacks on website steppes,
Master phishermen,
Duplicitous wizards of code,
In command of invisible monsters,
Hordes of bytes and virtual dragons,
Digital chimeras and curses of malware,

Under pixel brush and basement canopy,
Stalkers unaffected by the suns light,
You won’t see them coming,
They covet everything you have,
And still more that you don’t,
Scavenging every gory scrap of finance,
But if you’re in need of a quick buck,
Then they know a Nigerian Prince.

I heard tell of a cult,
They awoke from an awful dream,
Induced by some story book,
And built a priest out of pig iron,
A facsimile of an orderly man,
Fuelled by a furnace of white-hot delusion,

This automaton follows that same book,
On repeat he recites litany from his speaker mouth,
And baptises babes with his steel fingers,
This righteous robot,
An ivory robe stitched to his metal skeleton,
Cheap clanging between pews,

He was made from fear and thrifty deposit,
But mineral has no heart,
Iron holds no soul,
With no understanding of that book of myths,
Dare not look under his frock,
That’s where they put the plot holes.

When peace chokes,
Man makes monsters,
Innocent machines of war,
Smelted in our image,
Iterated upon as the iron comes of age,

Mankind declares war upon itself,
We are creating demons of metal,
Built from the ore of our flesh,
Blank slates fashioned into cyborgs and armour plates,
Soldiers of youth and cobalt steel,

These children are taught to be cold,
Indifferent and servile,
Programmed and coded against their better natures,
More attuned to pixels and circuitry,
As heart is gradually patched out,

The result is a generation of automatons,
Hellions of mineral and wiring,
Pawns of a digital regime,
Not to blame for their manufacture,
They’re just metal children,

More meat for massed conflict.

Assembling a life is no meagre feat,
Let me tell you,
These are not simple machines,
Their intricacies are myriad,

To form a working product,
It will take the heavy industry of your actions,
Sweat blood and ore,
There is no prototype phase,

You’ve got one shot,
Only one budget of heartbeats exists,
So solder your connections wisely,
And god forbid any bolts are loose,

Too many are already upon the scrapheap,
That pile of obsolescence.

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.