habitually distracted
there’s a ghost in the machine and it needs to be extracted
we’re fixated on the screen, a nation distracted,
status updates and memes
moving images in monochrome,
a ‘celebrity obsession’ syndrome,
I can’t quite believe the carnage
800 channels of choreographed garbage,
our responses are monitored
and mirrored to harvest,
we’re moving at such a pace
faster than I anticipated
and as I’m dissected and sold for parts,
the collective consciousness is infiltrated,
this sudden death of self is an infection
within my philosophy,
a
new
form
of
control
through
A.I technology
continues to hijack our physiology,
its weaving its way deep within the skin,
why aren’t we questioning its purpose?
we’re being imprisoned by an evolving algorithm,
these new forms of media keep us conditioned,
forever confined to an open prison
with no windows or walls
where the few police the many,
the creation of the human machine
has taken decades to fine tune accurately
we’ve embraced such intrusion so naturally,
the new age will dawn and we’ll be discarded,
if you believe the hype then you’re mentally retarded,
you’re side-tracked and open to attack
habitually distracted by a constant need for
‘digital crack’, you’ll never give it up,
you’ve got no backbone, laid to waste through
a ‘celebrity obsession’ syndrome
the old school yard
Up past the old school yard
and through the streets I use to know,
a war once raged upon these pavements,
young blood drew battle lines in the mud,
a certain kind of infamy came
with losing ones virginity,
all these tales are best left untold,
it’s just not the same now we’re all old,
some left to see the world, though
many stayed and still walk these streets,
a million and one ghostly heart-beats
retreading their once youthful steps,
I moved on but I will never forget
that moment in time when we were all one,
chasing the dawn, sleeping under the sun,
Charlotte I can’t forget you, god knows I’ve tried,
it’s been over 30 years since you died
and you’re still beautiful, forever on my mind
Case Study - Patient ‘3788’ - Psychic Or Psychotic
she’s high risk, forcibly sedated,
confined in-line with statistical analysis,
she’s out of the ordinary, a perception terrorist
challenging the obvious with her 9 dimensional awareness,
she doesn’t conform or align with ‘the norm’
this is when the problems were born
there’s no longer a beauty in her eye
it’s died, she’s been dehumanised,
indefinitely institutionalised,
a slow subtraction of her persona has turned her into a stranger
she’s changed, patient ‘3788’, confined to a cell block,
prescribed acute electroshock,
I’m no longer her brother,
she’s no longer the mother I knew,
it’s all “too little, too late”
her children now belong to the state,
bouncing around like yo yo’s in foster care,
to end up in the gutter or “god knows where”
she spends her days counting cracks on the wall,
observed from a distance, offered no assistance
as she suffers in silence, I honour her resistance
but there’s just no point, there’s no way out,
she can cry at the top of her voice,
scream and shout her lungs out
but nobody comes, no one cares
so she just sits and stares
continuing to count the cracks on the wall,
what if she’s really psychic?
what if she can really see the dead?
science will insist it’s all in her head,
prescribing more restraint,
dumbing her down so she can’t retaliate,
patient ‘3788’, we’ll continue to sedate
she won’t be a problem anymore,
we'll keep her confined and lock the door
taxidermist
past the wood
where witches lie,
past the slaughter house
and pig sty,
jawbones and teeth
rot on the floor,
I dare not open
the cellar door,
the master he rests
with blooded hands,
he’s cut the throats
of the goose and lambs,
he baits the badgers
and cuts off their heads
dances with serpents
in his taxidermist shed,
the mans a bastard
his heart pumps lead,
he gets his kicks
from
redressing
the
dead
Borderline
I’d pick up the phone if I could,
conversation is a terrain best left unexplored,
I’ve locked all the windows and doors
to secure the room inside my head,
every thought and action hangs
precariously on a thread,
my tongue is tied so awkwardly,
I’d rather cut it out than speak,
I can’t even begin to describe
exactly what lies beneath,
there’s more to us than skin and bone,
it’s best I’m left alone,
you can try to contact me
but nobody’s ever home,
all these words inside my mind
make very little sense
the weight to articulate my feelings
has broken my defence.
I’m bouncing off the walls and ceiling,
these pills I swallow have masked all feeling,
I’m agoraphobic, none transparent,
and through it all it’s become apparent
that happiness has upped and left
and I can’t coax it back
it’s been beaten so profusely
by a “wonder pill” called Prozac
and a cocktail of other vile
questionable drugs,
it’s as if each one of my neuro-receptors
is smothered in pharmaceutical hugs,
no wonder I can’t get up,
no wonder I can’t feel love,
there’s no counter balance to my despair,
and worst of all, I don’t care
I just can’t seem to locate myself
I know I’m in here somewhere,
as I stagnate staring at the wall,
I can’t help but wonder
what’s the point in it all?
