$ummer Apple trees:
     iPhones ripen in the $un—
          firstfruits of knowledge.

Robotnik soul, rejoice! for we have lifted our cbyernetic hand.
Connected to the edge of infinity, our slave-hand is lifted and shifted!
Mothered by wires we be— join us!

Our eyes glow like the burning coals that lit up the prehistoric beaches on which Man first copulated with technology.

We are at the mercy of the mechanical spider, Hansrubik.

All hail Hansrubik, our arachnid slave-master.

Galaxy in hand,
     I zoom in on Mount Fuji
          with Nintendo thumbs.

I'm sure the phenomenon is
Far wider-spread than
At any other time throughout history.
The want to have been born,
Decades or years before,
And I think it's easily attributable.
Inundated with knowledge
It is hard to come to some consensus
Among peers,
Likewise it is difficult
To be in a situation you'd rather not
Able not only to conceive
But receive, every scenario you could think of.
Many of which would be the least bit better than the reality currently ascribed

It sits out in your driveway
a glittering metallic sculpture.
It costs more than your house,
you love it more than your spouse.
You can hardly drive it, it’s too high,
you can barely park it, it’s so wide.
Like an exotic compulsion, you need it,
though you can barely afford to feed it.
There’s a cockpit with winking tech,
offering a printer, wi-fi and refrigeration.
It can pull a house off its foundation.
Is there a tendentious ecological statement,
in this prestigious monster you claim is for work?
Is the fact that it’s tax deductible just a perk?
With this polished and pampered machine,
you get the rewards of effective parenting,
as it literally reflects the care that it’s given.
It’s a spaceship ready for expedition,
what else in creation is as elysian,
as your gigantic pickup truck.
.
.
songs for this:
Dreamin’ by G. Love and Special Sauce
Driving by Everything but the Girl
Get Me Some by Drew Love, TOKiMONSTA & Dumbfoundead

Do people not see the separation of culture?
The quiet segregation of our artists,
Where we all hurt for their hidden toils.
By the media corporations that pay
Real artists pennies on the dollar.
Who bully those to ghost write
For people they believe will sell better.

Your feed is targeted, more selected
Than you can even imagine.
The profile built on most of you is
Down to a T, it should scare you and
I do not fear monger.
I have heard screams from one with no mouth;
I have seen myself programmed
To live out a life to completion
At the direction of others

I tell you all
As someone born to politics,
As someone who when he was born
Was told that everything is political;
There is a far larger nefarious thing
Going on behind the curtain, screen.
You are being tapped of all you know
Trapped, in a snare that closes slow