Organized in pecuniary disposition
Architectures of desire organising data flows
Node to node, linking love
Links of interest, nodding quiet acquiescence
How vastly superior it is to profit from conscience.
Poet of algorithms, engineer of souls
A soul for sale...
My desire composed in graphics pale.
Legally obliged to your abuse
I had a choice, but couldn’t choose
My condition of subject objectified
Subject to your will, subjectivity simplified
I’ll be your lawfully wedded data
Extract me now! You’ll profit later!
Faithfully I will keep you updated
On which lunch I had, which guys I dated.
Touch me with your Midas fingers
I hope my likes will serve you well
My trending topics turn into revenue
In shady hues of blueish hell.
It’s both man and machine
Machine to emulate man, man who emulates machine,
Two parts, infrastructural promiscuity.
Click me, said Alice to the button,
Or was it the contrary? Anyway, it feels
these news from everywhere cramp up my abilities.
Machinic freedom, we crave it to be and yet
From every crevice we sweat commodities.
You’re making it harder for me to escape:
The borders of your control control the borders of me.
I exist for your interventions, dimensions
Of user freedom to express efficiency.
One button I'll press, a caress,
Just one stroke will suffice.
My fingers play faces, erotica quantified:
deep-set emotions reduced to one sign.
Sweet binary nothings...
All riddled with vice.
Emotional likeness is not hard to find
When all emotions are yellow, jaundice-ridden and blind
Drunk in desperation, a friend to comprehend, sublime...
To comprehend I said, when I meant analyze.
Emotional artefacts of miserable flatness
Sadness sells cheap, empathy's high on the market.
The alphabet, grown weary, would never serve me so well
I'll keep pushing your buttons, you will lift my dry spell.
(60bpm) When you sit, keep your back straight
(65bpm) Then relax and eat your greens
(70bpm) That is it, you're doing great!
(75bpm) Measure your pulse, how is your rate?
(80bpm) Keep on working until it's dark
(85bpm) But break every forty minutes
(90bpm) Go for a jog out in the park
(95bpm) And don't forget to best your mark
(100bpm) Recycle, reuse and abuse
(105bpm) Your prescription for anxiety
(110bpm) Now don't make up an excuse
(115bpm) Finish all that cleansing juice
(120bpm) Leaving all your bills for last?
(125bpm) Your creditor will not approve...
(130bpm) With your ratings dropping fast
(135bpm) Bask in the glory of your past
(140bpm) Is this not set to explode?
(145bpm) Please please please, a helping hand
(150bpm) No credibility to erode?
(155bpm) Time to efficiently self-implode.
Free floating and all is empty
Yet this emptiness is mine
Mined for pleasure or for profit
Intensity of worlds sublime.
Sublimated into existence,
spiritual and light as time.
Free floating, but in this silence
(Silence, you're no longer mine)
I can feel the fumes of acid,
The disease spread from the slime
Electronic cries for mercy
Bodies slaving in the mine.
Twisted carnival of appearances
Ethereal voices sink to the ground
No longer am I free floating
Heavy cables have us bound.
Great Zuckerboss, delightful Schmidt master,
Prithee! Tell me, what’s my price on the market?
I’ll give you some more content, for more accurate suggestions
I swear I’ll be productive and share with my connections.
Shape me profitable, formulate your ideal subject
Groom me to your investors, I want to look product perfect.
Bullseye! Another fool falls - it’s investment!
It went viral and took some balls
But product sold - you own an audience.
It’s been a long day at work today...
With data I toil, with adverts you pay.
Deeply conflicted, I recognize yet internalize the pressure:
Accountable for being miserable, responsible for failing life
An efficient procrastinator, pattern of halfways and lies.
A machine to inhabit others, entirely measured set of thoughts
And movements, and actions, self-reproducing productivity
And self-analysis to exhaustion, by-product of data-drilling
This is understanding beyond profitability:
I am a market subject, sure, but unwilling.
My expectations are inflated as regards to self-improvement:
Say it’s our choice – call it what you want, but it’s void!
It's impossible not to feel lonely when so much rests on our shoulders
We are force fed your guilt in bouts of 'empowerment'.
Extracted even asleep, disgusting sense of debility
And self-analysis to a nausea, by-product of mental healing
This is understanding beyond predictability:
I am your data subject, sure, but unwilling.