The Machine

Updated: Jan 18

I’m not someone who is comfortable or all that adept with technology, but of course with the business of pleasure (music) there is a modicum of discomfort involved. My manager and producers want to see a constant flow of information to entertain and capture an audience. The what’s-she-done-lately syndrome. So while I rested during the holidays, and I do hope you all enjoyed seeing the end of this year, I thought about how we must produce and grow to live. But it can become a constant companion, forever distracting your idle happiness. I do love to be lazy but I get bored, so my mind wanders into strange places. Come and join me,

I’m caught in the machine, where nothing’s really clean, listed by the numbers in a pixelated dream, and it’s chewing out the megabytes and always wanting more. It won’t forget my memories, in the cloud is where I’m stored.

I must compute a Facebook page, the ever-present scene. A story of my taste is banked, showing just the cream. A selfie smile, a life of joy, recorded for the crowd. Transactions in a VR world, where the voices call out loud.

I’ve exited the streams of life and wandered all alone. I talk to plants and trees I like, a hippie to the bone. The last of all the human traits are being drained away. Take a walk, smell the air, too late-- you’ve been enslaved.

In this world of Tik Tok, there’s a 15 second shock. Quickly chew it up my dear, you’re running out of clock. Surely there’s an insta-gram of drug in every byte. Tally up the numbers darlings, it’s all posted in the likes.

The lighting's on the content, darlings, we post and click and stream. It’s all about the fashion style, while living out our dream. Produce the package, send it out, the e-mails: send them back. It’s guaranteed a dividend, but be careful you don’t get hacked.

And my virtual life is floating by, I sit here in the dark. I have to think there must be ways to hit the viral spark. And when I’m rich and I’m adored, for the work that’s all been saved, the machine hums on, my fingers type, am I mistress or just a slave?

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