There’s this ego craze going on,
often referred to by way of irony.
It’s like high school,
but more important.
If we forget who we are,
answers are on the phone.
Open the app with an “F”.
It knows where we are,
where we’ve been,
where we work,
how we feel,
what we do.
and we tell it.
with comment feedback and the like;
noble contributors get undermined
by the trampling troll
and other such devoted patrons of chaos.
Ad revenue gets paid back in full
‘cus they see what we shop for.
Our thumbs quantify fondness.
Once green, now they’re blue.
The hands of social establishment
tend by the garden of self-seeking.
You’ve got to market your name,
if you wanna climb to the top.
So we plant magic beans
grown from the seeds of relentless reception.
If we get enough feed back from our investment,
the stalk will be fertilized to grow unbound.
Don’t lie; it gets us high.
Somewhere in the primal mind
synapses are firing a victory salute.
Neurotransmitters send signals
from all the pretty-girl-likes
into the base of desire,
while dopamine hitches a ride
toward the highest peaks of ego.
And they all say,
“I swear it’s my last one.”
I’m too broken to keep going for broke.
I dig in ashtrays when I need a cigarette.
I look for reactions when I’m bored or lonely.
Don’t follow me if you’re scared of being lost.
If I can get 30 likes on this,
I’ll run 30 laps around my house
with a pride boner,
paying homage to the phallic nature
of the arrow cursor,
poking it’s way through folds of velvet-smooth pixels
cursing through all barred access with a simple tap.
Never mind the screaming muses I strangle
every time I drown my moments
in electronic hypnosis.
Shake it off, roll a spliff,
break that focus.
Some spell is finally lifted,
after I half-dejectedly log myself off.
No more account was needed;
nobody liked what I had to say.
Good. I love everybody,
but fuck ’em just the same.
I will bear myself ’til bloody,
slashing through internal defenses
with a chipped sword of clarity
in order to find humanity
among this robotic social paradigm.
but I know she’d get me to lighten up,
“C’mon baby, we’re a pair o’ dimes”
and I’d smile, discerning through hyperbole,
“There are diamonds upon my minds mirror
but on the internet I’m a 7 at best,
you’re just too far to see.”
So the hip niche holds to those who fit,
and I get down wherever my ass might sit.