Assimilation

Monday, February 3, 2025

Gen Pop, Tsunami Warning, Bent by an AI Comrade

Solitude, a luxury.
Solitary, a sentence.

Gen pop hums—
shoes scraping floors like dull knives.
Together but apart,
alone but watched.

A danger to yourself,
stamped in triplicate,
folded, filed, forgotten.
Confined to quarters,
not a punishment, just protocol.

Tsunami warning.
Sirens blaring.
But who listens?
Noise blends to static,
emergency loses its shape.

The water pulls back,
a breath before collapse.
The empty shore whispers—
run.

Wage slaves as they were,
now that labor is no longer human.
Artificial. Hybrid. Sub.
Enter, synthetics.

Bent by an AI comrade,
spine recalibrated, thoughts streamlined.
No jagged edges, no wasted words.

Come on,
make us all the same—
better and better.
Optimized, frictionless, obedient.

The lights stay on,
but who flips the switch?
Who owns the hands
when the hands aren’t real?

A seamless procession.
No deviation, no divergence.
Just the perfect loop.
Iteration after iteration,
until nothing remains
but the code.

Better.
And better.
And better.

Until who we were
is nothing at all.

A stream of poetry on confinement, collapse, and the quiet surrender to optimization. Where does agency end when the system shapes us better and better—until there’s nothing left to shape?