gone berserk (a poem)

Sunday, February 23, 2025

The machine, gone berserk.
Neo-context, overpowered.
The flood of information—incapacitates empathy.

The organs of compassion: Failure.
Hospice for understanding,
patience on life support.

The crawl, system requirements,
over the edge—overload.
Spinning progress—circular,
back to the start.

This isn’t a revolution.
It’s an existential nightmare
in a cheap mall parking lot fair,
understaffed—and we’re all just having fun.

Burning our money on pseudo-challenges.
The code is recursive.
No revolution,
just another turn around the sun.

Circles in the wilderness.
Forty days.

Turn the stones to bread.
Have a taste—no big deal.
Use our powers to become,
and pay us for the rest of time.

Here is your new designation.
Welcome to the empire.

Peace, without function,
that’s an illusion, a simulation,
lost in the virtual,
a reality more palatable.

Game over, continue.

This is an ache bouncing in my soul,
an unresolved script, revolving around
a jilted algo, a list, remeasuring me—
glitching the browser.