Curse-E.R.

Weather the brainstorm,
the waveform mapped out on the
computer in virulent green
and Soylent schemes,
it’s people, you know,
people are the problem
and the solution.
Crimson revolution,
the wheel turns and the shoe’s
on the other foot, we’ll all lose
in the end, playing tic-tac-toe
with the computer.
Wargames and enemies
become allies, lies, truth
and deceit fit to print
and repeat in a different guise,
media propaganda and we
won’t even realise
the subliminal forces
at work and the evil eye
atop the tower that looks
if we dare to wear the crown.
Come down from there
you don’t get to taste
rarefied air, we’re mushrooms;
kept in the dark and fed on shit
and we’ll smile, wipe our mouths
and ask for more. Everything’s
in style when you’ve sold your
soul to feed the gnawing hole
inside, never mind, when you
awake this will all have been
a half-baked dream, a set of
thoughts now neutered.
Just don’t open your computer.