In these islands of the self,
We rattle into rush hour,
Where everyone is always late,
And nothing is ours,
Where birdsong comes from speakers,
Hidden in plastic trees,
And love is a motherboard,
Our dreams.
The music sounds wrong,
But we dance to the choon,
OMG, I love this one,
Alcopops and miniskirts,
Cigarettes and snakebite,
Pimping ourselves to loveless lovelies,
Of the vicinity,
Of the zeitgeist,
If we don’t sell,
We can’t be trusted.
Waiting for a sea change,
Waiting for luck,
Waiting for karma,
Waiting for the Lord,
Waiting for singularity,
Or the taming of the horde.

Read a poem about Echo Chambers.

Read a post about conditioning and The Horseman’s Dream.

Learn more about social conditioning.