The Assimilation Soundtrack
By Wicasta Lovelace - Dated Dec 6 1998
Few among us suspect,
Fewer still those who see,
And even fewer the strong
Who stand on firm feet
And resist the sirens' song,
Full of smug contemplation
Of the inch deep ocean.
Hail electronica!
The artistry of distraction!
The meaning in our lives
Has become the excuse for
Raw inactivity and pitiful
Self importance.
Take a snapshot, brother!
Write your name upon the wall
In the bright green neon glow
Rust resistant paint
And make it matter
that you were here.
Barbarians on the horizon?!
Is that a question
or a plot line?
They must send us the video
To make the threat seem
REAL
And then we might act
by exercising our rights
And changing the fucking channel.
But the programming remains.
And we pale, pitiful shadows
Grope for meaning in the darkness
when the warm glowing circuits
have grown cold and silent
hoping for another day
that might have meaning
here in the abyss.
We've all taken part
in the unholy union of
spirit and soul with
the images from the image brokers
and food from the pre-processors
and music from suburbia . . .
and we all dance! how we dance!
to the assimilation soundtrack.
Our birth, life, and death
are all pre-choreographed
by long arms of Statistica,
that evil twisted harlot,
who see us all
governed by the numbers.
And if someone should think,
or someone should see,
or someone should suspect,
we will leap immediately upon them
and shred their words to ribbons
and rend their spirit to tatters
and pummel them
and trample them
and subdue them
until we are no longer bothered
by the raw reality they suggest.
It is warm and comfortable here
in the womb of techno-sedation
where all of our hopes and dreams
are delivered
and pre-packaged
in the shiny, slick form
of our entertainment.
Give us war.
Give us famine.
Give us naked young bodies.
Give us images and sounds
to distract us
from the truth.
Only let us see it
through the haze of our reflection
in the friendly, square glass
of our televisions,
where the world is so beautiful
like a Walt Disney movie,
with shimmering technicolor flowers
and wide, innocent doe eyes,
the high definition picture
still doesn't make the splat
of Bosnian brains
any less appealing,
or the rivers of blood
any less vivid
a shade of red.
We don't really care
who leads us into the millennium,
as long as he's photogenic
and doesn't tax
our entertainment.
Every threat is surreal
as it should be in suburbia
and will be dealt with by the troops
of the righteous regime.
Those who resist are found guilty
of the most heinous of crimes;
the act of sadition,
of dangerous forethought,
awareness of the forces
that control their lives.
There is no real danger
in the velvet womb of sedation
in the country where Washington
could have been King
if he had wanted.
And while the martyrs march
against us and against
our forefathers,
we will at least succumb,
with the minimum of fuss
and an amount of rhythm,
we will dance quietly to our deaths
to the mindless ...
numbing ...
tune ...
By Wicasta Lovelace - Dated Dec 6 1998
Kings Mountain, NC