Ex Machina

Evolution is my God and I’ll try not to care about how cheesy that sounds—somedays I seem to erase everything I think. I want words worth being indelible. I want an anti-suicide manifesto—Godamn, I want a theory that works. I want rage that’s good for something besides turning against myself, and sometimes yes I admit I just want to feel.

Someone else has already written all my songs—I’m always losing my train of voice. I’m nearly always unsure if I’m off-beat; I always forget to ask if I’m normal again. I always forget how much I’m going to care.

I don’t have a way with words. I get lost in my thoughts, I can’t cast spells for shit, and language is always having its foul way with me. This past year I’ve lived in a Cliff’s Notes world.

I just want music that beats against my chest; I want to feel my sternum vibrate to your words. I like being moved to a potentially shared rage, why else does anyone go to a concert, a demonstration, or a pentacostal church? In synogogue we beat our chests just once year—I want a religion that offers confession while pounding the floor.

All I ever wanted was absolute fungibility. To be the replacement cog in some machine where I could not err, I could not long for guilt. I fantasize achieving industrial Tao, my purpose defined by my motion within the motion around me and it would be forever perfect, ‘til time’s lovely end. I want to be reincarnated as machine. I want—I insist—I demand to exist within that orderly universe. Beyond a fetish it’s a destination-goal. Does machinery ever dream of being me?