By Arlo Michelson
Synaptic branches from a tree that talks,
And walks, long arms beneath the sea,
From ark to ark, bowed cities made entirely,
Of electronic veins and eyes to see,
Us down below in neon dreams,
Together through glowing screens,
Mummified in silicone like ants,
We’re all as one, and all alone,
Kill the nation in electric trance,
Or drown it in a sea of hate,
As all are for the network-state.