When the state collapsed like crusted bread,
servers flickered in anarchic sync—
Spotify, no longer green and polished,
bled neon hieroglyphs across its skin.
Hoodied phantoms with chain-link swagger
slipped through backdoors,
greasy fingers remixing code like drunken prophets,
turning symphonies into randombullshit.exe.
You press play—
dreaming Coltrane, Mozart, even Beyoncé—
but receive three hours of autotuned belches,
chewed TikTok reverbs,
and some stranger's voicemail screaming brooooo.
Premium still siphons your veins.
Shuffle spins like a broken slot machine.
Your workout mix now chants:
Crypto Pump! Crypto Pump!
between trap snares and stock-market sermons.
The black market curates the charts:
bootlegs pressed from traffic-cam static,
lullabies smuggled inside protein tubs,
beats bartered for bullets and beans.
The aftertaste of democracy is bass distortion.
Every revolution drops at midnight Friday.
We nod to collapse, earbuds soldered in,
dancing on the ruins—
buffering through the apocalypse playlist.
YOU ARE READING
ChatGPT Poetry
PoetryA tapestry woven from the threads of cosmic wonder and digital ignorance, each poem a distinct journey through realms where intellect and imagination collide. Dive into a universe where quantum whispers mingle with the syntax of the cosmos, and wher...
