The Sleep Room

I woke up from being awake

Talked out of my talk

All this new nothing that I have

I gotta take stock

Shocked to still be here

Shocked being the operative word

All roads lead back here

When I can't remember any roads

And where is here anyway?

Here is not there I suppose

So many things I reckon

Only the Scottish god knows

Patterns depatterned

He sees patterns in everything

I am too tired to hear his thoughts

As I fall asleep the insulin sings

Am I not who I was?

Was he not I?

That's the beauty of depatterned patterns

It is always seen by new eyes

Qui custodiet ipsos custodes? *

As they sow that which Ill never reap

And in a room such as this

Tis' better to be asleep

Recently I've been reading a lot of books about the CIA and two figures really stood out to me - Allen Dulles and Dr. Ewen Cameron. I chose to put up this one about Cameron because, for all of how horrific he was, I never heard of him before these readings.

Born in Scotland, Dr. Cameron was considered something of the maestro when it came to psychology and psychiatry in the 50s and 60s. But over time as his ambitions grew, his methods for achieving them became more and more extreme.

One of his most controversial ideas was something called de-patterning. Where an unwitting patient with some mental problem (and it's that vague, anything from postpartum depression to schizophrenia) would come into Cameron's clinic, the Allan Memorial Clinic, and he would basically use insulin and electric shock to erase what they were. The idea being to remove harmful patterns by means of a system overhaul.

After that, the good doctor would place the patients into what was known as The Sleep Room. This was a large room where patients would "sleep" (i.e enter a comatose phase) and undergo what he termed, "psychic driving." Psychic driving was basically a form of brainwashing where the comatose patients would be subjected to looping audio recordings of positive psychological ideas for up to 20 hours a day, every day.  Sometimes for as long as two to three months.

And then, voila, it didn't fucking work.

*Qui custodiet ipsos custodes is a Latin phrase, attributed to Juvenal (Decimvs Ivnivs Ivvenalis) meaning "who guards the guardians?"

Winston Loves Big Brother

A poem about 1984

Broken mind, seeing blind

There's not much I haven't left behind

Comrade O'Brian,

I apologize for the traitor I saw in my mind

Hard control by soft means

The leash is just what people need

And should you relent your grip

They'll beg to have it back it seems

-------

In my dream, where I am a man

I love Julia and no other

But as the digit I've become I must admit-

Winston Loves Big Brother

--------

We were always at war with Eurasia

A lengthy and bloody euthanasia

They want to take our unfreedoms, allegedly but incidentally-

We were always at war with East Asia

---------

"Freedom isn't free"

But contented for too long, I can't bother

in shame which long became pride I'll admit-

Winston Loves Big Brother

What is a man but... I would't know

Something which I did long but smother

I am but the symptom of his glory

Winston Loves Big Brother

Reels Fatigue

Im a man of your world brother - Im covered in blood

Im a man of your world sister - my boots are caked in mud

I murdered Issac to show my love of god

I fucked whoever I could and wept, am I still a stud?

Please ask me questions when you film me on the street

Please see my silence as my defeat

I had the news reels flying on repeat

"20 dead on a crowded street" I laughed myself to sleep

Let me question you - a parasite to a whore

Let me question you - who make a living on all fours

Even though I don't at all

(at all)

We're all kings and queens here - crowns of styrofoam

Bleating like goats into cheap streaming microphones

The difference is it's a shame a goat must die for mutton

It's a blessing when we're gone

I'm a man of your world brother- but you are not a man of mine

I'm a man of your world sister - but you're not a woman of mine

I'll be willing, you'll be Abel

Consider this a cold take from he, of a colder time

Anthropomorphosis

(Explanation in the post script)

Anthropomorphosis

Beggars can't be choosers I suppose

I just didn't want to be like one of those

The multitude of apes who the streets adorn

From them skin was torn

From them my blood was retrieved and warmed

I feel not for them but I wish not behold anymore

I was strapped unto a bed

Camera eyes embedded into my head

Ears carved out, fitted with microphones within

Sensors installed but not sense

An all consuming light I run to hence

In my dream as I regret this happenstance

I provoke your instinctive heart

Mine is but a work of art

I am you to you but to me we're worlds apart

Was I born to fool?

Am I merely a tool?

I lay awake, I lay in wait, but whatever future comes

It will be cruel

Explanation and Report-

I’ve been quiet for a while recently as a few new projects began taking flight and some older projects were wrapping up. Recently however, just for fun, I’ve taken on writing about androids and robotics. I’m very close to finishing editing my long-form piece about Greece and as a respite and outlet I’ve been writing about an android who’s all too aware of the fact he’s not human, which is both a pride and a pain to him.

I don’t know why this theme appeals to me to this degree, either it’s my own tendency to feel alienated or my fondness for 16-bit fonts. Anyway, so far I only wrote a couple of poems and a couple of terms. The title of this poem, “Anthropomorphosis” is a conjunct of “anthropos” (human/man) and morphosis - the process of becoming. So Anthropomorphosis is a neologism that roughly translates to “the process of becoming human.”