Technocratic Caesarism

they came in

not with jackboots

but spreadsheets;

clean lines,

quiet shoes,

PhD mouths.

no one voted.

they just arrived

like mould

on bread left out

during a heatwave

of apathy.

they said:

"democracy was too slow,

too stupid,

too full of your

uncle’s opinions."

they weren’t wrong.

I saw a man eat a lightbulb

on Facebook

for likes

and then ask

if COVID was real.

so now the machines buzz

and the men in vests

sip protein

and solve society

like it's a maths problem

with no remainder.

they smile

like dentists

before the drill.

they call it

"Technocratic Caesarism";

like that's meant to sound

better

than

"you shut up now

and we’ll do the thinking."

they send me alerts

on how to feel,

when to sleep,

how much water

to drink

before I earn the right

to masturbate.

they tell me

it’s efficient.

and it is.

the buses run

on time.

the pigeons salute.

even my neighbour's dog

stopped barking

and enrolled

in a coding bootcamp.

but I miss

the ugliness.

I miss

some fat bastard

in a pub

yelling about

the moon landing

with meat pie

on his lip

and madness

in his eye.

now all the madness

has been

optimised.

I live

in a pod.

eat

in cubes.

love

through filters.

die

on a timeline

monitored

by a man named Kyle

who thinks “stoicism”

is a mood setting

on his Fitbit.

you will live,

they say,

like data

in a vault;

safe,

silent,

sorted.

you will like it,

they say,

you peasant,

because it will hurt less

than thinking.

and maybe they’re right.

but I keep a pack

of smokes

and a dirty poem

in the drawer

just in case

the grid goes dark

and the poets

get

one more

round.

F.S.F.