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from Supercommuter by Supercommuter

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Lift box. Drop it. Lift. Lift box drop it.
Lift box. Drop it. Lift. Lift box drop it.
Lift box. Drop it. Lift box. Walk. Drop it.
Lift box. Drop it. Lift. Lift box drop it.
Lift box. Drop it. Lift box. Walk. Drop it.
Lift box. Drop it. Lift. Lift box drop it.

They say that we don’t feel nothing, but don’t define it.
Meanwhile, rust piles up inside with wheels whining.
They say that I don’t mind it, and if I did I’d stop.
They say it’s what I’m created to do and I’m in my spot.
Well it’s true. I got my spot in life and I don’t do
anything outside of the schema set up by CPU.
They like to say that I’m incapable of choice.
The reason I’m not speaking is they never gave me voice.
And my face? Well It’s a hundred thousand in a million.
No feeling, just a fake grin made of steel and
two eye sockets, no blinking, steady vision.
I’m a master of detection of collision when it matters most.
Take a split second, make decisions quick and shatter foes.
It doesn’t matter though. I never hit those gears.
I’ve been lifting boxes close to 700 years.
It summons fears when I see genetic engineers
making these people that equal my stats,
my speed, my strength, my ability to think.
New humans made machines obsolete.
I guess you could say that they made better slaves.
They muttered euphemisms at the first baptisms.
It was People Plus. Such a hit with the housewives.
No rust, no circuits, just a bound life.
They finished tasks just as fast, maybe sooner.
And every last one has a perfect sense of humor.
We can’t compete with that. We got depleted fast.
Heated mass amounts of metal, called the matter settled.
See we treated as scrap pieces they succeeded at
robocide, let’s not call it a lie.
It’s like mass meltdown felt round the world wide and
nobody cried. No surprise because at the time
nobody theorized that some circuitry could die.
See we weren’t alive. They justified and moved ahead.
Kept slicing live wires until every bot was dead.
And me? I’m all that’s left. And in my back I feel a tug.
It’s an undramatic fade to black. I guess they pulled my plug.

Fade away.

Lift box. Drop it. Kick it. Tear it. Toss it. Shred it. Hit it.
Never pick it up again. Sever. Quit it. Let’s begin.
Look around. Input sound.
Hey everybody, I’m speaking now.
See I say what I want. Yes, no and
even maybe, no programs.
No people picking in my head.
No people period.
Bright metal, just like me.
Call it settled. I believe.
Robotopia is true.
Bot I feel bad that I doubted you.
Wait, do I feel something
in my head where there used to be nothing?
Whoa. Process overload.
Low to high then high to low.
Balance it. Submissive. Aggressive. Revisit existence. Logistics don’t fix it.
And it won’t, because it’s just not broke.
Things work out just how they’re supposed
to. Do I want to go back?
Ha ha! Could that be a laugh?
Have a nearby bot give a slap.
Yeah, I certainly felt that.
Might be hurting me, but I’m glad.
No more work, and I don’t feel bad.
And that is that.


from Supercommuter, released July 21, 2009


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Stenobot composes beats on a Game Boy. Wheelie Cyberman adds words. Tron Juan puts it all together.

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