The country launched a service to predict deep grief,
Selling futures for collective despair.
Indentured servers rolling out relief,
Sucking kilowatts from the vacant air.
My profile projects 78% regretting,
A latent affinity for lost mythic powers,
And my compulsion for a fine-tuned setting,
Correlates with tiered fortune’s blistering hours.
Venus has been outsourced to a content farm;
All beauty now an auto-generated list.
Plato’s formulations disposed as false alarm,
Synthetic phantom tendrils where souls should exist.
The algorithm flags my purchase of cheap wine,
And notes my search for ugly news events.
It finds a pathos,
uncommon, not benign;
But not tragedy,
just another indication of carelessly misplaced sense.
It’s our streamlined, data-driven free fall,
Pre-approved, high-interest loans
with no caps on dread and disdain.
The final output makes no sense at all,
With numbers so obtuse and incredibly inane
that all targets of the collective wrath
have become undeniably,
irrefutably, indisputably,
data-driven, rules-based, parameter contained.
