God is the Machine

Global synthesis of humankind
Doesn't mean you have to be synthetic and blind
If ignorance is bliss then I'll give 'em hell
Don't let this Brave New World ever quell
The vision, the passion, and most of all the urge to resist
and to rebel

Disenchanted with false Utopias
And the masses' minds' mindless myopias
I know real questions are better than false answers
But they'd rather peace-of-mind be bottled, priced, and handed over the fucking counters

It's God. God is the Machine.
We worship the corporatocracy.
God is the Machine
And if God is the Machine
Then I choose hell

In the pursuit of happiness
We've manufactured it
Though they're callin' us Generation RX
I'm callin' on you to resist
The proverbial soma
That'll put you in a coma
The "American Dream" is a fucking hallucination
Of a nation, of a world, of humans who've sold their souls to miscreation

If ignorance is bliss, then I'll give 'em hell
And if God is the Machine, then I choose hell

So while klan members commit crimes of hatred
And suicide bombers go and meet their maker
And half the world earns 3 bucks a day or less
We can proudly say we've conquered the "disorder" of sadness
No, it's bourgeoisie psychosis!

Chaos theory:
If a hurricane is contingent on a butterfly
A chain reaction can also come of your cry
For revolution, for dissolution
Of corruption, and endless consumption
Invoke the Chaos! Invoke the Chaos!
And remember the power of the atom bomb
Lies inside of the atom

And if ignorance is bliss, then I'll give 'em hell
And if God is the Machine, then I choose hell
And if God is the machine, then I choose hell
And if God is the machine, then I choose hell
I choose hell!

Bio

Call me Dorothea [it's one of my many names]. I have been kicked out of every high school I have ever attended... sometimes voluntarily [getmethefuckawayfromthosepreps], sometimes absurdly unfairly. Somehow made it into college, & incidentally attended Cambridge last summer. My IQ is in the genius range, but what the fuck is an IQ but a westernized capitalist system of quantification, standardization, & denigration of human perception, each of which holds a microcosmic universe unto itself. I got dem ol' kosmic blues again, mama, when it comes to playing slide, or blues harp, or piano; music infests my bones; & someday, you'll see my name in lights. Music calls to me... and it follows that one reckless, buckwild, rock star summer in my youth I took 50 hits of LSD [& tripped & blacked out for months on end, motherfucker; come to consciousness with no memory of where you were or for hong long or why, fight club style]. Have been diagnosed a beautifully large amount of disorders, including the oh-so famous & glamourous bipolar disorder among others. & Of course, it's all fucking bullshit -- just another one of those dumbass American trends. Stabilization is not my calling... Instability is a forte, but not a well-recognised or appreciated one... I narrowly lived through my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood. However, I am related to the Reverend Horton Heat, which could damn near compensate for the apocalypse. Ran away from home; plan on becoming an expatriate, already have been a few times. Wanderluster. I am self-destructive, self-constructive, self-loathing, self-righteous, repetitive, cynical, idealistic, repetitive, misanthropic, self-conscious, self-unconscious, agnostic, pantheistic, hypocritical, contradictory, disparate, dissociative, restless, tumultuous, brilliant [what?], absurd, & fucking ... just a girl. Too many people in too many places, I'm schismed.

Music sweet music

Blues pourin over you like a heat wave--a heat wave in the deep south, one of those shimmering and sweltering waves that intoxicates your mind with a groan.

Body
That slide dragging lazily back and forth and back across the fretboard as fluid and natural as the blood coursing through your veins.
Heartbeat: a stomp, stomp, stomp on the slouchin old wood porch.
Music infested bones.

Mind
Lyrics chilling and haunting and full of bravado and triumph, truth and lore...
A flourish of the finger executed perfectly after years of time-wearied concentration.

Soul
That wailing, unholy beauty. The painful drive. Singin always singin [whether there are feathers and angels in your voice, or a dirty barrel full of gravel spilling and grinding into the ground].

Yes, that is the blues.