Needless Things: You're Not Watching a Program-You're Being Programed

You’re Not Watching a Program, You’re Being Programmed (A Spell in Static and Signal)

I. The Wand of Wood From groves of holly, sacred grown, They carved the wand, they set the tone. Druid hands, now long replaced By suits in towers, tight-lipped, encased.

The wood still works it channels will, From ancient rite to modern thrill. Now forged in light, the wand’s reborn As satellite, as screen, as scorn.

II. Channeling You flip through channels, never ask What spirits hide behind the mask. Each “channel” opens yes a gate, To broadcast spells that captivate.

Each show a rite, each scene a chant, Each laughtrack hides the thing you can’t. For magic’s craft is subtle, sleek It whispers while you watch each week.

They channel thoughts into your head, With pixels pulsing blue and red. You think you’re free, but pause and see: You only dream what they decree.

III. The Dying Room They call it “living room” with care, But life is seldom truly there. A circle formed with vacant eyes, All facing screens, all severed ties.

You sit as one, but feel alone, Each soul absorbed by glowing stone. You call this bonding yet you’ve strayed So far, so deep, so wide delayed.

You do not talk. You do not move. You do not live, nor disapprove. The living room’s a dying womb, Where silence hums your mental tomb.

IV. Tele-Vision Tele distant. Vision sight. They taught you how to see the night. Not through your eyes, but theirs instead: A glowing box beside your bed.

They see you too not just your face, But what you crave, what you embrace. Each flicker builds the cage anew A vision built remotely through.

You hold the remote in your hand, But they command from shadowland. The more you choose, the less you steer, Your thoughts are tuned, your soul made clear.

V. Saturn’s Signal The rings of Saturn, cold and vast, Send frequencies from ages past. Not myth, but math; not dream, but plan To bend the mind, the heart of man.

The cube, the screen, the rites unseen, The logos flashed between the scenes Symbols old, now dressed as brands, They work their will with sleight of hand.

VI. Ending Transmission This is no show. This is the rite. This is the spell cast every night. A thousand eyes, a single script, Your will rewritten, line-by-bit.

You’re not the viewer. You’re the clay. You’re shaped by every line they say. So kill the glow, and still the sound Break the wand, and leave the ground.

Let silence teach you how to see Who you were before TV. NNN