Corpus Mechanica
Corpus Mechanica
Gorge on designer worms,
reflect the shift of pearl worship
from God, I take a turn.
Is it
true, what they said about the good news?
Cortex, corpus, electrical tissue.
Down the drain, null skull use.If the body used to be a temple, what has it become now?
An iPhone in accessories, updates, malfunctions.
We need an upgrade every year, but rather than fine-tune what we have, we replace our birthed parts.
The brain is oozing sludge as we feed it the same: reels, bullet points, lists of consumption. It’s rare—the individual who gives rather than hoards. Every influencer you know is curating a list of must-haves this season, and while they may frame it as a gift guide, the truth is more wicked: this is the season of Me.
Religion has become tolerable again, but only slightly, in the left-adjacent circles I once frequented. Whether you partake or not, the consensus feels the same: we need to believe in something more—something not made of material. Where we once knelt at marble altars, we now supplicate to glass screens. The former, at least in theory, was meant to change us inwardly, cultivate devotion in our hearts, to grow a desire to give within the cell.
Of course, human nature being what it is, organized religion became its own kind of rot. Yet the spirit of it—the mysticism in the hearts of Mary, Jesus, Teresa—once cultivated depth in a way no 20%-off code ever could.
Those who flinch at the religious tone of this post likely have no such qualms about marketing as gospel, branding as devotion, hunger for ambition, money, luxury. Sex as connection—casual, meaningless. Swiping as seeking. Toxicity as love. Our craving for something beyond us didn’t vanish; it turned inward. Like an ouroboros, we began to eat ourselves.
Like cannibals, we consume one another.
We worship with our credit cards, connect through greed, perform self-discipline by ghosting.
Slanted virtues. Twisted rituals. Profane replacements.
That yearning inside you—it might not be for millions, or for escape, or for the perfect partner to lift you from the mundane.
Perhaps it’s a longing for the divine. A craving for quiet. A desire to exist without noise—no phone, no ads, no impulse to buy your worth.
We are still alive inside, even as we have grown numb, depleted, mechanical.
When we remember how to offer, how to supplicate, how to look at another human and see soul, we’ll come back to ourselves.
Until then, we’ll pretend.
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