The Ghost In The Machine Poem by Christopher Tye

The Ghost In The Machine

Do I exist except in your imagination,
A consciousness trapped in the machine,
The hiss of interference speaking as a voice from the grave,
The face matrixing in the snow of TV interference,
We are the things that blow fuses in the middle of the night,
The flickering lights, that's us saying hello,
All those strange noises in fridges and immersion heaters it's us,
We are those little voices in the subconsciousness playing on your mistrust of technology.

By Christopher Tye