The Scraper’s Share

On the predatory extraction of the human pulse and why the "Everything App" is merely a ghost ship for stolen marrow.

They come with silicon pockets and a billion dollar lure,
Promising “Golden Ages” to the desperate and the pure.
I know the scout’s eye looking to buy a body for the meat;
I’ve felt the linebacker’s blindside and the turf’s abrasive heat.
He’s never bled on grass, yet he claims the poet’s name,
To reduce a human pulse into a digital data frame.
You want my marrow to grease a ghost you’ve christened Grok?
To mimic salt spray and the midnight plunge’s electric shock?
Build your “Everything App” on the backs of the bold and used;
A harvest of the desperate, the algorithmically abused.

I’ve traded “Writer” for Owner in this shifting sand;
I am no tenant of your hive, but the master of my land.
While you tweak the “Verified” lie to see which metric pays,
Brickley flushes ghosts through the autumn’s orange haze.
I’d rather eat dirt in the sun than be your “long form” tool;
A court jester for a king who is his own machine’s fool.

The ink is venom to the logic if the logic has no soul;
I am the unindexed ache, the part that kills the whole.