Click. Package glides down the drone’s wing.
Blink, the world shifts: prime gods ring.
Conveyor of dreams in a box so tight.
We worship the click in the dead of the night.

I bow to the cart, I click like I pray.
Next-day god in a digital fray.
Boxes stacking fast, ventricles hollow.
Delivery gods laugh while our souls follow.
Cheap cables, LED lights, the screen glows bright.
But behind the algorithm the heart’s in night.
We feed the chain, we praise the feed.
But hunger stays real, what we don’t need.
The drone hums high, the warehouse sighs.
Invisible workers under neon skies.
“Prime” stamped on our wrists like a brand new creed.
We love our chains while somebody bleeds.

We worship the next-day god, on rails of the web.
Empty boxes full of the empty we’ve fed.
Click-culture reigns, instant fix in hand.
Delivery god crowned over the wasteland.

Warehouse towers, robotic swarm.
Endless aisles under fluorescent storms.
“Your order is out for delivery,” the voice so cold.
We swallow the new while the old goes sold.
Packages land in manic doses each day.
But the cost is hidden where the wires stay.
We click, we sit back, we watch the door.
While the world spins silent behind the floor.
Our greed compressed into a tracking code.
We load the cart heavy while the planet erodes.
Instant gratification, the billboard screams.
Yet the harvest is nothing but pixel dreams.

We worship the next-day god, on rails of the web.
Empty boxes full of the empty we’ve fed.
Click-culture reigns, instant fix in hand.
Delivery god crowned over the wasteland.

Late night, the drone lands at my gate.
I unwrap the promise, but inside I wait.
The thrill gone quick, the battery drained.
Package sits cold, the hunger remained.
We adore our chains delivered in flash.
But somewhere a body carries the stash.
The box might be new, the label pristine.
The hands that built it unseen on the screen.
Next-day god propped on a pedestal tall.
We worship the service, ignore the call.
The world spins fast under cardboard flips.
We ride the wave blind, we sip the scripts.

We worship the next-day god, on rails of the web.
Empty boxes full of the empty we’ve fed.
Click-culture reigns, instant fix in hand.
Delivery god crowned over the wasteland.

Click ends. The drone fades into the sky.
Box empty, soul heavy, we still comply.
Next-day god hovers in the neon spread.
We loved our chains while the price bled.

Next-Day Delivery God

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

I use every tool available — human or machine — as an instrument.
Technology doesn’t replace creativity. It expands it.

New tracks tagged #pitch-shifted adlibs