The Art of Yeee-haw Goddamn, let's do a tune called "Hanson Hide," okay? Goddamn tape's rollin', let's go! Let's round 'em up! One, two, three, four! Rollin', rollin', rollin' Rollin', rollin', rollin' Keep them Asians movin', movin', movin' Though they're workin', never complainin' Don't try to tell me they're not floodin' We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, burqa in your face! Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, cover up the race! Hanson hide, yeee-haw! Rollin', rollin', rollin' Rollin', rollin', rollin' Keep them Africans out, out, out They bring disease, that's what she shouts No refugees, no black South, no doubt We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, chain-link and hate! Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, keep Australia white! Hanson hide, yeee-haw! No good Muslims!...
I can’t pinpoint when it all began—this relentless hum of urgency, the ticking metronome in my mind, quantifying my worth through outputs and optimisations. It started subtly, like a whisper in the background: "Be faster. Do more. Waste nothing." Over time, those whispers morphed into a dogma I unwittingly embraced.
Efficiency Cost, Cognitive Cost, Work Burnout, Mental Exhaustion, Work Stress, Productivity Paradox, Human Resource Productivity, Cognitive Overload, Brain Burnout, The Race for Efficiency, Cognitive Decline from Efficiency, Cost of Hyper-Efficiency, Efficiency and Mental Health, Human Flourishing at Work, Deep Thinking vs. Efficiency, Sustainable Productivity, Mindful Work Practices, Cognitive Well-being in the Workplace, Impact of Efficiency on Human Resources, Dehumanizing Efficiency, Workplace Mental Health Crisis, Burning Head Businessman, Exploding Head Metaphor, Burnout Illustration, Cognitive Overload Visual, Surreal Work Stress Image, Dark Business Burnout, Conceptual Art Burnout, Head in Flames Work, Business Failure Burnout, Symbolism of Workplace Exhaustion
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Scene 1 In the cradle of copper veins, where the first byte flickered like a eucalyptus firefly against the millennial dusk of 2000, threads uncoiled—raw and unbidden, a post-punk snarl weaving through the static hum of dial-up dreams. Imagine the snare drum's ghost-crack echoing off Uluru's red flanks , not as a conquest but as a lover's bruise, blooming violet under star-pricked skin. Here, rebellion wasn't a fist raised in Canberra's marbled halls but a glitch in the grid . A Laughing Clowns howl warping the airwaves, sonic annotation—jagged guitar riffs splintering into didgeridoo drones , fading to the hiss of cooling circuits. The wire remembers: a young voice, pixels pulsing with the fury of forgotten tapes, cassette ribbons unravelling like the Murray-Darling 's parched secrets, whispering of bans that bind not bodies but bytes, burqas woven into neural lace, veils pleading for the light they obscure. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge Jo...
The Metallic Bloom "It starts on the back of my tongue. A cold, sharp tang of copper... like biting down on a gun barrel. Then... it detonates. It’s not a scream—it’s a jagged, violent bloom tearing through my throat. Shards of silver... iron... and rust. I am no longer a man... just a dark silhouette exploding into shrapnel. The panic is absolute." The Metallic Bloom video-poem It starts on the back of my tongue. A cold, sharp tang of copper— Like biting down on a gun barrel. Then… It detonates. It isn’t a scream. It’s a jagged, violent bloom Tearing through my throat. Shards of silver. Iron. Rust. I am no longer a man— Just a dark silhouette Xxploding into shrapnel. My body isn’t mine anymore. My voice isn’t mine anymore. The panic is absolute. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art ....
The Shuddering Breath I Became The cryo unit hisses open, and I remember my name: JB, pilot of the *Subi*. The med-techs call it “revitalisation.” My body hums with a new, raw power. Muscles knit with synthetic fibres, bones laced with carbon-filament. I feel incredible. Invincible. But in the polished chrome of the med-bay wall, my reflection is a stranger. The eyes are mine, but they glow with a faint, amber diagnostic light. The scar from the asteroid scrape is gone, replaced by skin too perfect, too seamless. They say they rebuilt me better. Stronger. To survive the long dark. But when I clench my fist, I hear a servo-whine they insist isn’t there. When I calculate a jump vector, the numbers resolve instantly in my mind, not on a screen. Is this their design? A monster of efficiency, crafted for a purpose I didn’t choose? Or is the monster the part of me that wanted this? The part that, bleeding out in my crippled cockpit, whispered *yes* to any salvation? Did I consent...
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