Long Island Chicken-Farm (Igor Sikorsky)

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
You tilted the sky with spinning blades,
synaptic pathways firing all at once—
your cortical remapping bent the laws
that kept us earthbound, phantom-limbed in dreams.
The rotor was your long-term potentiation,
each flight a synapse strengthening its grip,
myelination racing down the axons
where doubt once lived. You didn't fight the air;
you asked it questions. Mirror neurons blazed
as your hands predicted what the wind would do,
your proprioception reading pressure, spin,
the body knowing what the mind had mapped.
Typhon-bright, you spun those blades and grinned.

[Chorus]
You lifted us on whirling light,
your rotor turning, turning right—
ascending where we couldn't climb,
theta waves and measured time.
The blades above, the sky below,
you made the impossible just go.

[Verse 2]
Your hippocampal dreams consolidated
into metal, rivets, canvas skin.
You built the bridge between what's real and flight,
neurogenesis blooming in your chest—
new neurons firing where there'd been only ground.
The rotor was your predictive coding made
tangible: you saw the future spinning,
read the air's intentions before touch,
interoception telling you the machine's own heartbeat
synced with yours. You didn't conquer
gravity; you conversed with it, blade by blade,
until it waltzed you upward, ata kak,
joyful and impossible and true.

[Chorus]
You lifted us on whirling light,
your rotor turning, turning right—
ascending where we couldn't climb,
theta waves and measured time.
The blades above, the sky below,
you made the impossible just go.

[Bridge]
Axonal branching split the clouds,
your vision's architecture idlewild and grand—
each decision rewired what we thought was fixed.
The rotor spun. The world below sighs.

[Chorus]
You lifted us on whirling light,
your rotor turning, turning right—
ascending where we couldn't climb,
theta waves and measured time.
The blades above, the sky below,
you made the impossible just go.

[Outro]
Still your rotor turns in us,
that central image—blades ascending,
spinning faster than doubt can rise,
carrying our hearts where wings were only myths.