THE SQUEEZERS..

IT WAS FINALLY AT HIS GRASP.. a (new)

format or source.. source not.. but more

like a receptacle.. a limitless container.. one

to contend with the might of the new

genius.. the last call of humanity.. our

enduring cry of preservation will not go

quietly tonight.. but wail and trail and

plunder alike.. with no certain focus or -

plan.. just intense burst of light and red..

and blood.. and foot prints back to the sap of

grungy alleys.. to places that left us

questioning ourselves.. places with frosty

buildings rising high.. to the glory of what

our squeezing power can do.. no noble

afternoon with perfect temperature can

secure this false day of celebration.. dare

not come to my land, and sing of a

falsehood that all know the tune to.. we are

simpletons no longer.. and you have pushed

us too far.. loosen your grip now or dare to

drag my grandfathers sacrifice into the

ditch.. with your warmongering.. your

delight in the darkest sides of power.. your

betrayal of love.. your blindness of the weak

and poor.. and those born without a mind to

dominate.. dream you now a cloud that

contains you in your moment of gasping..

your dieing body.. where now are the down

trodden .. where now is the blood you

drank.. where is the fat you consumed by

the barrel.. it’s coming down upon you..

and the peasants cry through the streets..

with torches high.. with drool.. slobber..

and blood.. and cum.. they blot out the sky

yet again.. with their burning display.. and

the dance goes on.. and the peasants ask

not to be squeezed to death.. and the

squeezers. Squeeze..