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..
