G-FORCE IN REVERSE, CHAMPS *
From the grandpa to the papa to the son, it happens that it all rolls down the Sierra foothills
From Wisconsin to Chicago to Washington & on to the end of Earth, California kills fagots
In the gas chambers, in the electric chairs, on the hanging platforms, flies in the sky kitchen
But I got a swatter to scoot them out the screen or snuff out their short life from a maggot.
Spinning around for no other reason than there is nothing else that can be done, I’m thinkin’
Yet, it’s impossible to come to a definitive conclusion before the bitter end of life stinkin’
In a cadaver, a corpse or a sliced thinly piece of protein for the cannibals to consume raw
For the sake of the mighty and the weak, the Void, the Matrix, the World is in your hands!
It’s your mother’s or your father’s or sister’s, brother’s, aunt’s, uncle’s or cousins’ meat raw
Imagine all of the lonely DNA which has no sun to shine on their balls of solar suns-in-law
You, me and the rest of the genome partake of the only thing keeping us alive, fish alewives
Immaculate conceptions and Assumptions into the Ether, getting killed, come back jives!
Behind the dirt plows and snow plows I come from the 208 bones of each operator of a crane
Living to die and dying to live is the only way the Winters knew, it happens ad infinitum slim
All of the gigs made up out of thin air, right out of the caves, with the bass and the sax, insane
Fission of my atoms, fusion of our molecular structure into the icy H2O Mars to the Ukraine.
What never matters is what doesn’t breathe in gas and metabolize the mischief that ensues
Nothing in the seams or the creases between the sheets because it’s all caput, cook #ActBlue
Cash in a #ThousandCurrents from Hollywood shocks and awes of babies in Hades’ #Tides
Director of financing the money laundering through the Matrix, is God’s son, #SlowRides!
Piercing the skin there is nothing but blood and bones, ready to go where you were before
Give me millions of your pounds of gold and silver, I don’t want your greenback-digit store
Who has the billions of value that will give the mortals’ immortality they can never procure
So, out of the oven and into the all-too-human mouths, coco chips in cookies, on a skewer.
by
c. Dimanche, June 28th, 2020 A.D. @ 9:11 AM PST
FINIS
W.W.A.R.D.?
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