Quid Pro Quo-Olde Punk

Quid pro quo Clarice.  The money is gone up your nose. Pip pop tip-top running rabid sideways on the sidewalks singing kill kill kill the poor along with Biafra. Paint them taking tainted terror and feeding the pretty demons.  Gift the shift of religion to the little lambs you are recounting the sordid legend of political Zelda for.  See the whites of their eyes and frown down upon the frailty.  My finger gun blasts a hole in your understanding as you sit shaking out the burnings we’re too cowardly to give a name to. Ascertain the relevant odd job backlog push file you didn’t know you needed. Needless to needle the maggots of Disneyland with low brow humour as we have to ask ourselves what in the actual fuck is wrong with this place. It’s the slow simmer of the devil’s sommelier hosting a tasting of Hell’s finest Cabernet. If you still don’t believe the fallen walk with human faces just watch the thrice damned news. Judas is laughing somewhere at our unfortunate comeuppance.  I’m screaming foment at the snakes that have struck the screws in my tongue.  Dripping venom into my jawbone, enabling me to speak to the underside of the dark.  The conversations we have run in real-time across the bottom of ESPN and CNN.  We tell you what you need to know.  Even if you didn’t want to know what we tell you, it still seeps in like black gum molasses and pollutes the corners of your withering souls in sin bathed chatter.  The former and the latter, the ladder to heaven is rotting and every step up could send you plummeting to your end.  They smear the tree of life with the stink of death and laugh about it over beers at the country club.  I sneer at the need to know why.  It doesn’t fucking matter why.  Some things man was never meant to know, and the vastness of entropy will never show its hand.  SO you live with it.  It is what you decide to do next that will be the genesis.  There is always an alpha and an omega.  I shudder under the implications and hit my Puffco, thinking about Mike Muir thinking about everything and then again thinking about nothing.  I know nothing ’cause I am nothing but maybe, just maybe, my nothing means something.  I hate Pepsi.  But I love Mike.

tiny tiny cracks, crunch crunch munch munch, cracking our minds oozing down spine, snapping and sapping the sulking time we need to cling to….

Quid pro quo motherfuckers.

 

image courtesy of silent-musing on Tumblr


Olde Punk blogs at RamJet Poetry

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