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Licking The Fist That Feeds

By Nathan Payne | pablosmoglives | 2 Mar 2022


Licking The Fist That Feeds


Is it because I’m alive

that I want to take a dive

off the brink of oblivion

rather than

living in a land

where the houses built on sand

and the churches built on quicksand?


From the privacy of their own cage,

mechanical apes of every age

engaged in

synchronized thinking;

did they teach you not to blink

when they told you that the blood you use for ink

is finally clean enough to drink?


Are you sinking in style?

are you singing in single file?

do you reach across the aisle?

are you wallowing in denial?


          *     *     *


You wanna be a rebel

so you start living on a level

with the demons and the devils

so stylish and disheveled


But a true rebel is not so blind

he disassembles his own mind

and doesn’t find

room enough to stand

in the temporary temples

built by hands

of men

driven to succeed

in a system based on fear and greed

where the leaders

never bleed

and where they kill the weirdos off like weeds


Where everyone’s afraid

to admit that they’re not brave


to stand against the wave

of fascists


through the streets

draped in Kevlar-plated sheets

like hungry Ku-Klux ghosts

marching to automatonamous beats


Eating everything in their path

out of boredom

out of wrath

while you were sleeping on your feet

while you were running a bath


In a heated swimming pool

The American Dream!

I am just a tool

of the globalist regime


And I seem

to’ve lost my focus,

the man spoke, as

a spooky

cloud of steam

rose into the shadows and I asked him,

are you locust

or machine?


I’m so prodded to be an American

I’m so proud to be depraved

if I pray to Louis Farrakhan

can my skin color be saved?


cuz the cradle is fatal

but wait’ll I get mine

hands around the greasy chicken necks

of these state-sanctioned



Hanging signs

from every treetop

prohibitions in the wind

everything is illegal,

but nothing is a sin


So I’m gonna shave the world

I’m gonna pave your legs

I’m gonna eat dollar bills

for breakfast

with electrocuted eggs


I’m gonna drink

the drug-infested


of the drool

that’s dripping down your drain;

if you don’t need permission

to take my photograph,

I don’t need permission

to blow your brains


Into a thousand bloody bubbles

from a soap dish

made of guts

hanging from a laundry line

with your jaw wired shut


And the gutter punks

with sunken stares

bearing their teeth


the iron stairs

and the stars are drunk

and no one dares


Carry a barren

womb to dinner

the thieves are thick

and getting thinner


The streets are teeming

with screaming,


vacant-lottery winners


These saps aren’t on the map!


The trial is a trap!


None of this ever would have happened

if you listened to the advice that I gave you


Now that you are in control,

will your slave aesthetic

save you?


          *     *     *


Will it save you from the fire

coming down from the sky?


Will it save you from the lie

that says you don’t deserve to die?


Will it save you from the retribution

of ornamental institutions?


Will it save you from the concerned citizens?


Or the psychiatric medicines?


Will it save you from the cancer?

will it save you from disease?

will it save you from the flowers?

will it save you from the trees?


Will it save you from the jaws

of giant,

bloodsucking insects?


Or the arbitrary laws

imposed on you

by bureaucratic,

halfmast intellects?


Will it save you from the hipsters

and the self-consuming scene?

will it save you from the myopic cop

who talks like an answering machine?


Will it save you from the n------s?

will it save you from the s---s?

will it save you from the white man?

will it save you from the chicks?


Will it save you from the vampires

or the venom in your veins?

Will it save you from the patriotic zombies

with injection-molded brains?


Will it save you from the future

and all the terror it portends?

Will it save you from the everlasting torture

of a death that never ends?


Will it save you from the children,

before it’s too late?

They might belong to Satan;

they already belong to the state


so get your microchips implanted,


teach your tits to read;

if you wanna get to heaven,

you gotta lick the fist that feeds


          *     *     *


We pass through our days

with the freedom of a dog

who never reaches the end

of its leash



From the album Slow-Burning Fun

©2009 Nathan Payne

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Nathan Payne
Nathan Payne

I am a songwriter and bandleader who travels the world in search of the golden ticket.


Replacing my blog at

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