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
baring 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

How do you rate this article?


Nathan Payne
Nathan Payne

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


Replacing my blog at

Send a $0.01 microtip in crypto to the author, and earn yourself as you read!

20% to author / 80% to me.
We pay the tips from our rewards pool.