A pilgrimage of perverse perfection
Patiently waiting on the end of the world
It’s as simple as that, kiddo
Whether or not you’d like to believe it
So sit back, relax, and ride her out
It’s all that you can do.
No matter the rape, the murder, the hatred and the greed.
No matter the black hats, the white helmets, the blues backs, or the greens.
The preeminent emotion is outrage. And is it any surprise?
When all you can really do in this life is sit back, eyes wide
Soulless and vacant,
And wait for all it come crashing down around you.
And it will. O rest assured, it will.
Sir,
There’s a certain contingency of rebellion still extant among the human race.
A young moon faced soldiers shouts, body rigid, palm over his eyes as if to shield them from the dull, ochre globe that still somehow hangs on, loosely dangling out over the pallid, sickly sky.
Squash it! The response is bellowed, with nary a moment of hesitation, a second to consider the repercussions of what might be done. Squash it now, before it’s too late! He screams! As white, acidic spittle flies from the crimson corners of the generals wicked, Cheshire lips.
And then they’re off.
A whole goddamn army of useless souls, bereft of purpose, and guided by nothing more than dissatisfied ambivalence, and greed.
But they listen well, they sure got that going for them.
I️ wonder how long that will take. Oh, they’re all already dead? Shit.
Not surprising, though.
And when will they learn? That when you bash someone else with your forehead, you’re fucking your own shit up, too.
And yet, it’s all too common. All too common.
To see a man, down on his luck, with a scratcher in one hand and a bottle of eleven dollar gin in the other. The taste of wickedness, and self betrayal, the only constant dangling on his cracked and arid lips.
And what does he do? He smiles. And he drinks. And he gambles. And he might be happier than all of us.
Or he could hate himself the most.
You just can’t be sure.
The only thing you can know for sure about that dirty old man, is that his time is coming. And not because he’s in the gutter, but because he’s alive.
And while he may suffer, he must also rejoice
For he walks this earth.
After all
Most of us are already buried beneath it.
Nothing but food for the worms.
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