We Become the Planet We Kill

I get to bake the cellophane cake.

You: insouciant acolyte of peregrinations plus, and you ameliorate my angst. You’ll find me a way to progress as a pilgrim that isn’t full of that old time religion. Then you’ll find me a way to plant a flag in Patagonia.

I tell you the farfisa is the garfish of spell correct.

You spell check me on the profane and change it to the divine.

No one is truly enthralled with conspiracists — our eyes on the mounds of flesh decaying while the landfills overflow with our wretchedness — we are all husks.

We become the planet we kill.

We are elaborate confectioners and puppeteers of malice (we are) — we add no value. We desecrate and fill morgues with dispatch.

You call me Angel, but you are a devil of a teenage hoodlum, hoodwinker, hood scratcher.

Sell me a Münchausen Syndrome by Proxy planner to keep the narrative slant.

Instead we Rochambeau thumb it for rock flautists: you get the Moody Blues guy spouting poetry, and I get the Jethro Tull tippy-toe psychotic. We’ll play it like it’s 1972.

“We have a choice — to be on the side of creation, or surrender to the powers that destroy.”

— Jeff Tweedy / How to Write One Song