maybe it’s raining; everything’s slick and viscous. maybe it’s just tears spooling out of twitchy ducts. today i’m wednesday and clozapine gauzed. being held together by steroids and nicotine. can i differentiate between a fizzing fist of honey bees or a gluey flush of storm clouds? this strategy of amelioration, purple and apoplectic, ain’t working. i’m cocaine fragile, in ways willing that lead inexorably to enucleation; scooped and spooned and sloppily mopped up.
this wretched worst, this medicinal skin of neural un-enhancers, grabbing gutstrings and numbing stagnant glans, man it’s the business. hear the girlsqueal, moistened and cadaverous, neurotic pummelings laddering up the smooth smooth skin of inner thigh. kissing this shit is like licking batteries. foul and metallic klang, gustatory sensations, provoked by uncoiling death dirges. six tracks of electrochemical smooch. a vicious voltaic pile of laayyyeereeddd violence. ugly music. for ugly people. by lexington-area thugs. a poxed afterbirth of hair police and warmer milks and other buggers, eking out a grubby existence, sloughed out somewhere between rusted shut and wolf eyes, swans and flipper. the non-ironic cocksure swagger and meth-toothed grin of dank cellar-dwellers and cultural progerians; facefuckers one and all.
these grim exhibitionists spat, shat spewed on demand, on stage, on tape for a fearful few gathered cannibals. drenched in the hypnagogic synonyms of garbled david yow hacks and asphyxiated grunts over scrapyard brutality. a discomforting tribal assault, powered by four strings and taut skins. a doom dirge vertebrae of bass and drum ‘neath the raw flayed free-flapping dermis of voice and wires and malfunctioning electricity. a ridiculous licking of skanky feedback schmeared and scum-lathered atop this tribal mush, this incomprehensible muck.
i need this like bandages, like vitamins, like the reassuring hug that bundles kids into the back of abusers vans. countdown the minutes, from twenty four twenty three twenty two, on fingers twiglike brittle and shaking. shoelace stitches unravel. rain’s stopped, ceiling dripdripdrips with rusty protein tang. not the sun seeping through leaden sky, but a house-fire reflected in wet black pupils. don’t equate cynicism with realism. this is fantasy baby, it’s an unhumanity you can’t possibly relate to, seedily ensconced sodium yellow, in scratchy mongoloid raymond pettibonisms.
nothing more than awful noise, this cant be called a song or ‘track’. however, if it begets writing like this, im all for it.
why thank you sir.
i think.
but you say awful noise like that’s a bad thang!