shit and shine: teardrops (riot season)

it seems i’ve been misled. woke in a dress with a gun to my head.


this is knowing not to expect. that’s the key here.

and the key’s one fella (in the end it’s always just one fella…) and the sound of ever restless meat and sinew and bone and gristle strung together.

this is how it starts each time. with tantrum thumps and spastic strammash. my fingers are twigs my fingers spider twitch as i punch play and every minute’s a deathbed scene.

not so much starts as ruptures. the lightbulb flickers flares and pops like a pigeon under car tyre and i’m zeroing / flatlining on this fucking savage lurch, spinning spinning spinning in front of my goddamned face. i’m thinking kill them all save yourself kill them all save yourself kill them all save yourself kill yourself save them all.

then… there’s a bubble in my brain and blood in my throat.

it’s a primal urge of a recording. a thing on thing flail and thunder, teetering on a knife-edge. funnels the wet abstract meat dreams of every nineties terrorizer reader into one epic guthooked ooze.

reductionist to the point of pure fucking clarity, but it’s me drunk at four in the morning with a head full of medicine and my hands celltotaped to a drum machine as i gently force a pawnshop ibanez into the guts and anus of a broken amp.

the tension is palpable, sweatsoaked and strained. there’s a rhythm, a grind, a gibbering prosody. i beg of you, someone begs. there’s a pulsing syncopation and repetition, a senseless trigger switch in brain function that flares intense with migraine violence like some bastard shriek in the dark. fillings trembling in notsowhite teeth.

there’s a jackhammering heartstammer that makes me jerk spasmodically. beats broken apart fixed, settled in locked down relentless, the oversubscribed crush and sweaty puke of too much of it all making my head bang delirious, dizzy with glee and disorientating biology.

twenty five minutes of teardrops, a feverish spill of comedians confession, and it’s come and gone before the plosive k in the fuuuuuuuuuuck yr screaming with gay abandon has escaped yr moistened lips. leaving nothing but the fuzzy headed whistle of noise in ears and an applause that is both wakening and ruin.

riot season / shit and shine

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