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  • Emotional Nonsense

    21 mar 2012, 06:12

    I wish order would speak to me sometimes Johnny, because I don’t feel loved without it. I feel cold, like the basket after the child’s been taken away – unimportant now yr light’s gone out – or some shit. I dunno – metaphors can go fuck themselves fr all I care – all meet one hazy, August night, under the palms, and suck each other off, moaning in dulcet, sibilant tones; filth incarnate. Gonna meet with the bendy RubberMan tomorrow fr lunch and self infliction. It’s a new class, that’s been in the works fr a couple of years, and now we’re pioneers – pioneers of the pen knives and cream chives; in your hair and dripping down yr neck. Luscious, cream-white cheese, delicate and divine, dripping down from the tiny holes in yr scalp – what’s wrong with you Lucy? “I’m … I’m not…”
    QUICK! Lucy, flee this place! before the red goblins top you. They come in their masses, and throw faded casino chips at you, like bankers with a rash. Ooh, Josepher Lee! What did I tell you of the valley? I told you never to venture there! That foul, coiled phantom lives there. He’ll twist you into two and you’ll be done. Inescapable, chafable loonies are in me, but they’re all dressed up in black and look like rich Victorians. Why can’t they just be honest fr fuck’s sake. Be honest with themselves for once in their tiny lives. It makes me sick, like a cheap, triangle sandwich from a gas station. And they’re evoking horrible memories within me; there’s a floral, pink skirt on the tiled floor, and I don’t know why it’s there. I just want ice cream, and a warm blanket; Bridget Jones melancholia takes me, fast and strong, and I’m swept away. Away forever and away. I’ll never sing again..
  • FuKKed

    20 mar 2012, 03:40

    SHIT! Low-riders blasting Autechre up and down the street with their minds blown. Up and down the boulevard like a robot with a piece. Fuck! What are we gonna do John? All the best hiding places have been taken by the broom handlers and stock candlers – I don’t even know huu they are MAN! I’m a desperate joke and the clinking, metal thugs are upon me like never before – circling me like bastard vultures; I can see their tiny eyes. I’m trembling so much; sweating all over my pockets as I fumble inside them fr my shooter – my tiny, silver shooter with a red stripe. Where are you, you silver bitch? Moisture betrays me when I find it and a bullet fires out of my purple-stain trousers, ricocheting to hell and back. My brain’s ablaze with the haze in my eyes and the whole block is filled with contemporary electronic beats and do-rags. Oh God, this is awful! I try fr the shooter again, fingers all twisted up, and blast a chunk of thigh from my body: searing white, hot burn. “FFFFFFFFU…” I’m blowing myself to bits before these Anvil Vapre cunts can even ge’ a chance. Holy Fuck, my thigh. I clutch at my mangled leg in desperation and fall to the baked, hot pavement below. The Autechre cunts are all around me; their shadows touch my face. Save me John! Save me PLEASE..
  • Deliverance

    5 jan 2012, 05:30

    I want to live in a time with no end. No bus-stop chancers and laptop wankers; I just wish to be transported out of place. The pitch shifts and fluctuates like a diva withA fever and I cry all over my dinner plate. Big, big crocodile tears seeping out of my ducts like industrial waste. Oh John - deliver me from this oily, flesh prison!

    Tiny eyes are on me as I pass through the third gate into the field. Orange angels envelope me in their pale, cold arms and I slip into a coma so sublime I never want to awaken again. This is it for me John - these ethereal, material girls can have their wicked way with me - I don't care anymore. Take me with you, you ginger, winged harlots, for I don't want to live on this earth..
  • Casual Passion

    5 jan 2012, 05:09

    The air's rushing through my head as I battle past them. Happy and free, running with my mind in a B-line. Me mate's floating in the Tyne - hell. John's off with some mad lass and I'm smashing up gravity like Jesus on speed. Oh, what's happened here? This used to be such a nice town - now it's full of benign cunts with headaches. I want to inject some fucking colour into their grey faces when I see them hanging over; lying in fountains and crying under the shadows of their big coats. Faulty goods Major! We need a recall on these tinny bints - feed 'em to the pigs if that's any cheaper because I don't think I really care what happens to them anymore. Animals with no hope of ever having passionate sex ever again - so let the worms fuck them instead.

    . . . . . . ....... .. .

    I move up to the catwalks on Thursday, so we need total precision being administered throughout the ranks. That is a priority you fucking sideways gator-face! Have some white wine from the vine. It's all very fine when you give a wee, coy glance to the duke, but please, please my lady, have the common decency to sleep with him next time..
  • Laura

    17 nov 2011, 05:59

    She lives on top of a hill, in a pale, yellow house with vines.
    She sings whilst under the influence, but her neighbours don't really mind;
    For her voice isn't so beautiful, but she sings about the truth.
    Like Bob Dylan with tits and The Beatles on the roof..
  • A LapA' Luxury

    3 nov 2011, 07:01

    Fuck the fix and you'll end up on the licks, with the one that you never wanted anyway, but she's on yr stomach now. Holy other woman screaming childish screams - I wish I'd neverNever lapped you twice. For all the lovely words people spit over you, you're really not that nice. Bleak, bleached and blonde is your ego-tripping, finger-clicking hair trailing on the bathroom floor like a dead jellyfish; yr so horribly kitsch. As much as I'd like to fuck you, I really need a piss, so I'm gonna' walk away now, bye, dear, young, sweet, drunken queen, getting up like a pack of cards falling downDown, but still managing to drag me back; howHow am I soSo sick that I lap this up again. I'm on the floor. I'm a dog. Save me John! Only you can deliver me from these tiles of depravity now..
  • DesireR II

    21 okt 2011, 16:00

    I'd love to be of use, but the birds just stole my nous. We can't have a sexually explicit rave without that. John Brune won't be organising the music this year either, so we need to find another DJ. Another sexy and strong video-ready DEEJay willing to put his life on the line for the fidelity of the beat. We need a true warrior of the music indeed. Brune was an innovator of the 2nd Beat Revolution; drums that could make you weep uncontrollably in a heartbeat. And I stole the locket from my mother one rainy evening when she was dancing wildly in the downpour. I had a horrible, sore throat that day and thought, foolishly, the locket would ease my pain. It did nothing of the sort. The metal was cold in my throat and I choked on the chain as I tried to pass it down. It bunched and tangled itself inside my windpipe, like a cruel jeweller's art strangling me. I went red and saw my mother's face. Retching and writhing and dancing like a desperate animal; crying and dying in the pink mist of my demise. Hands on me, squeezing me, clutching me, holding me, saving me from the tiny, glistening serpent inside me. My eyes bulged as gold and mucus erupted from me and I collapsed onto the floor as the last of the serpent trickled out of my throat. Maybe I should have taken it with a glass of water I wonder as my mother shouts in low tones. I don't listen too closely. Brune wouldn't have let this happen. And the serpent slithers silently away as I start to fall asleep. I dream of being thrown across a supermarket and cubicles that don't lock. And a wizard walked across the beach, but nobody wanted him..
  • DesireR

    12 jul 2011, 16:48

    The day hums quietly away in the background - slow and ambient. The only noise is low. Later on, I can hear harmonic whimpers coming from the next room. I'm very into my moment at this point so the new sound doesn't alarm me in anyway. I do notice that I'm hungry though. It's late and I'm craving meat, like I always do. I want to sink my teeth into something, but I know I can never fully satisfy this desire yet. So I sit there and do nothing fr about 5 minutes and then eat a packet of crisps instead. Poor, I know. My inner-being weeps with each new chip I shovel in, with the knowledge that the text, 'BBQ Ribs' on the front of the packaging bares little truth moaning in my brain. Melancholy goes so well with salt I think to myself as I crush the empty packet into an abstract shape. I need to really go out hunting one day - have a feast - glorious, glistening meat; flesh; animal. So fucking juicy I could cry..