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THE WARMTH OF SUMMER
Nothing like a little bit of Harold Budd to set the mood and make us feel relaxed or stop us from the Relapse of Collapse. Perhaps you should give three claps in unison to signify your appreciation, or don't, we can't make you do nothing you don't want. Now sign this fucking contract B-Atchhh. Don't do it, its a trap. Don't traipse into signing the papers. Do not sell your fucking soul to the D-Vil. He'll strip you of your true identity and turn people pupils into mini madmen. Don't let it happen, fight back, rebel, wear Rab micro fleeces for warmth, even in summer. Don't allow the D-Vil to clamber inside the window of your soul funk reggae band. Everything used to be switched off, now everything is switched on. Its time to revisit the Johnny Depths of Depravity yet again, and feel that deep gravitational pull inside the head, the gravitational well of thoughts that escalate out of control like a slinky on an escalator, and you couldn't work out why its even there on a calculator. Ms. Terry. There are so many questions that need to be Ann. Swered, but Ann swerved them all like the bullet dodger she was. Quite nimble, she used to hide in our brambles and eat tumbleweed then she got rumbled for smoking weed, "whah? You're fucking joking me?!?!"
That rhymed, but who cares, nobody enough to leave a comment. Or a comma, today or tomorrow, this field is bare, grape pick the same shit year in year out. The future will not accept us all and there are only a few chairs left. The rest will be disposed and the exhausted will perish in their garages sniffing the exhaust pipe. Even my Ex will host a dinner for five in the wake of the disaster, and poison them so they die faster than we did. Its such a shame to waste the summer, to let these glorious days pass you by without stepping outside the front door where the sun's pores shine like good lordy! This opportunity is too good to waste, its no good being stuck indoors for days cut off from the sun's rays... That allegedly cause skin cancer, but don't. That's just the opinion of the mean-spirited who want you to stay in and isolate yourself and buy Sky TV and surround yourself with material possessions that will eventually turn you into a zombie and shut off your emotions until all that is left is a robot. Divided and conquered instead of excited and prosperous because of all the opportunities that you squandered during the Great Blitz on your soul. Fuck the Blitz and all the other shit that try to bring you down like Tetris Masts. Its much more enjoyable if we all get together and go on a big time adventure to the Unknown Squalor.
Everything in life made easier, satellite navigation, auto text, remote controls, cars and iPhones. You don't even have to sit up, "but I wanna sit up honkey!" I'm sick of all these shortcuts and hotkeys that stop me from living life properly. There is nothing like the Great Outside for a great outsider like me. Time to downsize to a tent and live life to the fullest, cheating death by evading bullets. One fish in the ocean, its time to throw caution to the wind, a vibrant microcosm, cosy in this explosion of summer glow. But summer come and summer go, from a simmer to a shiver, from a shiver to a bitter cold. Sitting by a river in a fold of rolled up tarpaulin. The end is nigh, tonight Nietz lets out a great big sigh. The sight is one to behold. Muddled mind, muzzled, I'm, puzzled by the subtle signs that I might be stir crazy. Or if you just replace the word crazy with the word hazy, you'll see a mind more tangled up than spaghetti bolognese. Tasty. A head case with no safety mechanism to perform this exorcism, except to roll out existentialism to anyone that'll listen. This head's a prison, there's something missing, my tongue is snake-like, hissing. Listen up folk, maybe I'm just pissing in the wind like a unhinged freak of nature that makes you cringe until alarm bells start to ring. But Nietz didn't do a damn thing, except scramble to scribble these ramblings, these words are his tambourine and jump around like a trampoline, more woe than a line of tramps under tarpaulin. More scrawls that intend to crawl harmfully under your skin. Nietzlawe spills poison sperm like coition. Read these words with caution, but don't hate me, I'm just a needle in an ocean, how can you hate Higgs boson? Take these words with a pinch of salt, everyone is tinged with faults. No man is perfect, there is no need to get these words checked, no need to be verbally scourged by these absurd church sects. Fuck em, look at these suckers behind closed doors and shutters, the mind suffers when its closed off from Mother Earth. These suckers could suck the colour out of a nice hot summer.