EVERYTHING smells fishy, EXCEPT fish. They smell, with their noses. And everybody knows this! EXCEPT experts who expect excerpts of every home truth about Big Bertha. Like bringing home the troops so we can send them to soup kitchens. What about the Koopas and Goombas that seek out poontang in Thai hangouts?! That's a lie, but never mind, let it fry your brain for a short period of time. Like the Mysterious Disappearance of Stickman 91... Maybe he became a Nomad, or got imprisoned in a commune in Lye? Either way, all communication lines are hereby permanently lifeless, but surely we deserve a goodbye. I thought we were blood brothers! What about a love bite?! This is like some Goodnight Vienna type shingle. I feel like kicking the doors off the hinges, and getting back to the fringes of being unhinged with dirty urges and twinges. Stealer of breath like the Dealers of Death. A sealer of fates. Conceal your cadaver in a freezer for days, under a yellow and black joie de vivre of faces. Deal with it, this is hardly scarlet fever... this is more of a harvest season. It's not my fault that Harvey is hardly breathing. Old habits die hard, like rabbis slaying rabbits... must be that ol' synagogue, satanic magick! Don't panic. Be happy! Live your life, don't worry about the lads catching bogus cabs to the abbeys! Everybody knows that this is hocus-pocus. And not designed to be attention grabbing. Legerdemain. We'll be damned if we let you into our domain! It's like a Noah's Ark of pain. So bizarre, fuckin' hard to explain. So why try, when I can shy away and let things be, like an hallucinating brain. The Things You See, The Things You Hear, like TB-303s, and funny tasting beer. Cyberdevil has reached level sixty. I'd rather reach level si.. ck cunt. Music pretty much determines everything I do. The way I feel, what I think, the way I write. And tonight it's time to play, plague your eyes, but never plagarise. Clean the plate so to speak. Make you turn a cheek or two, exhibit that vicious streak, wreaking literary havoc til' you spew. We literally haven't even scratched the serf's face. We'll leave that ritual abuse to the rich. Our only job is to reinvent the langue, in the head, while walking to Langho... and handover our thoughts to a backdrop of Van Canto. There is no land we can't go. As we wander free... the worst would be, actually squandering the opportunity, to live while you're young... travelling to some far-flung shithole. No wait, that's far-dung. I'll leave that trip to my drunk uncle, Duncan. "You don't have an uncle called Duncan." In my head I don't even have an Uncle. All my relatives are cunts, relatively speaking. As 2Pac once said: 'it's just me against the world.' And I'm so tightly wound, and highly strung, it looks as if I've hung myself tonight, for fun, dead body waiting to be found. Stickman 91. Santa Cruz '91. I stand to lose nothing by bowing out. Everyone will follow suit in due course. Even those coarse Jews that watch Gaza stripping off. Sick perverts! My poor penis would itch thinking about Kareena Karich... bin verrückt. "Give me my caffeine, Cathy!! And Avril Lavigne masturbation material." That's what a real mate would do! Help out in a time of need, when the chips are down and the strip clubs are closed for the evening. This town nowadays is like a walking talking chimeric cult, full of spiritualism and methodist churches... abandoned buildings. That's what the eyesores are for, right? Not hideouts for the far right? Our world is a farce, and moving towards a Fourth Reich. Spiralling out of control into another war cycle. Better get more Bibles, so you can pray for your survival. I don't give a shit, already got my mind full. Not yet full-on suicidal, but there's still time for an ill mind to heal and feel right. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. And you're back in the room. It's like being out of body, out of character... in fashion, somewhat a passenger. Harassed by your own split self, convinced this is just a blip, not shit mental health, or an admission you need help. Depression is a war of attrition that drags you down to this position of hell, wishing you were well. "Things are just swell. Fine and dandy!" ... Really the mind is maligned and branded. And I can't understand it. So I scribble and journal, dig deep in the kernel and try to burn holes in my brain. Start an inferno. Channel in and think at a turbo pace, that's why words are all over the place. But that workflow helps the words flow, and the worlds grow, before I go back into my furlough space.