Uneasy with frayed head, I prod Them to a rickety cower, wave Their splinters delicately, pop Them softly and occasionally recall to Them late 70s extroverts such as Jael Heber’s wife, who took a nail of the tent, and took a hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him, and smote the nail into his temple, and fastened it into the ground, for he was fast asleep and weary. And anxiety prods me to whirl, cower, shove splinters of glass between my unapologetic 2nd and 3rd toes, and occasionally, whip my long hair around my neck tight like a noose. They give me renditions like vaudeville skits, and who can resist such rickety highs? –Most dangerous place ever thought of for a Slits man. Through the brain, lit up between, poised up between and teetering, the notes hammer themselves up into skits as fast as my favored angst lasso. Ominous day hand, teen nail dittoing for him, spends hours in raincoats. We were as temples, though between our hallowed halls was primalism found asleep and rudely whipped into recalling our inscrutable glass melodies, lighting this rock and whirling it, man. Now git. Shove my shimmery, shove my shimmery and run like hell.
This has been a Dream of Music: (artist) Sick Bees / (record) On the One / (label) RX Remedy