Those crooked fingers slither and snake into the spine, jerking it this way, that way, the other. Full sensory overload! Powerlines running from crown to toe tips are burnt black by the buzz of amateur surgeons’ mechanical toys, the cackles echoing long after the carnage has subsided. Fluids splatter and brains bubble; the doctors are in and there is *Blood *on their hands.
Hello! You mutant rats and rats and rats, what have you for us under your disfigured whites? Hideous Car Wrecks? Zig-zagged tracklines like the Devil’s very own self-portrait? Sirs, madams, you misunderstand – this is music; your maniacal chirps of surrealism win no friends amongst those commonly associated with such a ‘scene’, those that hold a simple swagger in such high regard. Your slicing and dicing and disco dancing is not for them, dearest* Brothers*. Their mirrors pull the wool over their eyes like the waterfall’s cascade, dressing their schlockrock asspiss - their aural abortions - up as ‘art’. They do not understand, nor do they try; there is nothing for you there, dearest Brothers.
Here is where you belong – with the corpses and the criminals, your punk junkies and your perverted japesters. The underbelly of the glitz and gloss welcomes you and your exploring fingers with open bearhugs, pulling you close for razorblade French kisses. Those outcasts, they are us Brothers. Bitter with the pretentiousness of conventionality, we will offer you sanctuary for your wicked rhymes. Leave the hospital wards bare, the crimson curses the only evidence that you ever lurked from shadow to shadow, watching as others stepped into the light in search of shiny prizes, the magpies that they were. They knew nothing - we know differently.
Come into the light, dearest Brothers, and make us dance ‘til our spines detach.
8Mike Diver's Score