Smell The Rott

Panic becomes you. Someone long dead once told someone i was then that this is what it sounds like in here. Smashed glass, split heads, crying jags, rotting bodies reliance on cheap opiates, No place in any scene, socially retarded, sexually venomous, inexplicable violent outbursts, unacceptable deviancies, willing mindfucks pushing/pulling/in/out of atrophied grey matter, funeral processions of razor wielding chimpanzees colliding with paraplegic carnivals beneath the balconies of an ever winding vacuous necropolis, aging drag queens with track marks for faces donning executioners hoods to remove the tongues and teeth of public school officials, children with unspeakable deformities thrown into the river by dogs trained to smell congenital slapstick. The violence is not an act. The loathing, wailing, tearing of flesh is the star here. Not the idiot musicians and crippled idiot singer who are but mere conduits. Sinking into the morass of early onset senility with no grace. Sick in its heart. No agenda sings the jumble of foul mouthed fucking liars cloistered around yet another autumn casket. Another fucking funeral. We, the circus of decline, decay and damnation. All material is improvised ____________ Madness is its own reward. Little Mark - June 1, 1977/February 7, 2005. In Eternal Panic.