Maybe
you don’t get why I ask you or maybe you do. I want your sound. Your charred
splattered raggedy ann and andy inconsolable fits of pupil-dilated-passion.
I desire blaring bashing slippery diddly bow ‘crawling king snake’ shambolic pure beautiful wrecking ball
irascible ‘caucasian white’ noise.
The nectar of the black and charred anti-gods. The unapologetic unpolished
reckless dispossessed lethargic apathetic impassioned blitzkrieg that is Don
Howland. Fuck tamed whipped domesticated supine. I desire harmful shards of
mirrored whimsical ‘are you experienced’ undulating broke down filthy
glorified trash pouring out of the pin-needle-rectum of a nicotine stained
unfiltered unimpressed lumpy camel. The nickelodeon bewailing moan created when
two hands stop clapping and start punching. Not violently, but still very much
determined. Determined to figure some way out of this shit-stained-storm of irrelevant
delusional hypocritical opiate of the ill-tuned uninformed low-rent unresponsive
mass-incarcerated-masses. Static fuzz am radio howling manic hacking showers of
resplendent melancholia. I am not fucking crazy. You don’t collaborate and I
don’t pursue unless I’m certain there is something worth going after. Just give
it a try and if nothing comes of it we never have to speak of it again. The
dead have all the time (in this world and the next) to wait and overdose on
smoke rings from a genocide of pop-goes-the-weasel bingo parlors and mom and pop
ghetto-storefronts gone belly up.
Charles
Cicirella
4/25/16
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