My flavor is the stuff of locusts. Hot chili firebrand spitting volcano
teeth. Bleeding skies, sulpher mines... The foul breath of Satan's favorite
gutter worm. You feel me when I'm close - an ice wind of steel stilettos
hammered in your spine. Quicksilver nausea spinning, spewing forth and
everything's a mess. every posession you ever had - wrecked - lying at your
feet. Telegrams that tell you God is dead piled high on the TV. The
incessant TV. Burbling. Distorted. A cheesecake nun advertising 20 brands
of sea cow lemon shit in 60 different languages. A gargoyle handjives for
the hard of hearing. Subliminals. Criminals. Phoney buisinessmen in thick
rimmed glasses. Bad comedians. Laughing bags aping the Hallelujah chorus -
the forgotton version - out of key (slightly). Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor is cheap perfume on rotting Man-Ray maggots! Dead maggots. My
flavor's a wound re-opening by surprise, green fishes eyes flowing out.
Wriggling things. Gelatinous. Still alive and screaming - out of key
(slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor's a plunging elevator a
millisecond before it hits the cellar. A cellar with mutated rats. Old -
very old - lost teeth. Abortions. Garbage. So pungent it hums - out of
key (slightly). Just enough to annoy you. My flavor's your flavor. Deep
within you. Hidden. Waiting to get out...
