Listen to the us play our set at The Soundhouse before the dictaphone ran out of disc space
Come and see Evil Dick and the Banned Members fiddle with their instruments in a bold attempt to create a musical performance. See them hit things and strum things. See them look indifferent.
In empty skin flaps and hairy holes.
Trauma and denial,
Rejection and persecution,
Totality of boredom and endless desperation in fur-lined
Horrendous carpets, lumps and untidy edges,
Residue residing on your residual resemblance.
Your dangerous dependence,
Your stultified resplendence,
Your absent benevolence,
I fell off a chair and bumped my head on a daisy!
Puce made from purple
in a certain light poured down and spared my blushes,
My dignity intact albeit bruised.
Children sing songs
Mass produced music is usually trite.
A cash grap for the for fortunate FEW.
If you don’t acknowledge your roots, you’re just a post-modern TURD.
Underlined in red, ‘cus Microsoft don’t like the WORD.
Come on feel the noise.
But don’t think about it too much.
Here’s a sliver of light perpetrating the crime of a thought left unthought that would have been worth having...