Whether it's tomorrow, or Goddamn ten years from now, I want to see some fucked-up hippie in a laundry room, in the middle of the night, playing the lint-trap from the dryer like a Goddamn tambourine.
I want to behold a Madison-Square-Garden-Ian-Anderson-From-Jethro-Tull-Gauge-Performance on this fucking lint-trap. Rapid wrist expertise and hip-pounding fury, responding to an unheard, metal-symphony that exists only in this freak's theoretically, unobserved womb of a Laundro-Mat concert stage.
A theatrical demonstration with two parts Flamboyance and nine parts Savagery.
Whether it's the apartment complex's laundry facilities or the neighborhood "Fluff and Fold," I want to see this Witching Hour, faux-musical tirade that borders on silent, head-banging lunacy.
I know Goddamn well, this guy is out there. Somewhere in the Ether-Sphere this guy lives...he's rocking hard and kicking ass...somewhere. A manifestation of Pomp and Bravura that needs to be extended to an over-looked-and-for-some-reason-wandering-around-noiselessly-in-the-Stealth-of-the-Night-Psycho-like-me.
The "sweaty guy from the Turtles" style pageantry.
I will witness this life-fulfilling event. The eyes of a Moon-less Shadow-figure will take heed of your infectious, pre-dawn, tribal Invocation, and once the lint settles, and the rising Sun gives birth to a slovenly, waking moment of Extra-Terrestrial confusion, I will launch a left-handed Devil-Horn to the Heavens, salute the American Flag and unleash a short-strapped air-bass solo, starting with a Power-Bone complimented by Deep Grinders, and finishing with a Reverse-Hover-Stance that the World, (or Gravity) has never seen.
If I ever see you again after that Transcendent exposition, I'll probably look at you with smug amusement...but I'll be Goddamn proud of ya. Remember that, ya little torte.
I say: What A Fuckin' Weirdo
I want to behold a Madison-Square-Garden-Ian-Anderson-From-Jethro-Tull-Gauge-Performance on this fucking lint-trap. Rapid wrist expertise and hip-pounding fury, responding to an unheard, metal-symphony that exists only in this freak's theoretically, unobserved womb of a Laundro-Mat concert stage.
A theatrical demonstration with two parts Flamboyance and nine parts Savagery.
Whether it's the apartment complex's laundry facilities or the neighborhood "Fluff and Fold," I want to see this Witching Hour, faux-musical tirade that borders on silent, head-banging lunacy.
I know Goddamn well, this guy is out there. Somewhere in the Ether-Sphere this guy lives...he's rocking hard and kicking ass...somewhere. A manifestation of Pomp and Bravura that needs to be extended to an over-looked-and-for-some-reason-wandering-around-noiselessly-in-the-Stealth-of-the-Night-Psycho-like-me.
The "sweaty guy from the Turtles" style pageantry.
I will witness this life-fulfilling event. The eyes of a Moon-less Shadow-figure will take heed of your infectious, pre-dawn, tribal Invocation, and once the lint settles, and the rising Sun gives birth to a slovenly, waking moment of Extra-Terrestrial confusion, I will launch a left-handed Devil-Horn to the Heavens, salute the American Flag and unleash a short-strapped air-bass solo, starting with a Power-Bone complimented by Deep Grinders, and finishing with a Reverse-Hover-Stance that the World, (or Gravity) has never seen.
If I ever see you again after that Transcendent exposition, I'll probably look at you with smug amusement...but I'll be Goddamn proud of ya. Remember that, ya little torte.
I say: What A Fuckin' Weirdo
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