Slay me down

I'm a spigot. No other descriptive means. Fuck me drainpipe, I was flingin' snot all 'bout swivel office chairs and what have you. I feed my illness with old heaviness. Skweetis. My Black Ass. Mouth Breather. Good god damn jams. Unflappable.

I let all my clothes get dirty and then ran 'em through an undersized washer/dryer. Only way to acheive a consistent spore-whiff. See if I can't maintain this through the winter.

And still, there is a phrase that I cannot forget, though I don't know where it came from:

Jeans slicked with chicken grease.

This seems pretty ultimate to me. Like, the high point of man fashions. I'm kinda working on it but I prefer chickens in rice dishes and whatnot, less often do I partake of the North American Rotiserrie, though that is not by design.

I have winter planettes, small moves that I'll make in the dimness. Gotta find a copy of the Striborg joint. And also Solar Anus. But not too worried about Bathtub Shitter, that one I'll leave for the true heads. Next month begins a dark phase, most unfortunately aligned with the rising calls of "hipster metal". Fuckin' Rearden metal, and don't you forget.

I am an object.

Black Boned Angel - Track 01 - Supereclipse

[C.K. pleeze don't hurt 'em]