a hop skip and jump to toy town.
Another day, another dollar my friends.
Tried in vain to write some new material at the barn of nightmares yesterday. Yet another failed attempt to add to the insurmountable list of other failed attmpts. We try to be catchy we end up sounding faggy or twatish, we try to be hard edged we end up sounding like the bastard sons of cradle of filth after slipping and accidently impregnating busted. It seems to me that we are doomed to be just another miedeocre punk 'n' roll band. Where did our edge go? did we lose sight of it on the horizon after we jumped headfirst into the limozene headed to ego town? did we set fire to it when our dreams outgrew our talent? or has it just fell down the side of the sofa where it can be easily found, cleaned off and reintroduced to society, reformed and repentant? Fuck knows. I just pray that some how the ghosts of kurt cobain, jim morrison and the part of marilyn manson that died when he became everything he had despised, get together and come and haunt my house like a rag tag band of spectral muses.
Had an exam too, which was nice.
until i think of something mildly interesting to write next, a little poem to tied you over off the top of my head;
consider the worm,
you cut him and half and he gains a friend
you cut him in four and he forms a band
you cut him into eighthes and he has a gang
so what happens if you ground him into dust?
Anyway...
Got an important gig coming up. Yet again Piglatin will grace the cavernous halls of the middlesbrough empire. Playing the stage where greats like pink grease, chinkinki, har mar superstar and the burning brides have treaded the boards. To add pressure to this already boiled over affair is...WE ARE PLAYING IN FRONT OF THE EIGHTIES MATCHBOX YOU CUNT!!! How fucking ace is that? My pants are dripping soft chewy lumps of shit just thinking about it. If I farted now I would have to pull the string to call in the home help. "what now mr wheestle" - "uum...mmmmm...oouuurrm." - "you shit yourself thinking of the impending gig where you, a lowely, pathetic, wannabe iggy pop will pay a gig in front of the band you idolise the most again didnt you?" - "yessum..." - " get those greasy, smelly kecks off then and lets wipe that vomitous botty of yours" - "yessum" - "my, my that is a little stinker isnt it, oooh smeared all over your plump, pink cheaks, how disgusting, you really are a twisted, demonic little fucker arent you?" - "yessum" - "you fucking stink."
ahh well, the road to success is paved with pitfalls, pendulums and dog shit. You need a strong head, a good mind, some talent and trainers without grips on the bottom and you will escape with your life and clean shoes.
do you suffer from mental?
Tried in vain to write some new material at the barn of nightmares yesterday. Yet another failed attempt to add to the insurmountable list of other failed attmpts. We try to be catchy we end up sounding faggy or twatish, we try to be hard edged we end up sounding like the bastard sons of cradle of filth after slipping and accidently impregnating busted. It seems to me that we are doomed to be just another miedeocre punk 'n' roll band. Where did our edge go? did we lose sight of it on the horizon after we jumped headfirst into the limozene headed to ego town? did we set fire to it when our dreams outgrew our talent? or has it just fell down the side of the sofa where it can be easily found, cleaned off and reintroduced to society, reformed and repentant? Fuck knows. I just pray that some how the ghosts of kurt cobain, jim morrison and the part of marilyn manson that died when he became everything he had despised, get together and come and haunt my house like a rag tag band of spectral muses.
Had an exam too, which was nice.
until i think of something mildly interesting to write next, a little poem to tied you over off the top of my head;
consider the worm,
you cut him and half and he gains a friend
you cut him in four and he forms a band
you cut him into eighthes and he has a gang
so what happens if you ground him into dust?
Anyway...
Got an important gig coming up. Yet again Piglatin will grace the cavernous halls of the middlesbrough empire. Playing the stage where greats like pink grease, chinkinki, har mar superstar and the burning brides have treaded the boards. To add pressure to this already boiled over affair is...WE ARE PLAYING IN FRONT OF THE EIGHTIES MATCHBOX YOU CUNT!!! How fucking ace is that? My pants are dripping soft chewy lumps of shit just thinking about it. If I farted now I would have to pull the string to call in the home help. "what now mr wheestle" - "uum...mmmmm...oouuurrm." - "you shit yourself thinking of the impending gig where you, a lowely, pathetic, wannabe iggy pop will pay a gig in front of the band you idolise the most again didnt you?" - "yessum..." - " get those greasy, smelly kecks off then and lets wipe that vomitous botty of yours" - "yessum" - "my, my that is a little stinker isnt it, oooh smeared all over your plump, pink cheaks, how disgusting, you really are a twisted, demonic little fucker arent you?" - "yessum" - "you fucking stink."
ahh well, the road to success is paved with pitfalls, pendulums and dog shit. You need a strong head, a good mind, some talent and trainers without grips on the bottom and you will escape with your life and clean shoes.
do you suffer from mental?