deadunicornface

Antidepressants have killed my ability to write music on anything other than a banjo. I tried to play guitar today, and the sound was south of Norman Greenbaum. I played a bass and gave the world a Leif Garrett approved butt fucking sideshow of a Gap Band Tune. I saw the sitar and didn't even try, for fear of mictrating my underoos as a last ditch attempt for creativity. Enter midi keyboard and 24 year old drum machine. Produced unnerving early 80's east German gay bar noise that shook me to my very core. The muses of metal are as fickle a mistress as I've ever come upon. "Kajagoogoo, Motherfucker," they say unto me. Being the undercover Hessian that I am, I take my place as Beta to Their Alpha in this partnership. Bum Bum Bum Ba Daa Bum Bum Bum Ba Daa. Fraggle Rock Funk Line taunts me from the corner of a tired decrepit mind that I sub-let from a degenerate djembe monk, off on a philosophical pilgrimage to psiloscybin. MdMA! MdMA! Bring out your dead and ring around the poppy pipe the whole damn things got a 48 hour HIV. Downtown. I can't stop, wont stop my love affair with syrup thick German liquor. Never. We are partners. It is my "Fetus Infetu," if you will. Need beer and spirits. Wander streets. Homeless man tricks me into shaking his hand. Now that we're tight like that, I have no qualms about giving him my last $45. "No," I tell him, "I can't say without hesitation that you aren't Jesus." I compromise by calling him "Maybe-Jesus." He thinks I say "Baby-Jesus." He's happy with this. He then regales me and my cohorts with anecdotes about the presidential term of George H.W. Bush. He explains that he hasn't had access to cable news for 15 odd years. Introduces me to his homeless dog Haitian Hellbeast or Tiberius' Midwife or Spirit of the East or Pecker Kissin' Pall Bearer or Peat Bog McCaffry or Lucky or some shit. Distracted. Thick-boned Girl yells at me from across the street. She knows my name though I've never met her. She says she saw my band play. "No," says I. She disagrees, so I say I'm not a musician. We go our separate ways. I realize too late that Bing Crosby or Jazz Wand or Wizard Sleeve or Spot or some shit has devoured the last 1/8th of my Philly Cheese. I decide to call it a night. This town has been adequately pigmented in the most lurid of crimsons that I can muster. Home. Fast. Ministry. Loud. I get home and am impelled to my pawn shop banjo. I put on "The First Tour" for inspiration. "Frozen Moses better thaw out fast if he fix to be a maverick in this game of chance." Fingers roll daftly across the strings. Thumb, pinky, ring, middle, ring, middle, index. My brain no longer thinks in words but the tongue will do what the tongue will do. I create words, guttural Mongoloid with no vowels and 9 Q's. My foot cramps. I silently scream at it. "Club," I say. "Mother fucker I want you to club." My club foot will be a constant reminder of the bluegrass devil atop his alter of the souls of the damned, their hallowed Death Masks wrought with the sins of millennia. The music becomes a tangled crown of thorns I feel my brow bleeding though there are no apparent wounds. A stank of hate fills my nostrils and from behind me but at the same time within me I hear the voice of evil. "Upon the Earth the sinners are smote, they fall down through the flame and the smoke and the screams that should issue from their throats are choked. By the dicks of Lucifer." Terrified I stoped plucking that banjo. The swirlling, ethereal distress washed over and out. The banjo went back into its case.