Light a candle. Draw the required sigils. Now, raise your arms above your head and slowly, gently, exhale your soul. You won’t need it here. This is Audioccult, and it’s time to get low. Illustration: SHALTMIRA
RARRRGHH! Nearby businesses refuse to give me discounts and free goods despite repeatedly S.L.A.M.M.I.N.G. SpaceGhostPurrp CD on counter and loudly reading the lyrics where Yung Simmie says “I need a stripperrrr“, and when I drink it sounds like he’s saying it in the voice of Butthead from MTV’s Beavis & Butthead, and that’s how I do it whenever I sing the song (often). The mouths of the till-slaves circle like scavengers, spilling out sounds that wash over and around but never through. Hmm? Yeah, this is the expensive Black Scale shirt that looks like it came from when people still cared about witch house. Oh, what’s that you were charging me for these Pringles? Nothing?
They fear my body: my alien physiology, my foreign tissue grafts, the gross thing under my armpit that’s not quite a mole, not quite a cyst and absolutely a small mountain that bleeds and screams. No matter, however (besides that which is clinging to my sheets whenever I wake up), for I have the secret new Purrp album with the hidden remix that tweets DJ Screw to descend from Valhalla and very slowly tell me I’m the coolest guy. It takes him five minutes and his voice sounds like wind chimes.
“What are you up to this week?”, I say, sitting beside you. “Any plans” and as we make eye contact I begin to pull the yarn I had previously swallowed from my throat, drenched in bile as you begin to move quicker and quicker away from me as the dripping yarn unspools from my insides (also at increasing speed). I think a lot of my dating problems stem from the the fact that when I was 8 my dad took me to see The Addam’s Family at the dollar cinema, and the whole time he kept leaning over and nudging me while repeatedly insisting that Angelica Huston was the pinnacle of womanhood. “Look at those cheekbones, Dannyboy! Onion slicers!” Now all my friends are laughing it up and living the good life with their lovers and I’m sitting around at home looking at photos of Diamanda Galas and feeling confused.
There’s a cold moon reflected in the windows of my cold room, and over the speakers comes the voice of William Bennett of Cut Hands/Whitehouse. I’m transcribing an interview at 3 a.m. and the most pertinent thought in my head is how much he sounds like a British version of comedian Jonathan Katz. This line of thought is so distracting that I want do a line and go back and redub some lines of Dr. Katz: Professional Therapist so Katz can tell Bobcat Goldthwait that he thinks Lady Gaga’s “Swine” is brilliant.
The conception of recent ideas is a passionless sacrificial act, lambs dumped into a flatbed, mewling bleating kicking thrashing splintered legs soon to be mulched by existence. An offering to Void, a line of lookwhativedones stretching behind and in front to be paraded endlessly like a small child incessantly showing mommy and daddy his socially correct defecations. After a while the approval tapers off and those turds in a room in a bowl full of water start looking a lot less impressive. To sum it up briefly: all of my extensively written and very sexy Macintosh company fanfics mistakingly refer to Steve Jobs as Steve Apple and because of this I have no money. ~
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