“Moist humans wet with gravy: Burslem park – the gratuitous safari, I’m trogging round with the dog and making the hits. Fish-god hits. I’ve got mud in my knickers and I’m making the noise to appease arcane forces. Me dogs name is Jack and he’s a good lad. Ever heard a band called HONEY HIDE ME GOAT? I met em yearssss ago in a geriatric place in the Black country. They had drunk their brains out and were singing with the Witchfinder. Later that night I was injured in an illegal wrestling match. I don’t even know why I bother the past, the day has gone. What’s the point in it eh? Next year I’m playing in the Honeyed Goat’s Garage (HGG), a sort of apex between this world and jazz fear. Dubious cannibal types will dish up some Friday violence even if it’s a Saturday – of that I’m assured. The Offal Chimps may also play. The ducks go quack but there’s no fishin, no fishin in the cemetery tonight. Goat men have a record business, they make Goat records and other things. It’s called ‘Kitchen Dweller’. They made a turd-tape. Fresh recordings of pig-head girls being sick on my scab. It’s limited. So hurry.”
FILTHY TURD
