This is what you'd expect, beatific. Another moon landing. Fatalistic background music. Okay, neurotic drum assemblage. Borne unto the brain, a swish of rainy poison. UK garage fluxed, Nerve Vet? Tracks stopping before they start on the get-go. Swig of French wine. Cut-ups of evolution. Guitars mesh, high-end over solar. Too tasteful, not No Pussyfooting, The Drop. Theme music to menace. Juddering sound apocalypse. African village with nettles. The guitar playing is too expensive, rote. Prayer for resolution. Yeah, watch your back, things are not quite what they seem, clean disruption. Monkey in the outer, look at them stars, they are shining, breathing and shuddering with condolence. Church bells toll, wide. It's only a performance. Nylon strings protruding synthetics. How many detectives, how many were there? Cumbersome mist, continual washing. Specs of blood in a transparent basin.
