it’s marie curie idly wondering where that lump came from.
it’s blue cheer trapped inside the bloated bile-filled belly of shit and shine, trying to chew their way out.
it’s gene hackman in the poseiden adventure screaming why god why.
it’s the precise moment of solitary ejaculation when the door opens unexpectedly.
it’s phil spector, a blonde and a handgun in the same room.
it’s christopher reeves getting on his horse. one. last. time.
it’s that big red button that says do not press.
it’s morricones diseased baws scratching greasily against yr forehead.
it’s uncleanliness being next to ungodliness.
it’s helios creed spewing from eyehatgod’s heroin-scarred erection.
it’s the one last tumultuous drink that’ll almost certainly lead to something unsavoury.
it’s the fifth generation vhs copy of two cocks one ass refusing to eject from the vcr.
it’s alice with the pills and the bottle and the cat-killing curiosity.
it’s the pain of forced continuous engorgement.
it’s john belushi’s indistinguishable last months.
it’s an anonymous phone call at four in the morning hinting vaguely at sexual violence.
it’s vince neil saying hey, i’m fine to drive.
it’s the hantavirus in crotchless panties.
it’s the forced death march of dio-era sabbath.
it’s cobain staring impermeably at his shotgun.
it’s the inexorable veer of pigeons towards fresh vomit spatter.
it’s taking an actual proper song and rubberfisting it to within an inch of it’s cum-sodden life.
it’s going offensively with palsied stumps for eyes balls and throat.
it’s a girl in sadistic heels, two in the morning careering wetly down blythswood street.
it’s the freeze frame before butch and sundance get gunned to hell.
it’s iranian students gathering outside the us embassy on november fourth nineteen seventy nine.
it’s marlon brando overamplified and reaching for the butter.
it’s god shaking david yow in a box full of overblown instruments.
it’s hysterical drunks with guns and amphetamines in slow motion.
it’s oj wondering where nicole is.
it’s the brief damp haze of post-vomit mayhem clarity.
it’s desperately searching for an explanation for the lightbulb lodged in yr ass.
it’s someone floating in barrymores pool.
it’s picking at the afterbirth of a half-healed scab.
it’s dickie peterson’s corpse dug up and dripping with pure cthulhuan evil.
it’s forever teetering on the edge, on the cusp, the brink of falling spectacularly apart but somehow never succumbing to the powerful pull of that gravity bitch.
it’s thirteen gaudy tumours of meaty assault.
it’s big ripper.