fua: s/t (fancyyyyy)

what the fuck is this? they’re shrieking, brittlefingers lunging for the volume. slapping hands back with grubby precision, i attempt parry and riposte.

ten minutes of farting blur(t), skronk, wet and dripping, from the fittingly onomatopoeic clutterbuck, krekels and ummm… campbell, wipes itself dry and fills the uncomfortable silence.

consider it a kindof glossolalia, says i.

the confusion gains me valuable seconds and i’m quickly armed, brandishing and by way of explanation, i sink into trance, start babbling in roused, slurred cut-up.

a scatology of vowel sounds and hard consonants fills the room (different from the one you are in now) married to the bastard tics of noise flobbing out of kitchen cassette player.

a compost of garbled kazoo, modular frotting, analogue sputters and glottal scrapes, all against around over one another with pingponging pornographic glee.

they back off, everything calms eventually, clicking and popping and brrrrping for a bit, a gassy whizz of breath and string.

but it bursts again.

all buttery flails and durty skreee. everything’s liquid syllable. i find nothing approaching a rhythm, just a sharp descent into unsense, wondrous sulfuric reed burns and a pitching mellifluous flow of goo that leaves one ectoplasmickally sticky…

oh my.

i’m left alone and onanistically inclined; delirious, wallowing in this corporeal mulch, gurning away as the mutant ardour subsides.

oof. i need a cigarette…

fancyyyyy
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