August/September 2005

The Music
Baked Birthhead

Plug your self into the wall socket and turn your soul’s knobs right,
tuning in the message echoing around you through any metal in the house.
The spoon in your breakfast cereal explodes in a chocolate disharmonic,
a Coco-ophany of concentrated consecrated orchestrations.

A popped ear drum solo, like a freshly burst slug dripping out an ear,
like a paradise of noise, twisted and reborn in a single sound,
reverberated aftershocks from the birth of creation, like the squelch of sex,
unexpected and crawling through the primordial cortex-ture of your mind.

Ripped from the pages of tour guides to the dead ends of interstates of thought.
Lyrics lost on those who would ever be as sacrilegious as try to understand them.
Words like warning signs, large and red, strung out over the desert in radiation.
Day glow Christians with salivation on a stick, singing their hearts out to the lord.

Broken sentences and busted radio-phonic muses, pirate wolf men on Mexican radio
selling soap, medicine man miracles and the god's own gospel with equal fervor.
And at long last you'll have found the station of being truly in the current of the wave,
madmen's music electro-shocking and playing the three discord strait up your spine.

Your head is nodding in time as the hair on your neck gives a standing ovation
to the poetry and pain pulsing like an Armageddon's rain through the speaker static,
spreading the food of life through the famished country side shows of existence,
playing on and on and on, into the disc jockey dawn of the living dead of night.