1.1


Root stop watch. Rhythm switching sisters that plague allies to run faster, harder, stronger.

It all smacks of deliberate espionage.

A monstrous climb-child traverses the mountain, and snatches at thunderbolts, still whingeing when scorched hands flail into the sleepy towns and villages in order to just get a little respite.
Despite his wounds he bawls off into the faces of once-lauded deities, the Thors, the Odins, the Dyaus Pitars and the like.
They climb further now – priced out by modernisms that filled their hollow shoes. Your internets, your social medias, your pop stars and your inner psyche that sits in the centre of the vortex and the like.

Plastic dog butts saddle their way home. Microwave meals achieve post-modern luxury and TV sets turn the channels on you, the viewer.

It was only a matter of time after all, but the climb-child had to reach the outskirts, dog-busting fence-shifters, and firemen trained to the tea. They knew the day of reckoning would come some day, knew it wouldn’t last. So they rallied to action, still-freeze. Heart blocker falls. Nerve impulses over-firing. This was all too much for most, some crack commando squad they turned out to be.

Too much dress and not enough rehearsal, that’s the trouble with this end of the world, where all of us lot have got to sit calmly and patiently, told never to look up for our own safety.

Inactive tramps skiffle a loud whacked-out apocalypse. The sales speak for themselves, what with vinyl charts taking all the credit these days and sleeves spent hard and fast on the whimsy and the prosaic.

The Call of Wind were dicing with another line-up, Procrastination Charlie forsook the spearhead and split. He said things were always destined to work out for the best, that everything happens for a reason and that was simply what it was. Dynamite Crow lied and smiled. Such chains rocked his sentiments but lip-sync hold was the order of the day and the band’s bold move turned out a fresh sound, spiced like alphabetti spaghetti.

It was exactly what they were looking for. Wash out the rest of the red, claimed production-quality software. Intricate algorithms were set to dictate for syncopated success. No problem computing. The sound entered the wires, the wires did a little loop, split in two ways, slowed the stream down in one, cooled the other a bit, added extra sparkle volts to a third that it had created by replicating and hybridising, equating, averaging, modifying, plagiarising, synthesising and generalising. 

It came out sparkling alright.
Dynamite Crow wasn’t sure if he recognised the sound but bit lip quick and watched the old vinyls slip into shops. Tick tock the clock chipped in with a snigger….

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