ry interesting. Huh? Well fuck you too! You don't have to listen. These XXXXXX couldn't smell as good as you do...only, only, the satin curtains of the XXXXXX are sprayed and stained. It creates the correct feeling. The XXXXXX are somewhere behind their curtains, as usual. Just happy when it comes down their way. XXXXXX are at the bottom of that can for the fish et al.

Rat race is going on. Feel the burn. In the can they have it their way loud and ugly. Well, as you might know, "They said it all in the madhouse already. Even in the Room 101. It was all said; nothing done. In slump - reaching for a breath. Mmm surges of gold flow wild. Crystals...fools...adios. The XXXXXX are not real, are they? Depends on where the floor is, where the roof is and above all, whether such limitations exist in the first place. For the XXXXXX, the cry echoes negative. Simultaneously, the party is about to begin. Have a rocking tour.

Sincerely,

XXXXXX

2. Feather Duster Premiere

Surreal is a word that might describe appearances tonight. Piece of romantic art is what you are. Nevertheless, be sure that this fragmented world will find your looks. The post-modern WORLD will love (WORSHIP!) you flat. As they told you before, a third dimension is really out of tune these days. Out-of-date, baby. Crash somewhere and be popular. Discover what it is in the nucleus of glory. Join the club of the deaf, dumb and crowned. Seek the high, glow in the dark and sing "what-the-hey: dead cats do not bark!" Clever. Congrats, miss "Flats". Enter the club but don´t look into the kitchen. There they are cooking for you. It is a recipe of grey things that hurt. Don´t look into the lounge either. There you will see nothing but a circus. A circus full of happy-ass clows dancing around like idiots and singing glory hallelujah while being led into a furious tango (or something) by the phantoms of greed. The message came through, right? You can´t look anywhere here. Take a listen, then. The flapping that is coming from the far left… can you recognize that one? No, wrong. Not the superman. Not a humming bird either. Yesh, yesh: it is a butterfly. Wings like flags, coloured and bright. Or is it a butterfly in the first place? Maybe I am wrong? Flags are a drug like no other. Flags are gods. Flags flap in the wind; flags dig graves for the brains. This is where you should jump into the picture, baby "Flats". Sing it: wipe cleeeeaaaan the taaaables / glory hallelujah… yeah come on, join this tune: …on which sanity is served. Thheere we go. Taste the soup they cooked for you. Taste the imbecil illusion, which they were cooking in the kitchen. Wipe clean the tables, on which the glorious dined. As sure as my name is A, it is always the xxxxxx who clean up after greed, flags, and other such idiots have finished.

3. Stumbling Stone

Some feel like leafing through the days. Floating on a leaking rubber mattress. Floating wall-to-wall in sugarlike, sweet venom. Sunshades raised skyward like weapons of some sort. Those exact same "SOME" who are at loss looking at this design that serves itself cold, distant. A cocktail that shakes and stirs the one who pays with no money. Like a new age of misery, when brooks of distress cannot be dammed and when rivers of anguish run untamed. An age where cheese comes in through the doors and the windows. This fine example in your hand.

Another fine issue is the change of viewpoint. However, there are no treasures here - please the a hike instead. In brief: cheer for every new paradox at a new corner and drink for a new high… Oh, excuse us, for we aren´t very many. But please, allow us an energetic night. "y´all: hectic ceremoney over here this way come on!!" Blurred ideas like: "check out the ugly rodent from my daily nightmares… driving cluelessly about, glaring at the appletrees, relishing the visions of orange berries and… oops. I did it again."

Floating in mid-air…
Ballistic hell and a mouthful of glass
Allow a percentage of I
to drown in that river right down there.

These days… rough landings are to be avoided at all cost. Stumbling stone.

4. Blind Carbon Copies

Hello? May I listen to the song you have reserved for the gray mass that is waiting? Thank you. Everybody tune your receivers and listen up. It lingers on while we live. Ooh-shalaboom, baby it tells us where we stand. And where do we stand? In the drum-fire? We stand hidden in the morning smog - watching as other characters walk by. At 9 'o clock we can see the second one of today. A fine specimen, indeed. One of those whose backs have been broken by haste. One of those who have nothing to say about their own course. They ask for no breaks and have no brakes.

Ha. It looks above, only to see clouds that stand as omens of some heavy rain. It looks at the traffic. It is going to give it up. It is of little use. Monitoring a heartbeat is of little use. Because they always lose. Happier days do not exist. They are smacked the fuck out of by tiny grenades of hate falling down from the skies like things that wouldn't make a difference. Afterall, things hardly make any difference, do they? In fact, gray masses can well be cracked open like sardine cans and this prcedure could not possibly make a difference.

Oh look. The fine specimen is looking at the traffic again. For a moment, it might realise how Miss Disaster still belongs to us. But not for one moment does this fine specimen believe that we could serve ourselves a little Riot On The Rocks. We could, of course, hula down the streets and sing loudly while glass escourts our ride with a jingle. We could, of course, fly low with a spark in our eyes. We could, yes... But let's pick up pace again. Jingle bells and farewell.

5. Chameleon Loop

Chameleon Pills gave me a few nice thrills oh yeah. Sat on a vehicle into the abyss. Saw guillotine after another. Heard a vibrator in place of a missile. Well that experience didn't supply me with much of love...or hate either, for that matter. The whistle said something and screamed "peace out" in a...in a pink sort of way.

Say, crack-boom & hey: Mr. G "Have a cigar. From Havanna, that is. Fetch a glass too." But in comes Miss F. Glory halleluja - wearing a rag of pride. F had taken a good swim in the ditch of life. The sewers where some supposedly lost quasi-persons try to urbanize and scheme a revenge. Luckily, the supposedly lost do not have the kind of energy. The "supposedly lost" float around on liferafts made of lead, uh-huh. They are supposedly stuck in a loop of loss that changes its colour, depending on the angle it is being glared upon. But cut the crap, here comes medicine.

Just listen to this fellow shouting here. He has discovered the point (in his own opinion, that is). However, this fellow is not the issue. The fellow shouting has no business messing with anything. The aesthetics, the ethics and other such qualities of things are far above. Good and bad, ugly and beautiful. It's earth calling, Miss F. Swallow the pill like no tomorrow.

6. Flamenco Scheme

Artificiality is what we rejoice here today. The spirit of the earth. There are no characters in this novel. This novel has NO plot. It is no novel in the first place, really. They say that it tells a story about a tiny lagoon, which is lit by the moon. Then, in jealousy, she steals the face of the moon. Well all this is all a legend from Mexico. Ignore it if you can. So sit here beside me and join this ride. This fine Italian vehicle should take us to places, if you just turn the key here before this strange fog will be pushed away.

Don't look at the clock for a while. This is how everyone should evacuate every once in a while. You know, I think I am pushing ahead of me a little wheelbarrow. It is filled with something heavier than lead, something worse than coffee that has been roasting on the perculator for a day. But don't worry about that now. Take a look at this luxurious city. It has chosen luxury. It has chosen plastic. We are on page 64 and the situation seems highly alarming.

7. Fermination, Smooth and Fine

Push the button on the right. No, not that one. The bigger one. Let's tune in. So here we are. We are standing at the city of delight. Please feed the dog and kick out the jams.

What do you think? How much does one of these cost? At least a hundred, I bet. What do you think? How fast does this go? How hard does it kick?

Ladies and gentlemen! We are here today to witness the final victory of The Bad Machine. We all own this creature. I have prepared a word or two for this situation. Excuse me for being too dazed & confused to recite them properly.

At this point, people are leaving. They are stupid, but they like it coherent and smooth. "A" failed make it smooth. "A" failed to connect very well. A strange phase in A's life has passed by and he stalks the moon like a stupid person. He digs red lights very much and things are all good. The audience stares a blank wall; viva tunnel vision.

Listen: I do not mind. That is the key to celebration AND the key to this door. This door, in a way, is the door to delight. And why? Because power is all good. Beside that, I thought about digging deeper into fundamental issues tonight. Before getting into those, I'd like to thank Love for being so useless in my case. My best regards to the Bomb, which has made me better. Much love to Gold, which I enjoy dearly.

8. Soul Bay Beat

This is disco, baby. You are going where? Do I look like a person who would know? My tail is on fire and so is my tongue. I dipped the latter one in a secret of some sort. It burned a little and what did I gain? I forgot the damned secret. Now, what kind of crap is that? I don´t know. Therefore, I saw locking myself into a closet for two weeks as the only option. What a wild experience it was. What wild thoughts I had. Something about parrots. Something about a vile headache and cold sweat pushing through. Something about caring about something or someone. Something that reminded me about mango fruits, about monkeys chasing each other. I tried desperately to write a book about this experience. "The closet for dummies", or something of such. What was the question again? Oh, I see. Not sure, but I would dare to guide you down the street that you see over there. I believe that you can find the bay of souls somewhere behind the curve, ma´am.

And so they departed. Passed each other by and never met again.

9. Signatures, Baby Bomb
Sign here, please. Thank you. Now it is all over with and you may leave. You may rest. Things are taken care of for you. It is needless to search for truth, because you may have it in this brown envelope. Take the door on your left hand side and slide down. You may then paint holes in whatever you like.

The birds that she had thought about earlier. They were perfect. This moment passed quickly though, and the birds seemed ridiculous again. Stopped. Then walked forward again. For a moment, she was thinking about the various ways pigeons could be fooled. Fooled, because they are such imbeciles in her opinion. Complete strangers, she could do anything. Aliens, if you will. Not of the same world, but they too had met before (like the persons a while back). Painted a hole or two, then sat down. Looked at the envelope. Made a call. Wrong number. How awkward.

Complete strangers...yeah, they might as well be cooked in coconut oil. She smiled like an idiot and picked up the envelope. Inside, her fear was given a name.