One Below the Norm
Adam Perry
Electronic music. One below the norm. Sitting down for new sounds bold and true. Anything goes. 20th Century rejection of traditional importance and harmony. Sit in filth and suck down the waiting silence of slipping sadness. “Get behind me,” she said, mustering what words she could while passing a hundred thousand papal houses, doors wide open to her aching stillness. A cool organ hums in the dark Dylan dogma - chains wrap the inside of her needy cunt and the essence of pure honey calls from within. “More - more.” I forgot how to breathe, saw the hungry homeless future laid out before me, and thought I was privy to everything like twenty Polaroids swept across the hardwood floor. I want to embrace you once more: “at this point that won’t do; I’m beyond that.” To look into your eyes and see an ounce of return is enough: “first I need to know that I won’t die.” To remain my own greatest character, to become immortal - there is an afterlife inside an immense cathedral cold and damp; experimental exposEs of scratching symphonies within, dragged out from under some sordid stone. Beneath her complacency lies the spitting image of my maker - liar, thief, faker, and a cosmic convulsion with your tasty tongue in my mouth. Anything goes. Silver and gold working as one to produce a 20th Century rejection of some social elite, one below the norm. My eager electronic muse waiting in the fetal position starved and sick. Momma, you’re the morning.
