The Inconvenience Store

High up above in the Hernia Hills
Is a place that will fill you with terror and chills.
You'll wish you'd done all of your shopping before.
Welcome to the inconvenience store.

Sprint through doors that will snap so hard shut,
To trap someone's torso or slice up some gut.
Search through the aisles for some desperate bread,
matches and milk. You'll feel better off dead.

How inconvenient! How inconvenient!
You'll never find that vital ingredient
Your family need, so that they can feed.
This wonderful place that will make your brain bleed.

Reach through electrified plastic divides,
for yoghurt and cream that will burn your insides.
And stacked on the shelves just to worsen your caper
Are piles of out-of-date tabloid newspapers.

Queueing for hours in a line so long
To purchase your things at a price that is wrong.
Your products- expired and somewhat decayed.
This store's a believer in pure unfair trade.

How inconvenient! How inconvenient!
You'll never find that vital ingredient
Your family need, so that they can feed.
This wonderful place that will make your brain bleed.

Get to the till and you feel quite deranged.
Our shopkeeper ensures that you're fully short-changed.
Scans through the shampoo and chicken and rice.
He's adding on Goros to triple the price.

Run out fast dodge machine-gun fire.
Dance, dance, dance through the bloody barbed-wire.
Get out to your car and the bucket- you kick it.
String yourself up at the price of your ticket.

How inconvenient! How inconvenient!
You'll never find that vital ingredient
Your family need, so that they can feed.
This wonderful place that will make your brain bleed.

Humphrey Pincerclamp's Lobster Revolution.

Humphrey Pincerclamp was a pioneer lobstetrician of the 1940's from the University of Apelstiltskin, (Apelstiltskin, South Goruguay). Patients would flock from distant lands and pay obscene amounts of money for the services of this medical mastermind, who was born with one hand much larger than his other (which was of normal size).
Up until this time, lobstetrics played second fiddle to the field of brinaecology, however Dr Pincerclamp and his team brought to light the importance and potential of this discipline, and thence indirectly went on to make history and destroy class barriers that had plagued South Goruguay for centuries.

Brinaecology is the medical field that helps mothers to cultivate their child with characteristics of certain types of oceanic life. Children born through this intervention were often well-equipped for a life in water- with a tremendous tolerance for icy temperatures, improved lung-capacity and excellent swimming abilities. With a war taking place firmly on the land, many families were forced to live on boats or rafts made of inedible crackers. Too much time in the water caused a burning to the skin and hypothermia was the big killer of 1941.

In 1942 Pincerclamp published his first work- "Lobstetric Manipulation of Embryonic Development" where he outlined a way to enforce primordial crustacean gene expression beyond 5 weeks, and purport that a child could be born with gills and marine hunting skills, alongside the beneficial characteristics rewarded by the domineering big-sister discipline.

By 1944, not only had Pincerclamp succeeded in developing children with gills, but also chitinous skin and extremely tight gripping muscles of the hands (On Crustacifying the Human Embryo, Pincerclamp et al, 1944).
The revelatory medicine was immediately made available on the NHF and overnight, Pincerclamp became a millionaire. But this was not the end.

By Stabruary 1945, following a tremendous population boom of aqua-babies, the research had evolved to produce children that looked like, and had all the features of, wild lobsters. They were perfectly adapted for life in the sea and could even breed to produce viable lobster offspring of their own in time (Lobstetrics and Complete Lobstransfomative Manipulation of the Human Embryo, Pincerclamp et al, 1945; Lobs vs Brinae: Who is Laughing Now? Pincerclamp et al, 1945).

At the time, lobstetrics allowed for the survival of the families of those purged from the land by war. But as war became more acceptable and better tolerated, families returned to the soil. It was now less important to be able to live on or under the waves. Especially as not even the Big Blue was a safety zone anymore, with WiFi sea mines and the unforgettable Operation: Manatee.
The biggest problem facing families at this point therefore was a major class divide that had sadly grown wider since the patients of Pincerclamp had excommunicated themselves from the richer, more bunkered families of the land and private healthcare.
In the following decade, Lobstetrics became more of a fashion accessory than a therapy. But it was precisely this that destroyed the walls between and within societies.
The poor and more populace classes now dined upon rich foods- enslaving the lobsters of other families and wearing monocles as they sat down for their evening meals. The wealth of lobster meat became a boom for their economy as they farmed and sold the children to their middle and upper class counterparts.

It was a canny young individual, Gurharalaald Jorgestronsvaldentrnk, who took Pincerclamp's research and copyrighted all the different genes for lobster colour. Subsequently he engineered an industry targeting the rich, who wanted yellow lobsters with blue speckles on their plates. He sold these for enormous profit and fed his own community for free, sharing the wealth that his cannibal enterprise had brought home, and single-handedly, over a period of 5 solid years, balanced the South Goruguayan population into a classless society.

--

Taken from NHF Today: Why Privatise the NHF?

Sunshine, Lollipops and the Monochrome Rainbow.

The sun is shining out of my rear,
A moment for praise, reflection and cheer.
Held up above in such high esteem
For things that I dared to act out from dream.

What they do not know is the price of my fare.
Its born not of dream, but born of nightmare.
Drowning in oil, gasping for breath.
Alternative modes of extravagant death.

Brimming with spirit, exploding with heart.
Its never the winning, its just taking part.
But soul is malignant, victory teased.
The essence of every component diseased.

Such an illusion. Such a mirage.
My penalty suffered for dreaming is large.
Back-slapping, handshakes and kudos are paid.
My digested sunshine is blackened in shade.

Horse, Nurse, Goat, and Me.

"It can always be worse,"
- said the horse to the nurse,
as he snuffled through his trough,
and held back the coughs.
Equine throat tickles
as foam and spit trickles
from the corner of his beak.
His mind is on fleek.

"A fine handsome coat-
much more fashionable than the goat"
Said the nurse to the horse,
Then he struck her with force!
"Why, pretty colt?!
Is this all my fault?"
Said the nurse to the pony,
Anorexic and bony.

"You pure bronco beauty,
You horsiferous cutey,
I don't want you to suffer."
"Then you should act tougher,
Stare into my sadness
Engage with my madness.
Unpredictable me
Is a horse of the sea."

"What's going on here?"
Said the goat to the fear.
Bearded and nourished.
Not cool, but flourished.
"Your horns, dear Billy."
"Listen, stop being silly"
"Be cruel or be kind..
I've gone out of my mind".

The Wonderful Tragedy of Corcontritum the Helper Monkey

Obviously I'm not known for dressing up.. am I..?
Anyway, there we go- another trophy in the cabinet. An attempt to integrate more socially and cultivate friendships seems to have paid off. Perhaps with the pity prize. But it is still a prize. The poor fools who spent hours on makeup and hair.. I put on an amusing suit in moments, and topped it off with a fez. A formula for victory. I wore a bloodied apron for years.. to err.. "critical acclaim........".
The formula depends upon the "suit" variable of course.
Costume parties.. how I used to resent them. Can you believe that I, the Budenny Bard of Goruguay, was once afraid of potentially looking ridiculous? Embrace the hate and it will end up loving you.
If done nicely I learned last night that they are most excellent conversation pieces. The monkey made a lot of new friends. A popular dance partner too. My unfortunate simian henchprimate had the weight of an unpredictable ape on their shoulders all night. A costume that carried away some of life's horrendous strain. A psychiatric helper monkey. The monkey is a de-skeletonised heap on the bedroom floor today. I think it drank too much.
But metaphors and monkey-business aside, the monkey made me happy.
My idea. A thought form that would be nothing without the engagement of people. All is not lost.
I might even cut my nails and take the tin foil hat to the recycling centre.

This song is for last night:


The Wonderful Tragedy of Corcontritum the Helper Monkey

Lift me up, my simian steed and gallop amongst those drinking.
Carry my heap of bones and flesh, encourage more free-thinking.
I paid for you, you are my slave to bear my mental torsion.
The monkey on your back is me, a hateful, sickened portion.

Ride, ride, into their lives
Dance for me, we'll win the prize.
Ride, ride, onto the table
Your monkey feet might trip on the cable.
Make new friends, impress the folks
who otherwise won't laugh at my jokes
Monkey see, and monkey doooooo.....

Don't stop me from out-monkeying you.

Its difficult times when bladders fill and we are still together.
Heave me up the stairs you do and slowly we untether.
Your plot to spoil my kidneys failed again, thats three I've counted.
So get up from my ankles monkey, prepare to be mounted.

Ride, ride, into their lives
Dance for me, we'll win the prize.
Ride, ride, onto the table
Your monkey feet might trip on the cable.
Make new friends, impress the folks
who otherwise won't laugh at my jokes
Monkey see, and monkey doooooo.....

Don't stop me from out-monkeying you.

But what would this epic story be without a hint of splatter?
I carved out monkey's skull today and fried the brains in batter.
They tasted rather boring really, I wasted when I killed.
I should have known from Dr Jones these things are best served chilled.

Chilled, chilled monkey brains
Good for headaches and mental pains
Chilled, chilled horse's head-
Take two in the morning, one day in bed.
This is how you beat your woes
Eat strange animals, eat your foes.
Monkey see, and monkey dooooo..

Don't stop me from out-monkeying you.

Hakespeare's Soliloquy- A plagiarist's commentary.

Tomorrow, and the day after, and thence onwards..
Creeps in this slothful pace from day to day,
To the last morpheme of recorded time;
And all of our yesterdays have clowns on fire.
The road to dusty death. Extinguish yourself, fleeting happiness.
Life is but a shadow swimming through mud, a C-list actor
That fluffs his lines and isn't even believable
And then he is relegated to notoriety on Twitter (and maybe gets a radio show).
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of klonking irrelevance, mismatched individuals and burning red hatred.. on a tiny planet, in a tiny solar system, in an enormous universe, in an infinite space..
Signifying that each life is an addition to the dung pile on existence's farmyard.

Journey to the Centre of Re-birth

Goodbye day. Goodbye clinic.
Goodbye summer. Goodbye cynic.
Goodbye future. I can't swim it.
Goodbye pushing to my limit.

Goodbye friends. Goodbye foes.
Goodbye highs and goodbye lows.
Goodbye night. Goodbye breeze.
Goodbye health and all disease.

Goodbye lies. Goodbye truth.
Goodbye old age. Goodbye youth.
Goodbye music. Goodbye noise.
Goodbye troubles. Goodbye joys.

Goodbye hate, humiliation.
'Bye emotional stagnation.
Goodbye sense. Goodbye food.
Nun ndl trk vl untn kood.

Sinking quickly underground.
I'm the fox. And I'm the hound.
Goodbye meaning. Goodbye sadness.
Hello crazy, rabid madness.

Uninsured Property

If only.. If only I could lay an egg. A real egg made of gold.
And then another.. Several more. Then what a life I'd mould.
Wishing for 24-karat manstruation.. With each month I churn out ovulatory wealth.
My blood it glistens, its hot and molten- hurts quite a bit really. Ruins my health.
Midas touched my ovaries. What a predatory fellow.
Each month pops out a sparkling yellow.
Oh its just a dream to be seduced by this myth,
Be partially woman, and fill my nest with..
Clutches of universal currency. But at what great expense?

I just need enough so I can pay for a fence.

45mg

The beauty of horrible music, is that purges the spirit of disease. To create something so unreal, but full of all kinds of absurd statistics and invented creatures.. It turns the valve on the tap. The pipe is always a bit blocked when the writing process begins. But as the pressure builds up, eventually it all bursts forth in a blast of soul-vomit, catching the unaware with its putrefying spray.
You will get sickeningly wet, if you are in my crowd. You can't wear a poncho protective enough to save you from the malice in my head. Fortunately it is all filtered out through a rainbow of metaphor.. slickly presenting itself as some form of unthinkable idea-display.
Writer's block is just because the pipe is full of calciferous plaques. A bit like my arteries. When it embolises, everybody has a good laugh.
I'll be laughing from my grave, because the people I hate that are still alive, are still alive.. paying their massive debts. Working their shitty jobs. Losing bets. Experiencing pain. But unable to convert the ugliness of their misery into mirth.
Although I would quite like to outlive them all. Take satisfaction in that. Write a song or two.
"Robbie the Rat Raper". "Joanna Joanna, and her 12 gauge piranha". "Conor the Barber's Librarian". Maybe they are inspirations for future people I might have not met yet.
But then the irony is.. they live forever.. immortalised in my hall of shame. While the fish eat away my final cells and I am ultimately lost forever at sea. As per my inevitable dying wishes.
So leave their true basis unacknowledged. And a huge calciferous plaque on my memorial pyramid that states "here lies the bard of bile", which is true because its a lie. I'll be fish food.
Make sense? Crabsolutely.

Mirtazapine

Save me from myself, little tablet that makes Actavis a lot of money. 30mg of numbness in the palm of my hand. Once a day. Every day. Forever.
Or for a few years at least.
The world isn't even that bad. I just want to know what a life without sadness would be like. Get some crazy new ideas. Inspire myself. With nothingness.

Why would I want to be happy all the time, if that means I can't appreciate what it means to crack a joke. To smirk.  To fall over myself with side-splitting amusement.
When happiness is all that is left, perhaps it is like programming a machine.

/Remove/sad/all.
/Insert/happiness/100%
/Bypass/soul/heart/spirit.

My sanctuary may lie inside a capsule of foil and plastic. But it can't purge a madness that was always there. A melancholy and black comedy behind my eyes. Stab. Stab. Stab.
Oh psychiatrist, please don't try to put the anal into analysis, while you examine my fine works of metaphor. I am not a killer. Although I have slain entire crowds with mirth. Perhaps I would be proud to murder someone with humour. Laughed to death. What a way to die. Why do I not find anyone so funny?
Deadpan face unless I am reeling out a story of my own. But now I feel a gradual transition.. I imagine a crocodile. Look in its eyes. Dead inside. Drifting along like a reptilian log. Sometimes opens its mouth. Silent laughter without the joke.
We know it isn't really happy.
It is dead inside.

When I SMS you next, imagine that scaly, beady-eyed, vacant face with the open mouth..
"ROFL.."

What Happens When the Wind Stops Blowing?

I'll tell you what happens.. everything stops dead.
Awash with nonspiration is this world. Do do do. This that AND also the other. It never ends. And then we forget what we are living for.
(Un)fortunately, this blog site is linked to my gmail, so it is pretty unkillable. In this moment (brief moment) of temporal liberty, it seems productive to reflect and recover.
So long it has been since I have penned a musical masterpiece. Those days of youth where riffs were force fed on a weekly basis to crowds of geese, fattening their livers.
Stuck in a hamster ball made up from plastic panels of career/family/health/education. Everywhere you roll, you may roll in style. But you never get out of the ball.
Recently my ball dropped off a table and cracked. Even more recently a hole appeared.
Being a hamster and all, of course I gnawed away to freedom.
And here I am. But my Goretar is too big.
Tomorrow I have a special appointment for possible dehamstrification. It has been a postcode lottery of sorts. They may give me gerbilisation or guinea pigmentation. There isn't really enough literature on the benefits of such therapies to win me over yet.
Regardless, my little rodentile hands have made some effort recently. Check out the reverbnation page http://www.reverbnation.com/goruguay and you'll see just what a hamster is capable of.
It has been quite well digested. Like a really delicious sunflower seed. Several people have told me I should carry on this particular trend. The new appearances are recorded non-electrically. So unelectrically in fact that I powered it all myself on a wheel. Yes I acknowledge this generates electricity. Fun sponge.
If you haven't had a listen, in plain terms, I have re-recorded some Gore songs on acoustic guitars. The arrangements are folktacular and different to the experienced experience of the pieces. Perhaps it is exciting and pleasing to some. It was a catharsis for myself.
I am encouraged to do a whole album's worth. I could. It is cheap after all. Maybe I will Millhouse.
But while I rearrange old songs I realise it doesn't work very well for some, and others, they never worked anyway. So it probably is time I commit the new mania in my head to the history books, as promised.
It was as I was writing the chorus to "Beware, the Pies of March" that it occurred to me.. when did I start introducing quality control into music? Thenwards the notion was forgotten and the anything-goes ideology retained.
Enjoy the travesty of the moment. Bright, but terrible things are afoot. The truth of a horse's thoughts betray effort. As it should be. Carry on. The wind has stopped blowing.
G

Hatred Makes the World Go Around.

"All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a thousand enemies. And when they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you.."

A mantra I have entertained for so many years. Never did I realise that only 999 of those enemies are the product of my nefariousness. That solitary 1, sits in the epicentre of my gargantuan mutant brain that wasn't actually clever enough to work out that hate makes the world go around. Until now of course.
And it does. Hate makes the world go round. Well, my world. My world spins on an axis of darkness. The evil gravity pulls weaker emotions towards it, bleeding them dry like a vampire of souls. Harvesting and reaping. Sowing the seeds for the next victim of my manipulation skills. Or is it charm? I forget.
You can't have pure hate, true hate, fall into hate, or just plain hate, unless you can say without doubt that you have used a heart-shaped emoticon in real life and meant it, in the most unquestionable, unreasonable, and unconditional way.
So why does hate make the world go round? When you enter blackest night and survive tearing yourself apart in the blind raw intensity of pain, you live with yourself. Harmony comes. Not from kindness of others. Not from the object of your sickened heart's most twisted desire meeting the cruellest of fates, in a seemingly karmically satisfying way. Not unholy vengeance. But through loving to hate.
Falling in love with despair is a dangerous road. Makes you do crazy things. It can trap you in a tomb of esteem so low it is encased in concrete at the bottom of the ocean. You could end up destroying yourself.
Or, it can cast a wave that you can surf. Surf that crest to glory. Ride that natural, city-destroying emotion to success. Master it as a dolphin- no beach ball will be large enough to stop your might.
Balance is key. Without it, you fall off your board. Or sink, face-first, into the sludge beneath you.
Everyone who has ever hated, once had a heart. Focus the mist, and this chasm of aggression is filtered through the teeth of some kind of reasonable whale. The krill and plankton.. those are the things that really matter. The water is just what surrounds us, oppresses us, makes us choke, allows fish to breathe. Oh to be a fish. Such a life of zen.
Life may be suffering. But to suffer, is to appreciate the brilliance of bright colours. Find meaning in your smile. You will never stagnate in complacency if you embrace the cold, dark, rotten and CE non-approved teddy bear called Humanity.
In conclusion.. Punish me because I can take it. And when my belly is full from all the sewage I have swallowed, I'll be laughing much harder, and longer than you. Life is more savage yet more colourful. More painful, but more hilarious. Life has more funeral marches, but more musical notes. More brutality, but more meaningful tenderness.
Life is beautiful because I am in control of the hate that burns as a flaming halo over my horned soul.
Life is beautiful.
So live.
Breathe in that air.. Deep breaths. Inhale the oxygen. Blow out carbon dioxide into the weaker faces of your enemies.

Thank you for reading.
My deepest hate to you all.
GJH