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we what drops

by aQa

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1.
the swingingest peach 05:10
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2.
strange little love - ripen above 08:36
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3.
perfumes all around me 05:44
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about

Dreamed I was a box-humper at the Bad News Chirp’s show uptown. An’ to show she dig the kicks, The Great Wren let me lay my racket on the main kick. I heard she was kinda hincty, but she’s down with the riff. She got her boots on with the like, kindness and graciousness, yeah?

Hell, just bein’ in this frolic-pit’s a great honour, let alone coppin’ the mic under her.

I riffed a little, couple of ad-libs, and kicked off. First one, I beat it out, stop dead. The lights are up big and I can feel them on my arms on account of the short sleeveless number I’m wearing. A couple of weak gags and song two. I end with a deep curtsey.

When I glance up, firstly, she’s been watching, sucking up my act, I guess. Thing two, you ask? Why the whole dome’s empty. Deserted. Like post-apocalyptic, dig?

Thing three is, I’m a hundred percent completely birthday suit – which I was not expecting. Thing four? It’s OK with the whole bare-ass naked thing - because I’m – dig this – a large cow, who’s somehow wandered by accident onto the main kick. And what I thought was beautiful piping is just lowing and belching, ruminant-style with the four stomachs, y’hip?

Just as I feel the deep mortification swell up to engulf me, the dream throws me up and I’m in bed. Next to Clyde in the bedroom of our beautiful 1950s dream home. So I turns to him and I says, “Boy, are we ever in icky-ville!”

He starts to come around, say something out of his mouth - but it’s then I cop the clock on the night-stand. It’s late – I should have been up and hostessing in the well-appointed kitchen HOURS ago! Ain’t no insurance gonna cover this!

I was in a panic! There was so much to do – the sandwiches to make, the children to beat, the whole house to set on fire! I’d planned to get up so much earlier than this! By now, I should have cleared the breakfast dishes and be weeping hysterically on the manicured lawn as orderlies from the bug-house tried to lift me up and into the huggin’ jacket one was holding out.

Later, I’d planned to be catatonic in an interview with the calm and efficient young doctor, who smelled of soap while asking me how often Clyde and I ‘did it’, and were there any other men? Women? Negroes?

Everything’s broken and stupid now! What am I to do?

What indeed?

credits

released May 13, 2021

All tracks wrenched into existence at the Sound Pit, as the icy darkness engulfed me, 2020. All editing, reworking, embalming and reanimation performed at the Sound Pit, as I regained my human form, early 2021.

Thanks to, without whom, etc:
Absolutely no-one. Not one. In fact, I hate everyone I ever met and I don't see that changing anytime soon. Fuck you.

Now wash your hands.

Love and kisses,
A Well-Wisher.

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aQa Scotland, UK

THE SONIC EQUIVALENT OF ROTTING SEAFOOD, CRAMMED THROUGH YOUR LETTERBOX BY A PRIAPIC IMBECILE.

Vanilla Icke was grown from scratch on radioactive shark cartilage and brought up on a diet of cartoon violence, tabloid headlines and hard drugs.

He has published a number of romantic novels, a subject on which he really should keep quiet. ... more

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