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Pop splintered into a pileup of horses lead single file to the glue factory. Furious animal violence threading the needle, tranquilized by constant injustice, the immense minority rose, gassed out of the rubble, segregated and sedated worms after rain sucking air on the surface, built from broken promises and poisoned expectations, trisexual religion wrapped in barbed wire and safety pins, piles of concrete blocks, fragments made of germs, bones, and electric bacteria, digging graves while whistling through the cuts, bricks edged against dilapidated ghost town storefronts, borders that hold nothing inside, where Little Richard and Iggy Pop clasp hands, unleashing the transfer of dangerous energy, the blues raped by beach boys who ate speed until the heroin kicked in and then the distorted amps shot hardcore rooster chords out of their leather cases and fell down, smeared in peanut butter and razor blades, blurred acid mascara kicked out the jams, motherfucker, loud fast pigs gigged in bathroom stalls from Detroit to the Bowery and bashed their guitars on the railroad tracks, then threw the pieces into tar pits, cherry bombs jammed into slits, hepatitis prison tats, choke chains and padlocks were spit in gobs out of the maw with stamina, swaddled like a reggae zipper baby in fashionable destruction and filth, pandemonium laced with red leather, rhinestones, and CBGB jackets. Whose dog are you, anyway, with your bad brains and bated breath? If you don’t die from this, then you’re not doing it right.