The past squawks like a blue jay*

No Lysol's the real syndrome in Stockholm.

*almost had you in my sights, noisy little bastard

Memory lane's overgrown with naked birch slowly greening beneath Byzantine sky, peeling away until Derrida in the face, but since self-gatekeeping leaves out all the pageturners (good thing that never happens these days whew [ed. note: liar]), what's left is the banality you're foolish enough to read each day, doubly saved am I because that album, out ten years ago Sunday though the living hackwork it helped soundtrack was written 700 days hence give or take, already got the treatment (even more whew [ed. note: lazy bum]) & apologies for turgid prose still drowning in faux pomposity (I should be drawn & quartered [ed. note: agreed]), funny how easy it is to laugh at oneself because otherwise its head chickening the nearest brick. Today's me is gonna be gutbusting to tomorrow's.


Chrome, I remember [censored]


If I Transpire [censored]


Don't flic that Bic, there's Sulfur [censored]

Unquestionable (perhaps, a gang of fellow Swedes is scowling) that since its release, I've spun this more than any other platter, but would I spin it right now in space-time, since teenage twenty-something late twenty-something angst is less (slightly) mainly because it's the late thirties, I'm penning (crap, but penning's the ink's knees regardless), seriously jonesing on some old tunes new to me thanks homie but this album will be there after the inevitable burning crash to reality in five, four, three, two, one.