Sir Fleming intervenes, holding a pint a Magners in the air, hollers in my ear, "I'm fried to the back a your teeth."
I look at the barman, kinda way says "Don't judge a man by the beverage he orders, look at these eyes here, black spirals in the white. Best you just hand over the blue / white tin an we get this transaction over an done with, since Mary's Fuck, forty three bikers are gnawin my neck with the thirst."
And the Italian Ben Stiller, he lifts a chair, hammers it offa the floor one time, three times, nine times, "Peace Sells" buggerin the last ounce a inhibition out the gash in his eyebrow.
He ain't the only one fucked on Mustaine, the walls partin every so often, the roar goes up;
"If there's a better way,
I'll be the first in line…"
Limbs tossed this way an that, Mustaine's sneer like a wasp in the piss-tunnel, and caught by the arm;
"You wanna go outside for a smoke?"
Aye, I do, feel like maybe the prophets lined up long the back walls are the kinda folks all too keen for to point out that no, The Duke, you've crossed over, you got too close, best you take yourself to the open air for a time.
Too much mania in the mind-vents. Too much Savage Purple, aye, the note reads; "I doubt I'll ever sleep again, having seen Sinéad enter yonder establishment, bikers and punks and goths and skaters filling every conceivable space, eyes peekin out from the ear-holes of folks in Venom shirts, and watching awe-struck as the fleshy mass split before her, and she wanders through, Moses with better breasts, no, scribble out, too divine a lass for to be soiling with such thought."
On account of the Moses in the brains, on account of all these Old Testament concerns, I get struck in the psyche with an image, a vision, the Prophet Isaiah racing into the desert, flinging locusts at the heavens till his heart blows backwards out his chest, his last words lost to the sand screechin gainst the esophagus, something about "How can you grant me this vision whilst knowing I can never ever be in her presence, what with the mutli-thousand year stop-off?"
Realization, heavenly, not a moment too soon, by fuck's knuckles;
What it all boils down to, see, the paranoia, the prophets, the alarming sights and smells, what it all points in the direction of is that aye, lust drives a man mad.
Article comments
1 - Bennett
I think I remember having nights like that.
The nightmare vision continues. Seems like a black and white adventure, colorized years later in reds and greens by someone who sees only the stark madness.
Loved the part about uncertain communication, looking for clear signs that don't materialize.
Thanks Duke.
2 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
thank you bennett. its nearin the end, onlookers will be glad as all hell to know. i'd say two more parts, three tops. i get the feelin this feels different to the rest, maybe im just bein paranoid. but regardless, it trundles on.
again, thank you bennett
3 - DJRadiohead
Good show, Duke. This is the way to start a morning... beats the hell out of doing anything resembling work first thing in the morning.
I think you are right... there is a different feel to this one. Which I suppose makes sense. Pt 1-4 were all about getting to the meeting. So was some of Pt 5 up to the point where the meeting starts. Pt 6 - we're at the show now. Makes sense it would feel different. Somehow even a bit darker, menacing. But lust, desparation, disillusionment, and Red Bull don't feel or look anything like pink bunny rabbits.
And more yet to come? Outstanding. I was fearing 6 was going to be the conclusion.
4 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
DJ, thank you man. i was suprised a tad at how menacin the whole thing feels, readin over it again now. but it's accurate with regards the state a man was in, thats for sure.
im glad you're still diggin it, friend.
5 - Sinéad
"Moses with better breasts"
heh - cheers......*blush*
6 - gypsyman
Continuing to amaze and astound. Joyce if he were taking something he found in a back ally couldn't have done it better.
will we be having Duke nights in Belfast in the near future? Instead of a one day polite reading in a pub, a Post-modern horror show stumble through fetid stink holes that pass for nightspots and bars spread over a week's worth of non indulgence save for caffeen. if there is justice we will.
You don't need drugs and alcohol to be freaked, in fact the trip is lot scarier straight.
masterful again a la mondo
7 - DJRadiohead
You don't need drugs and alcohol to be freaked, in fact the trip is lot scarier straight
I have resembled that sentiment a time or two myself. Wow.