Death to bingo wings and retirement spent on fags and red wine and missed mornings and migraines and your children hiding from your smell of soot. Here comes the avalanche, the ghosts of milkmen the silence of the factories waiting for this well housed street to be flooded or burnt down, waiting for war, waiting for the return of heroes, waiting for tradition and rebellion. Death to wishing for black and white, death to wishing for brown, death to wishing and wishing for death. Death to gods and myths, death to industry and working your hands to the bone, smoking bones. Death to flowers. Make your bed out of cardboard and wake up somewhere new. Women smoking, men hiding, kids dreaming. Here comes the avalanche.
Posted by Joe Copplestone