Slugs from Peculiar Spells by Our Maddest Edges

The straight city lines clamp my brain, push me forward down a tight, black tunnel. Thighs pump in lugubrious haste, giving chase to the bones of those who couldn’t keep pace; churning in monolithic waves of burping charcoaled waste. An unfriendly reminder that people don't get kinder when you hinder their mind with sine waves undulating between gas lighting and mad hyping. These fine lines in the sand might not be drawn by the toes of a man, but by a tightly coiled side winder, ready to drag any taker down to that glowing hell. Their bloated, sweaty bodies scrape against mine, unaware of our connection. A crusted growl fowls the ears of a passer by, smoke scolds in jealous whispers, and a box of chewed up chicken bones scatters across the sidewalk, like a voodoo ritual for the ghosts of futures lost.
Four loko, impossible burgers, peanut brickle and 600 types of deep fried fuckery leak from their every orifice, in perpetual hedonistic suicide…

No passion in your replies
No sunrise behind your eyes
The life force inside you is fading
The visions we once had
Froze flash like Pompeii ash
If wishes were horses then beggars would ride

Out in the sun
Out in the sun

• Alternative
• Grunge
• Heavy
• Progressive
• Rock
• fusion
• Baltimore