keywords: experimental awkward aylesbury buckinghamshire deviant no audience underground Aylesbury
label: Structured Disasters

This all started with the act of hooved feet that are clicking and clacking seemingly down a dark dodgy alleyway, you can hear them all polished and new, making sweet rhythmic sounds on the little medieval stones that are seemingly a bit wet from its drowsy surroundings.
Maybe drunks that had popped out of nearby backdoors had been emptying their bladders over them, maybe they spilled a couple of left over drinks as they tried forcible to keep themselves standing straight on their own legs, maybe some vomit here and there might have made it all extra slippery… whatever it is, the deliriously delicious click and clacks are slowly slipping away in the walm of back alley music, things that might have been sliding out of half open windows, or had been cooked up by meth users with a wild imagination.

Can you feel it? a nonexistent voice in my own head said as I followed these steps with you down the same alleyway… this must be the feeling of a delirium approaching, taking over all the sensible senses and let normality fade away smoothly & replacing it with vague memories that can’t be of our own making, or perhaps they had been, but either you or me had been too spaced out and forgot all about it, it is here that the shimmering shadows of party-like drunken times came in, the kind in which the whole world had become a carousel and our eyes accepted a pleasurable out of focusness. Nobody will see clearly or think normal over here as quite frankly; our marbles might have rolled away! For a slight moment I could have sworn that we had woken up in the streets of Pyongyang or some other bizarre surrealism place, one that is fascinating, but that we shouldn’t be able to find ourselves in such a drunken state in.

For a moment my eyes became black and when they opened again we seemed to be nicely tucked into a basket dangling high in the air underneath a hot air balloon, not sure if it was real or imagined, but I know that it felt troublesomely real, as the more gassy fire had been blown inside, the more ballooner our heads seemed to become. “ding dong” a sound kicked in a flashback of being at a supermarket, hopelessly confused, out of touch with reality and creeped out by not knowing why we were here, how we got here and why so suddenly? I felt the urge to get quickly towards the nearest exit. But before even reaching for such a thing like an escape from the hell that is a local grocery store. things had become wiped out again & when colour surfaced back on our visual receivers again, all that turned up was a greyish void, a clouded emptiness of bleak nothingness.

For a person who isn’t a fan of heights (hello balloon flight!) or crowded people in a supermarket; this moment was of great blessing. Here we could easily blank out, relax and feel safe in insane numbness. This moment of madness brought great inner peace within it, we could have stayed here forever and ever. But also this safe space slipped away into the freakier zone, one in which the ambassador of the dimension of lunacy came by to welcome us back again, announcing a deeper trip down unfamiliar memories, feelings of wanting to be left alone, of trying to hold onto a nonexisting reality that seemed to be so lubed up with soap, so slippery that holding on to it would be an impossible act for even the most professional cliffhanger.

Whoops, there it goes, down the rabbit hole, down the dodgy children keyboards, the electric dogs and rattling dishes that all had to be smacked and fallen on the floor. Little croaky squeeks of a window cleaner might be farting ridiculously in our ears; telling us that there is a certain comedy going a little crazy. Things flubber, (probably packages of empty crisps) while a flute is whistling jubilantly as if it is happily welcoming us in a lunatic asylum. “Can you feel it?” one of the voices in my own head said again; “might this be you?” another one remarked as little squeaky cute, (almost silent) farts came from a shaven butthole that must have been parked close to our ears. With its poisonous smells it brought a whole collection of weirdos with it, the kind of incoherent english weirdness from dazed people popping their thumbs, speaking, shrieking their guitars, coughing up crafty novelties of multiple expressions that could all be linked to the marvelous event of becoming ‘not all there’.

“Do you want to feel fucked up?” another imaginary voice said while a shimmering silence tormented us with ridiculous stereo ‘oh oh oh’ words. I replied firm and fierce with all my might, a hard “YES”, oh gosh, yes & woke up with my drooling face all over Structured Disasters bandcamp account…

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