Monoshock
Walk to the Fire

"In anal fidelity," as the cheeky user says, who not long ago posted in the listening section no less than the entire album I have on my plate right now. I knew nothing about it, and it was literally a Monoshock stunning, immediate amores perros, where recognizing the piece of crap that I know I am was perfectly matched with the barrages of noise that gratified me and unleashed immense pleasure in me for having encountered a "violent" nature like mine: thick as thieves.

And around here, there's no joy or splendor or fake prosperity; the three Graces in question are called Grazia, Graziella, and Grazie al Cazzo, and they evoke a street life that is not exactly that banquet in the company of the gods that everyone yearns for, deviated from a distorted aesthetic where everything that is "beautiful" we believe to be elegant and clean and comfortable. Naaa, here there's the monstrous out of fashion that you've always tried to avoid, forget resting on patrician couches sipping fine wines, you dandy loafers. There's nothing "cultural and democratic" here, Picasso-like invertebrates... NOTHING!

It turns out that to have the ticket to access these musical contents, you must uncompromisingly be a great big jerk, the self-obliteration of the ticket necessarily involves deliberately banging your head violently against the white wall to leave a bloody autograph on it, bypassing unfortunate damned signatures. The produced stigma, with flesh stripped away and frontal bone on display, is the ultimate passe-partout that pushes you to the exclusive club of a Paradise that has its most powerful angels, who are closest to God, identifying them as "ugly, dirty, and evil".

And there they are (Ta' da'!), even dressed in white, they heavily shake up our way of understanding celestial goodness, having noticed that those nightshirts they wear are like those of the elderly D'Annunzio, with that hole at sleppa height that takes your breath away at the sight, since they've already shoved it down your throat for a deepthroat all reflexes. And that's when you realize that the aspiration to be deceived by a diabolical perspective of "enlarge your penis" shatters like your asshole when cherubs suddenly shove a massive, dry bell clapper into you, pushing inches (20 and up) calculated based on your sins. And that’s where your real life begins, and the first thing your consciousness detects is the fragrance of the Paradise shit.

Guess what, then, the soundtrack of this entire revelry is played by Monoshock, enough with just one discharge to make you snap out of it or disintegrate, and you are still there with your rational tuning fork, trying to retune your broken rectum to the noise frequency like when you split a peach in half with your hands: STOK!, only that noise had already been made by the "skewered" butt: Walk to the Fire, pedal on...

The evolution that the apocalyptic psychedelic punk noise consommé of the said Maelstrom, is proboscised to simulate that tunnel that you, immediately post-mortem, would hope to ascend, but, from the swirling irradiations of these naughty angels, pretending that all this musical mishmash pleased you has not so much produced the growth of the "nose" cause-effect lie, but rather a further growth of the erection of the Angel's member already well planted in your sphincter, concluding that your soul evolution lagged somewhat behind, and this round you get shafted-prolapsed. On the other hand, for now, "in the ass it goes, in the head no."

Well, the question of "make or break" (remember the STOK!): will you keep betting on the suicidal gamble of those silly little songs by the four beetles of the moment?, or are you planning an immediate "leave everything and follow me" on this soundtrack to "in the beginning was the Word?"

Given that the sex of the angels isn’t that mysterious, as they are "underdeveloped", also note the "heavy" number that comes from adding all the numbers of the roulette, 36+35+34... and so on up to one, and maybe someone will realize what a mess we are in. And remembering that there's no escape even if the zero comes up, as the "bank" takes it all, wouldn't it be better to bet on the noisy aesthetic of eternity suggested by these little villains, instead of the scrapping of your soul?
“I saw you baby on the astral plane,
You read my dreams just like a magazine".

Come on, review your ear canals, come on there's even a violin, come on... No? ...WHO GIVES A DAMN!