Linko
All things come to pass, and come to pass by me. I get along. The ghost horse in the tea urn nurturing the heart of a demo tape in an age of psychic babble. I keep my ears for myself and for my sister and often I went there beyond the absurd only to be consumed by this landscape of inedibles, but it’s there that I have felt who lives and who dies. As for myself and yourself I couldn’t possibly comment. I have buried myself alive and dangled from a burning rope. I have caught the speeding silver bullet on a plate and played with seriously sharp knives. Jolly nimble, with more often than not, perfect timing. I realize I’m the one and only true atomic clock. With sackcloth and ashes draped across border collie shoulders I am the poncho smoke about the lung whistle, the roll of bones. See the greatest material prize in world history fell beneath a southern cone which just goes to show that it’s not all peace. The drugs did their work but didn’t secure escape, they just secured my shape down here amongst the likes of you. And when I walked from the village, I wandered willingly into all their preset traps, and found smoking like a fuel tap the traditions of their world. Traditional hand-me-downs like the myth of hope, the tyranny of no hope, the beery hatred passed from father to son, mother to daughter, litter, and oh so many varieties of cancer it’s astonishing. At the plains of destruction I arrived just as the eyeball exploded and the fat lip slipped its moorings to unearth Biblical weather and nothing but the gaping wound in the fabric of things. Staggering through the body fluids and dusty ceremonies, I was unsure if I was about to fall in, or had just crawled out. Stun gunned and degree burnt I got word that I was to be four hundred and sixty four years at the source with only the condensation of my own thought to relieve my own thirst…
To hear tracks 1 to 10 from Linko’s album ‘Talk Turning Horse Lingo’, click on the play buttons below or to here it in one Click here.
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