Mother Redrum and the Play Gang

       Mother Redrum and the Play Gang all dossed in their white skull paint smelling like ash and bone meal runnin' under a sky that don't just forgive. Cheeks chalked hollow above the whoops and the crash against bird-bones that grew into guns with every blood-red pay check. Hot streets stickin' all hell to the souls on the pavement and those gone ghouls draining out in the gutter, with all the small men runnin' in the wake like nobody ever invented the word "funeral" for nothin'. Hood boys, Good boys running bad with the night wolves - all torn, all fast all go and shine with the spit and the drip of the bone hanging from the  ripped wrist that just don't heal.  

        Lizard-Land blazing lifeless, scorched sun big as God as the sky heat hangs up like a wall that'll smack so hard it'll drag your teeth with it if you run too fast. Running, looking to the next big night 'cause behind you's only black - black o'course being the only colour of this business. Children so far gone no-one remembers when business meant somethin' different to death. 'fore your eyes adjust to the black you see the white of mother, sitting there pale as the sweet white beneath the flesh that crunch so sound when you split the rest in two - there refusin' to look at you 'til you been initiated - sixteen scars up the inside wrist the rest inside and the burns so deep your soul hasn't stopped screaming - won't stop 'til you're dead yourself. Twice mean Twice dead, like all the smilers pressed screaming on poles and left in pieces to come to one with the tarmac. Splitting at the seams like some overripe fruit, unravel bursting, passed out rank from the thin hand of that green mother not so different from our own.  We push that red, that pulp, that filth into our tar skin and run and run 'til it's worked so far inside we see no other colour behind our eyes.

       Walking murder, flying murder, men left staked to the hot night like monster against the face of the lord they're out for - offered up in return though no-one's pronounced ascension in some good long years. Thumping out voice that's 90 electric and 10 just damn cold - frenzy too high to take any more passion; passion's the job in front of you, the knife in hand, the red on your cheek and whatever Abispa happens to fall at the other end, the puppy bangin' so hard in recoil you don't got time to think on yo' wrists. Time only to run go. No elbow to force that hot damnation from our fingertips, we don't need no Ghetto Stars.  

     Only stars we see are them that blink out of the eyes above the red smiles when we've cut 'em something good - blood to our own, transfusion thick as lost nights and that silence that chases the gunshot.