Open Letters: Perfect Pages

Kids that might not be near water, but if they were, they would push me in and drown me blue and purple if I called them ‘eMo’. Or schreamo. Maybe.

It’s got teeth I swear it. Big pointy gnashing virtuous molars that crunch on lesser, more drunken, anti-sXe mere, um… mortals. People, BOZOS, like me. Bad ass debaucherists who smoke cheap crack and still believe that The Rolling Boulders and The Fine Silk Underground and other haggard triceratopian monsters are, like, y'know, the kings and queens of rok aristocracy. Scaly dinosawaruses, that may or may not deserve such accolades and their irrefutable landed gentry. Of course, upon my unwavering stance of adoration, they deserve our ass kissy idolatry at all times and forever. And this is where my little dilemma begins: I’m a little bit fucken scared. Threatened, even. Running for all my rock and roll. This Open Letters band thingy chup chup their tremendously immaculately indeed spotlessly kleen but still ferociously menacing chops, and marshal a jazzo-scheetzo-poonkin’ 3-1-G racket of boy love rage that sounds like they would quite like to squirt a very malevolent species of gasoline all over Sterling Morrisons’ withered hide, and then… take a box of economically agreeable and contaminant free (like, yeeah save the dolphins maaan) matches and set light to him. Then watch him squirm, squeam and burn. To deth and deth again.

But he’s already dead.

This makes me a little bit worried. And a little bit uneasy.

And so it should do. Open Letters is a bit fucken volatile. Open Letters is the clean shaven, smooth-skinned fanatical ‘Revolution Summer’ DC-via-Norwich boys who should have been born in ‘Himmler Summer’ Berlin. State. Of. Alert. Open Letters is the shattered heart obliteration of a long borne disenchantment with the dog-eat-dog 1-D world of cellulite and vacant t.v dinners and, not for the first time, it’s being blasted and lacerated to less than the shit off Michael Moores’ shoes - shreds of Caucasian, haemorrhaging purple gormongite cosmos. No Kathleen, mediocrity does not rule, man. And you betta believe it. If not, these wide-eyed young flippendants will sidle, creep up beside you with nervous, twitchy dangerous half-smiles and then shakin, shakin and wowza, quivering with phallus bleeding depravity, rip out your fucken spleen, whilst gibbering, crying and laughing all at once. Don’t trust these placid, smiley-eyed boys in the black-rimmed specs, the Unwound tees and the courier font; they might be clean, but they’re not rite.
In the head.

So, if you’re a boy, don’t let your phallus guide you, stop, look at the green man, look both ways and then, just maybe, you can cross the road. Or something.
Hard-core.

http://www.openletters.co.uk