I feel this inhuman suffocation when I step out into that officially sponsored fog machine artificial haze to start the music blaring from speakers that don't say a thing Spitting throat lumps and grinds lurching like scary monsters controlled by raving mad super creeps hiding behind walls of electronic lies and vinyl appropriations committed to automation in beats making stage cages swing like stray lanterns filled with questionable electrocuties - wild tarts that can't be broken but you can stare all you want at Black-light-blemish-broken-razor-testimony obscured with slashed fishnet and splashed neon body paint Move to the wavelengths going to grave lengths as my dead beats facilitate this Deja Vu machine world of backdoor audition submission courtesy of half massed scrubstep poser pseudo-players and maneaters planted on dance floors Wearing short skirts low cut shirts high heels long hair and plenty of emotional baggage and I find myself feeling somewhat sorry and guiltily enticed by the decadent conspicuous consumption and sinister seduction I cannot escape until The song crescendos and I slam an invisible hand into the wreck chords from now until the end of rhyme I want to stop the whole thing but this is what I signed up for this is my punishment so with reluctant crossfader switchblade hands I scratch the noise back into the air and out of my head because the beatings must go on