Take 2 ex members of The Brain of Morbius, add a Balloon, a pinch of Bulbous Skunk Cabbage and stir in one Zuzushi Monkey, fry over a Flickering Light and your Goose is cooked!
Well, that's how it was a year ago, then Tim departed to concentrate on his Monkey antics, so we kidnapped young Joe from Ampersand and The One Drops and tethered him to a keyboard.
We live in the Egg We live in the Egg We have covered the inside wall of the shell with dirty drawings and the Christian names of our enemies We are being hatched Whoever is hatching us is hatching our pencils as well Set free from the Egg one day, at once we shall draw a picture of whoever is hatching us We assume that we're being hatched We imagine some good-natured fowl and write school essays about the colour and creed of the hen that is hatching us When shall we break the shell? Our prophets inside the Egg, for a middling salary, argue about the period of incubation The posit a day called "X" Out of boredom and genuine need, we have invented incubators We are much concerned about our offspring inside the Egg We should be glad to recommend our patent to whom looks after us But we have a room full of hardheads, senile chimps, polyglot embryos chatter all day and even discuss their dreams But what if we're not being hatched? What if the shell will never break, if the horizon is only that of our scribbles, and always will be? We hope that we're being hatched Even if we only talk of hatching there remains the fear that someone outside the shell will feel hungry and crack us into the frying pan with a pinch of salt What then my brethren inside the Egg?
This was posted as a bulletin by Captive Audience - The Butterfly Collector's fan Page
New work from our fave *female* artist ...
Ms Bette O'Callaghan makes women snicker and men shiver with PUSSY POSSE, paints pictures of her life in WILL THE LAST SOLDIER and will talk to many, way too many of us with SLEEPLESS IN TEXAS.
