Pigface - The Howler: An English Breakfast | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• Pigface
• The Howler: An English Breakfast

http://lyrics.wikia.com/wiki/Pigface:The_Howler:_An_English_Breakfast_%28Chapter_1,_Part_2%29

You might recall we left Barbara dripping on the floor.

This was her favorite way to freak out important visitors, especially foreign diplomats, who were already so intimidated by the instructions in etiquette they had received from The Demon Ping that they were quite terrified of making a social mistake.

Yes, on a good day, Barbara could actually make quite a splash on the Royal tiles so to speak. Mind you, sometimes that nasty little Greek, the Howler, would spoil her triumph and scurry across the floor licking up her juices whilst making a totally unnecessary slurping and sucking noise just for added effect, and extra attention of course.

Foul little man. Why on earth was MacQueen still with him? God knows what THEY got up to in private, wherever that was. \"Whip Me!\" indeed. She'd like to fuckin' whip him. Little turd. He'd soon take off that stupid sign.

Her thoughts drifted for a moment. Away from the dwarf's cock, away from the Howler, back to those earlier, more innocent parties that Feelin' Bored used to organize for everyone. No, that was crap. Just straight sex, titillation and whores. They'd all become connoisseurs since then. Only the silly \"Whip Me\" sign remained as a witness to those appetites. Maybe, after all, the Howler had it right. Maybe it was okay to keep a symbol of how it began, a relic that contained all the energy ever released and satiated since then. Shit! What a lot of filth they'd managed to enjoy.

Being descended from God and above the law sure made pleasure perfect.

\"Cap orve tay, Babs?\" asked MacQueen.

\"Oh most certainly, of course, not too much cream, just one sugar please.\"

MacQueen motioned to one of the mosquitoes, as they all called the servants.

\"You know Babs, I really love it here. These spring mornings. The smell of the grass as the overnight dew evaporates. The mist hanging around the edges of the fields like poison gas. The grey sky before it gets warm. Especially if it's rained during the night. D'you know, I even start to like the dawn chorus and that terrible cockerel over by the stables. I wonder how many eggs he's fertilized...\"

MacQueen's voice trailed off. Being fucked by pregnant teenagers wielding hand-carved bone dildos was her favorite fetish. BY now she'd had so many her labia were callused and hard, Though she liked to joke it was through horse riding. Whore riding more like!

The Demon Ping returned. How did he do that, wondered the Howler, how did he manage to always sound like a roulette wheel as the ball settled into a slot?

\"May I, Ma'am?\" Ping leaned over Barbara's left shoulder gracefully. With a surprising sense of purpose, and a great deal of mysterious sensuality, he tumbled the most delicious and juicy looking strawberries into her cereal bowl without splashing a single drop of cream. One by one he added the berries, and each time, by some extraordinary erotic association, Barbara gasped, clenching and opening her slim legs in spasms. Her silk bathrobe fell open, so lightly tied at the waist was it, to reveal a symmetrical cluster of vesicular and bulbous lesions. A small, clear trail of viscous fluid was running from her swollen vagina onto the purple velvet seat.

\"Eh'll hev som of thet wane you've feneshed op thare, Ping.\" said MacQueen. \"End be queck about et. Eh don't want them too go orff. Those are thee strawberries grown in Sourth Americon nightsoil, aren't thay?\"

\"Of course, Ma'am. Of course to both questions, Ma'am,\" replied Ping.

He had chosen control and dispassion as his path to perfection so long ago. For huge segments of time he had persisted, an entity believing so completely in itself that it became almost real. But entities can only do so much on their own you see. They can approximate form, and seem to matter. They can even set themselves up as strange attractors outside earthly time and space. That is how they get nourishment and density. But to manifest as beings with a form and purpose all of their own, able to co-exist with a planetary species, they need directed desire. They require fixated individuals, whose urges to infinite, limitless pleasure redefine hedonism. They must be invoked; assembled orgasm by orgasm; transgression by transgression; unspeakable dream by unspeakable dream; insatiable sexual disgrace by insatiable sexual disgrace. Until, as remorse and regret become laughably atrophied, and in an accelerated kaleidoscope of fractured images and loops of meaning, all is flattened. Meaning is ruptured, and only irreversible terror is left.

There is a sound that accompanies this. Once this noise begins, nothing, nothing at all can stop it.

The sound of several galactic histories passing immeasurably fast, as such an entity finds planetary form, is a sound not dissimilar to the sound of a roulette wheel slowing down until the steel ball is able to drop into its apparently random spot. At such times are the fates and futures of more mundane creatures decided irrevocably, in a rush of fear and excitement.

Ping was born out of risk and ennui, out of irresponsibility and fixated sexuality, out of a most considered form of reckless behavior, out of this appalling sound. Once this noise begins, nothing, nothing at all can ever stop it.

Recklessness being the most appealing human emotion to those such as Ping.

Pigface еще тексты