Primitive Wings - Slow Urge

[Joie de la Blumpy]

I'm just paranoid enough to entertain the possibility that the man the myth follows the forum chatter closely. Not all so very long after some (shall we reflect not-entirely-well-considered) words (not mine) were spilled dinging certain of the more "composed" approaches to soundsmithy-ing, in turn to generate a little ballyhoo upon which more than a few would weigh, out riiiiiiips a namesaked project proper soon to be steeped in the blisterscorched flames of a smoldering scrap furnace, the sort of project methinks everyone need get out of the damn system at one point or other, right, for sanity's sake I suppose I digress do I not, well and truly edging at near diametric opposition to the (earlier) namesake proper.

Now, in the wake of words (mine) suggesting that the primitivo of this latest iteration were more at the surface less in the details, or even to suggest that that primitivo might merely serve, half on the sly, to obscure all that carefully crafted smithying, here blasts deferral to a scrap happy urge of proto furnace inclines, like, slowing it down, flexing for the camera, but no not in any smithying capacity rather a sort of shall it be called an urge-ent dis-capacity, an incapacity, even, if you catch my drizzle, ill-capacitated bilge-crusted abrasions sure if not quite clean, more munificently mangled 'n molested through ye olde macro grade meatgringer, savaged by yo momma, like, flatulent strangula hawked 'n blurted through knotted sphinct constrictia, with but a single solitary exception arising out the chafe for naught else but to prove the trajectory, wallowing in fluttered comas of deep-sunk forest creep, nothing absurd about it, at least not at the surface.

Not entirely sure, will need to subject the holes to a good few further strains of unfettered abuse, abuse the operative word as in daaamn this shizzle be hizzling hard, short sweet nasty, the way momma makes it now*.

* or then