Inner sleeve design. March 2014. Devil, Repent!

I've to go somewhere

the flesh split cold, the stomach’s acrid film - a rabid swarm-gullet, a rip cut fillet - that toothsayn ache in the sheer seared flint, the seer born blunt into the spent cold ache. what god can come of this? the gathered gloom. the sheared block. centrifugal towers, fugued and tombed like cemetery piles. my depth charged broadcast, tunnelled dub and sonar pulse worriedly out-words. Send us a perforation in the ether, a trip in the signal; a leaped bounce ‘n bell ring rez and razed to the foundry chance of sound and sail, but wheeze'nd whistle is wounded's repair no more and the winded lung has collapsed in your skinny corpse, smoked thin and toughened taut.

split booth seer, lead-lined and spermicidal over a spuming trough rested as to saddle your wrested debt. a casual femur and the indented thud as buttressed flesh splits cold; the pontif’d grope’s sorry grasp struck down in stiffened prime. a saddle for your rested flesh upon the newsreaders’ jolly gait; a romp among explosions and monarchy and sex and debt. set upon the rabid pounce of gentrified polemics is the fattened pluck of the goosed classes, the pheasantry’s final word spoken into the gleaming grey cenotaph, that muted conch of our bunkered century.