Listen to the us play our set at The Soundhouse before the dictaphone ran out of disc space

Come and see Evil Dick and the Banned Members fiddle with their instruments in a bold attempt to create a musical performance. See them hit things and strum things. See them look indifferent.

In empty skin flaps
and hairy holes.

Trauma and denial,

Rejection and
persecution,

Totality of boredom
and endless desperation in fur-lined

Underpants.

Horrendous carpets,
lumps and untidy edges,

Residue residing on
your residual resemblance.

Your dangerous
dependence,

Your stultified
resplendence,

Your absent
benevolence,

I fell off a chair and
bumped my head on a daisy!

Puce made from purple
in a certain light poured down and spared my blushes,

My dignity intact albeit
bruised.

Children sing songs
about POO.

Mass produced music is usually trite.

A cash grap for the
for fortunate FEW.

If you don’t
acknowledge your roots, you’re just a post-modern TURD.

Underlined in red,
‘cus Microsoft don’t like the WORD.

Come on feel the noise.

But don’t think about
it too much.

Here’s a sliver of
light perpetrating the crime of a thought left unthought that would have been worth having…