Skellbert’s Pickles had to be ejekted from his home to submit this post. Otherwise, this would have been his household’s 4th submission, which is against the rules of #Demokratisation. He writes:
“I fully expekt kreative tryranny to overrule this submission, partikularly as my missive today, is a reaktion to a dark day, which has resulted in Skellbert becoming rather pickled and ranty. I do not wish to spoil the vibe of your GANTOB projekt, but I was pleased with this piece of writing which flew into my laptop, I would like to think, faster than Kerouac’s soft, strong and very long bit of typewriter paper. I’ll not be at all miffed if this doesn’t make the cut, but would be glad of your reading it.”
Thanks for your dedication Skellbert’s Pickles. Over to you…
Pickling has been going on here since 1680, but the current corrugated pickling house was erected in the 1960s, whilst Elvis was wriggling his deeply corrupting pelvis.
I must admit to a kollection of liberated K2 tat in said barn, but now that I am resident in this tin tabernacle of Mu, it serves as a constant reminder that I am not dead yet.
We are considering a future Furthur re-enaktment of Chill Out with live sheep and pure Llandewi-Brefi elektrik kool-aid punch. Local legend has it that there might be psykhedelik treasure buried in the swamp behind my pickling shed. There’s lots of smiles to the mile out here.
The swallows and the geese have been ruling our skies, ‘til a dirty piece of military hardware came over low this morning, a dark omen for sure, as they were followed by those cuntry folk, who so objected to our occasional forays into their environs to dance. They came through with bloodlust, a depleted gene pool, and malevolence.
We had to get out. It was just too much. Our neighbours way out west are far less disturbed than those denizens of Ballardian Ingerland, entranced by the city in the South East, that even Gimpo’s Spin has failed to knock off kilter, or perhaps more to the point, put on an even keel. Koming of age in the stockbroker belt, was freaked out early on by Threads and later tripping at the Deptford Free Festival with the evil pyramid atop 1 Canary Wharf projecting its bad juju on the happy crowd. Then more evil geometries were raised to their Abrahamic heaven, culminating in the Shard that must burn. Down with that sort of thing. Missiformation had a good go at toppling their markers on the perimeter of the square mile one night, but that was all a blur even in the moment, ended with her licking a Victoria line tube outta Brixton like a cane toad (this explains much).
To paraphrase the infamous words of Spiral Tribe (your investments may go up or down…) recently cited during the Krossing “make some fucking noise there’s a genocide going on”.
Anyway, I’m still out here freezing my numb nuts off with my sacred jars of Immanentized Eschatons.
I now find myself 23 words short. I’ll apologize for spoiling the party with a bit of political reality, but 2023 WTF is going on?
SKELLBERT’S PICKLES
27 December 2023
GANTOB blog 