Bendy Satan - a synopsis

The following is for y'all to get a couple of your smaller teeth sunk into:

Disaster has struck the village of Pooka Delaval – somebody stole the vicar’s hat!!! Jack and Paul must call on Cousin Mithras and his mysterious companion, Mr Gander, to aid them in their time of crisis. But can they find the hat before it’s too late…?

And who or what is this Bendy Satan, heard whispered, rumoured by the wind?

With a riveting score by acclaimed beat combo St. Cuthbert’s Burials, this classic fable is every bit the equal of The Seventh Seal.

Contains scenes of unmitigated terror.

Brick Wall Sentiments Prevail

Another one from the St. Cuthbert's Burials archive. This one can also be found in Tell It To A Hound Dog, Pedro. It's pretty well a doublerehash. And to coin a phrase, it's probably good advice if you've got shit for brains;

Brick by brick and trickle of mortar, come who may, the progress is never slow, for imperceptible. It’s not that you’re connected, but the scratching with nails at dusty but solid joinings of wall shows that that at least is not disconnected. Railway dreams are sleepers, the rail is the real goal but is iron not mist. Liner? There’s a thought on board, that’s why it’s swift; no real weight. Say mass. Say a lot of things. Steam speeds you through but what matters is not the journey, but the destination. Drink rum. That’s a journey and a destination in the one happy passage. I may be right, I may be wrong, I’m scared to discover, so I proffer nothing but the odd pithy pith. Learn something from that, dusty child with wrinkles. There are means of protection. If you want to ride, just pretend you have, and wherever you wind up, well, that was your destination all along. Don’t fret about it. Spin a wheel. Roulette/Steering. It matters not, babe. Eat shit, eat chocolate. It fucks your teeth either way, and what do you remember? Delicious sweetness? Bitter filth? No. You remember that you have no viable teeth in their sockets in the skull. Spend everything on a cocaine bath, dissolved in a woman’s utterances and seep. Thrift through baked bean bonanza of your mind’s easiest dream, the ordinary sense of the survival instinct. What do you regret? You spent it all, fucked up? You didn’t take enough time for your pleasure and now it’s too late? No. What you regret is that you wasted your time. Never your money. Money rolls and flows. If you’ve got it, you don’t give a shit. If you don’t got it, you’re resigned to that come reckoning time. In the end, you regret the things you haven’t done. I was a platinum selling hip-hop phenomenon, but I never climbed K2. Fuck it. Like I say… Drink Rum, The Rest Will Come… and then drink rum. You may as well. Thanks.

Saddled

It has been noted by a few astute-but-hard-of-hearing listeners that the song "Temporary Evil", from the St. Cuthbert's Burials E.P. of the same name, is a mite frustrating for those who like to make out words. The chattering in the background must, for the time being, remain enigmatic, but I can provide you here with the main body, as it were, of the text:

Saddled like a growing undertaker. Mislaid in the undergrowth that tried but couldn’t twine the poplar trees while they were there. Evidenced by cooling of the ground from sunset, culminating in the coldest earth before the dawn. Distracted by the finches, didn’t know what kind of finches. Bolstered by a breeze that hardly shook the hay from loose forgotten bails. Hidden by the height of hedges, honeysuckle melting with the branches of the lesser bushes. Exited stage right before the sun was coming up.

Thanks for listening! Ho ho.