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i heard her slide off the bed… then she exhaled and her eyes dimmed  he was covering her rotting body with 12 layers of clothes, blankets and plastic sealed with industrial tape before covering it in deodorant to mask the smell  He asked mr rausing where his wife was and his eyes ‘welled up’ before he claimed she was in california  mr rausing had barricaded the bedroom shut with furniture and tape. Inside the master bedroom the bed was covered with tarpaulin and TVs

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i didn t really care about alternative culture because for me that s just a way for people to conform as well. i didn t really care about the independent record scene, or alternative music to me it was proof that it was empty & vacuous when it just became a major label lie as well. it doesn t interest me. i m interested in individual people that do very strong work & i don t care if they re on a major label or whatever …  d ya  i just decided not to care. since they don t care. it s best just to do your work; care about your work; if you find an audience, then that s good. we had started to do that anyway because i didn t want to be just playing loud music because i thought that was a false power. it could be powerful if it s loud but i don t think that that s necessary. to me it is just as interesting to hear bob dylan on his guitar by himself as it is to hear a full orchestra i mean i don t understand the difference to me they re equal, so i didn t want to be reliant on loud amplifiers. also there was all this stupid british press about us being the loudest band & making people sick & all that & to me i thought that s enough an idiotic thing. so we started figuring out ways to make music when it was just simple you know a drummer a snare a voice an acoustic guitar n that s it. & to me that s enough really. so, ever since then, i ve started injecting different kinds of spaces & textures into the music. sometimes it s loud but it doesn t depend on that. that song was the last song i ever wrote about someone who kills people i ve written several songs like that. but that song was written about the english killer dennis nelson who used to who was a homosexual & he wld go to bars &  invite young boys back to his house & then strangle them.. to.. death. & then he wld keep the bodies & wld continue over the months to make love to the bodies & he wld put facepaint on them & put them in the bathtub & wash them & set them up watching tv with them & he killed them to keep em company & so it was sort of a love song about that idea of being that person

Now I am your mute cousin, young shaved virgin whore, on my prison steel bed I wait for you. So follow me down, I am weeping and torn, put your dirty white hands inside me. These walls they are ringing, with my tortured last screaming, now suck the fear from my belly. The red sea is raging, with my coughing and spitting, my love is bitter sulpher burning. Now I am your mute wife, you wrote your name on my back with your knife, my pain is pointless and endless. I’m your stupid child now, who is shaking with grief in your mouth, and I’m calling your name from hell…. The shining black horse on the ridge, is snorting and choking with it, I can feel the texture of your suffering. My memory’s an ocean, littered with useless debris, please stop me now from thinking. The white sun is rising, over the lavender hill, I can see the footsteps of Jesus. So where’s my true body now, now that I’ve been consumed, I’m dissolving inside of your future…. No I am not my Body.

Cut the eyes out of my head tear my tongue out if I speak,if I speak raise up your camera razor lights feed the evil and the weak,feed the weak hear me now, my tongue is in your ear the center of your body is the place I hide the fear of loss of suicide Suck the hatred from my mouth raise the dead man that you found,that you found Silver black mud in my lungs leave me down here wasted with the useless and the stone leave me now as I choke and writhe but feel my body stuck upon the dull and silent knife of my suicide remove my face from in the mirror sift my hair into the fire mock me for the suffering I fake leave me naked on the carpet leave my drunken body splayed see me now my broken fingers search your mouth for the drugged and senseless words that are seducing me back home in to my suicide I hate you all for what I’ve done I hate you for the texture and the color of your skin I hate your whispered breath upon my neck I hate you for your love and I hate you for your sex feel me now I’m growing in your insides the warm feelings that you bring contain the seeds now flowering into my suicide

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