Neil Landstrumm Yell Yell

There’s sludge on your shoes. It’s turning them green – who left the tap on? We’re in the basement, and it’s dripping up from the floor – what’s that about? Brightens the place up a bit though. It’s too wet in here. Let’s take a long, low ride – let the cool air seal the party emulsion across our faces as we roll down the windows to let the smoke out. The street lights flicker across you like an 808. You draw on the bass and breathe out the breaks. The boot’s full of this sludge. We’re going to have to offload it. There’s no way we’d get it back across the border with our shoes in this state. Stopped at the lights. Something’s leaking. A lone searchlight and an ill-advised turn. The back road dreadnought. One fly-tipped fridge humming at 62 Hz. Angles, barbed and brilliant, thrown at the problem. Everything melts eventually. This was assembled during days of fever 452 miles from the lush garden, like a misplaced 404 error. Anti-promotion paid for by a penny placed in the mouth of Instagram to ensure safe passage over the false river.