Wednesday, June 3, 2015

The Specter City Slasher (Jon of the Shred)

Here to kick your teeth in and fuck your mom is a brand new synthwave, heavy metal, orchestral prog rock album. 12 crisp tracks to serve as the montage music of the impending zombie apocalypse.

 synthwave metal

Never heard of synthwave metal, you say? Never ventured the neon soaked alleyways and abandoned cities of the musical post-apocalypse? Well it's time you venture over to bandcamp and get ready to have your face melted clean off.

With sweeping orchestral symphonies, piercing guitar solos beckoning from the heavens, the chunky bass bombs of doom, and pounding tribal beats, this album will surely have you questioning your morals and feeling the urge to slay Lazer Raptors with Kung Fury after a few rounds of grain alcohol shots...blindfolded. And tripping sack on experimental LSD / DMT fusions. With a toothpick.

Is that 300 words? Is the article SEO optimized yet? FUCK. All right....

So imagine your girlfriend invites her hottest friend over, you know, the one you've always wanted to nail. You're all watching some stupid bullshit on Netflix on the couch together, when out of nowhere your girl turns to her friend and they start making out passionately. Your boner springs up with the force of a Thunder Gun express, ready to tear down these supple sugar walls like a torpedo fired from a space shuttle with technologies so powerful they're unknown to the general public and only a few key scientists are aware of their existence, two of said scientists already having been killed to silence them so that these torpedoes would not be used recklessly and shredding through teenage hymens like Andre the Giant ripping through a wet paper bag.

Get it yet? Synthwave. Dark Wave. New Retro Wave. Metal. Heavy Metal. Power Metal. Synth Metal. Metal Metal. Wood Metal. GO. LISTEN. TO. THE. FUCKING. ALBUM.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Complete Nonsense (2)

Perpetually spiraling into the pits of madness and despair, the flames that once burn bright are now dim and dying. The air ripped from the lungs like a newborn babe from the breast of his mother. The weight of the world lifted off your shoulders, only to come crashing back down directly on your spine, leaving you twitching and bloodied in a muddy ditch, completely alone and isolated. No thoughts of redemption, no feelings of time to waste, only time to grow. Pushing forward cannot be achieved if one walks backwards, even if they're moving forward whilst walking backwards - the eyes are still set on the past. Each footstep towards the future should be taken with grace and calculation - shaky at first, frequent stumbling and tripping, eventually making way to sure-footed power walking that would make soccer moms nod with seasoned approval. Rambling incoherently with little thought, reason or rhyme, as if said incoherent rambling offers a glimpse into a healthier mindset, a way to heal, a path to move on. Illuminating the chasms of self-doubt in a blinding light of self-awareness, the aura blanketing the subconscious in a white hot energy that permeates every crack and crevice of the damaged mind. The soul, hungering for love, thirsting for recognition, will only benefit from solitude and self-reflection in these dire times. Shed the societal ties to servitude, shred the misconceptions of life and happiness and find happiness of your own. With each keystroke of melodramatic bullshit the soul is bled of it's negative energy, making room for positive energy and confidence to return. The mind's eye blinking sleepily, awoken from months of complacent slumber, vying to move forward. Should one crush the opposition, drive their enemies into the ground with a powerful burst of rage and despair, leaving them bloodied and dying? Or should one leave the opposition in the dust of their success? Never have I ever thought that forever was never, nor have I thought thoughts of forever in forever. Never have I ever dreamed of forever, forever have I dreamed of never. Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and hurt you. Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye. Never gonna tell a lie, or hurt you. FUCK YOU.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Complete Nonsense

A stream of consciousness expressed in free-form, lyrical prose like a flurry of fevered notes on an electric guitar. Wailing, soaring, dipping, crushing, melting the faces of the reader and listener simultaneously, conveying the undeniably bittersweet passion of a scorned entity, a sheltered soul stumbling through the mist covered wilderness of a forsaken realm. Drowning in a bed of fire and burning in an ice-ridden abyss, perpetually perplexed by the putrid societal wreckage one must trip over for the duration of their conscious years.

Explosions of light and bursts of enlightenment getting shrouded in shadows, not perceivable to flawed pupils but interpreted only through the minds eye and the scarred heart; the torn, ripped, bleeding heart, circulating life force through ice cold veins, a force wrought with a searing, unrelenting agony perpetuated indefinitely from the center of a scarred soul. Charred remains of the distant past below, and the billowing, lightning filled clouds of an uncertain future above, rendering all those privy to the nonsense of the wordy slop simultaneously horrified and uplifted. The disgusting servitude of painful thoughts clashing with a burning optimism to right wrongs and calibrate self-defeating mindsets into an explosion of tortured creative energy.

Writing words to write words, or writing words to write words with a message arguably too absurd to understand and too vague to comprehend, verbs and nouns bouncing off the empty halls of a lonely mind set ablaze from the trials and tribulations of a world gone awry. Through the alleyways of misfortune and self-doubt one must trek, pushing forward with the perseverance to succeed despite the dog-eat-dog inferno of cultural waste all around. To scale the skyscrapers of success, ascending to new heights of personal triumph and leaving the ministers of manipulation far below on filthy, trash-filled streets. To abandon the mental weights burdening the justice and freedom of a fruitful existence, harvesting deep from the garden of artistic expression, yet toppling from the tops of skyscrapers back to the streets below. Wandering through the mists of the city, needing a ticket to an unknown destination, a ride to the next foot note of one's pointless existence, perhaps. Mind growing weary, feet growing tired, so....I whistled for a cab and when it came near the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought "Nah, forget it...yo holmes, to Bel Air!" I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie "Yo holmes smell ya later!" I looked on my kingdom, I was finally there to sit on my throne as the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Monday, February 2, 2015

Sup Fuckers

Holy fuck, it's been ages since I've posted a single word on here. The last two posts were poorly paid freelance gigs. (Hey, get me hits on my website. Hey, review this shitty game for $2 on your blog.) But I've had a lot going on.

Album releases

scythe saga, synthwave

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Eat This Jerky Or Bad Juju Follow You

This jerky is the be all end all of jerky. If you eat this jerky your bench press will double, you'll get a raise, and your wife will finally want to do a threesome. If you eat this jerky whilst fighting ninjas with semi-automatic weaponry, you'll gain the ability to shoot laser beams from your fingertips - but only on a full moon in October. Eat this shit, son.....or else.