I can’t write this because I have no fingers. I have trouble thinking too. Words and images are like pollen floating in the wistful wind, I try to pick them up but it is hard. I have no fingers. But I think about how it all was before everyone went sick. I think about how I used to hate rush hour, and about all the stress at work, and about adverts in TV. I think about all the bad things, whenever I think about the bad things of before, it feels as if I had lived in paradise and I had been condemned to hell. Things have changed. I am always hungry now. I never sleep. I roam the streets, looking for food, avoiding my reflection in the shattered windows that hang from the shells of charred shops.

But whenever I see another one I know, I know what I look like. Rotten wet skin seeping with black fluids the body shouldn’t be able to produce, a wasteland of flesh even the most putrid worm wouldn’t dare to inhabit. The body, ah, the body, I guess I am talking about a living body. But I think I am dead.

The whole world is covered in a big cloud, it is as there was an eternal fire burning, smoke everywhere, and in the midst of the smoke the shapes of those like me, roaming the concrete streets, silent or worse, and from time to time, a flash of lightning, red and yellow and pink, food, food running across the street at a speed I can’t hope to achieve, food. What I wouldn’t do for food. Sometimes I grasp one of those thoughts floating like pollen in the wind, trap it inside in my maimed hands which I open slowly, and stare, a memory of the smiling face of my children. And I wonder, if they were food, wouldn’t I take a bite of their tender flesh? The only thing that might keep me from doing it is the fear they would come back, be like me, see me in the same way I see the others.

But food bites back. Food scares me. That’s why I hide in dark spots, inside the shells of charred shops, and wait, and hope that one of them will show up in the middle of the night looking for food, like I look for food. Approach it from behind, silent or worse, as it scrambles across the shambles of former shelves, approach it as silent as I can be. And when that blinding light which is food, swirling red and yellow and pink contained by a shape that doesn’t stumble or crawl or limp as it looks for food is close enough, I bite.

Because I don’t have fingers, but God knows I have teeth.

Dieter Moebius-Rast

Because Black Dice are nothing but a Brutal reconstruction of Kosmische. And we love them for that. Get this in Dieter Moebius‘ Kram.

The confounded noise. Their idle scrapings of my beloved furniture. The screams and moans and laughter and tearful pleading. The banging of my irreplaceable antique oak doors against my bruised frames. Damn them and their claims to occupy my halls. Damn them.

I look out onto the bay from a low cliff, awoken by the moon and it’s lazy double in the water. My ‘guests’ are sleeping their uneasy sleep under my soft linen. Their taunt young skin glistening with sweat. Their personal night terrors distorting their desires. They’ll blame me of course. Eventually.

They wake at such inconvenient times. Their tolerance for the purgatorial nightmares exhausted, they prowl my halls in search of sounds and visions. No doubt a ruse to encounter each other, half clothed and dazed. Disarmingly mixing their exploitative attraction with the stench of death surrounding them. For all the myriad sights glimpsed from my grand windows over the centuries, it is this scene, within my darkest corridors, that remains unchanged.

Eviction is always awkward. They struggle. There emerges a leader of sorts: stubborn, righteous, possessed of an unerring sense of entitlement. I have no control over this. My body reacts as theirs does, fighting off the invading cells until the whole is cleansed and order returns. This leaves me ill for a while, full of puss and bile, their noise and thrashing a temporary thing to be endured. Order always returns yet my halls are a little more worn, my beds more soft, my precious antique doors less sure on their hinges. Yet I endure on this cliff top, my forbidding stone secretly dreading the next party of curious ‘kids’.

This has been posted a bunch of times in other internet places but we ♥ Den Haan so here we go, piling on…

Matt and Gardi bring their fully fledge adoration of Italo and Hi-NRG to bear on this arpegiated nautical epic. The Herman Melvilles of glittering hyper-camp deliver a Sean-Connery-In-The-Navy disco warhead to the heart of a flooded Baltic disco. Vincent Price organs, a male choir and a hyperactive code machine (disguised as a synth) crash the party half way through and blow all the ballast tanks sending the whole thing towards the stars. Ace.

Den Haan – Russian Boat Commander

You can get this along with Heist on Den Haan’s latest 12″ out at the end of November.  More info here.

We hope you’ve enjoyed our Hallowe’en perspectives.  If you’d like to hear them your humble scribes are journeying out into the night this weekend…

On Friday:

at Al Duomo
7 Pavilion Buildings, off North Street, Brighton.

DJs:
Juan (20jazzfunkgreats)
Dave Liteyear
Barry the Van (Prostitutes & Policemen)
Ed Lilo (Ghost Ryde)
Murlo (Angry Dance Party)

More info here

Then on Saturday one of us will be in Stockholm:

More info on that here (if you speak Swedish).

And if in NYC on Saturday; halloween times For The Death, say hi to Hugo from us!