Saturday, 23 February 2013

Band Review: Walk the Moon

Toyland is untenable. The fruit is made of knitting. The game cannot be killed. Jackson fired four rounds of buckshot into a horned, cow-like animal with googly eyes and floppy legs, but the beast just mooed moronically, bled some non-toxic plastic balls, and disappeared into a gift tape thicket as though it were all some childish game. Tape too dense and gaudy to follow it in. Later we saw the same animal drinking at the waterhole (lemonade), crude Toyland stitch work closing up the wounds we delivered it. Someone is toying with us. Is this the nature of Toyland? The sight of the animal drinking greedily from the waterhole sent Jackson into a bottomless depression from which I fear he will not return. Tonight we finished the last of our rations. Rice boiled in lemonade. Copious salt to cancel the vile chemical sweetness we have come to abhor. Jackson ate little. Seemed abstracted. Hiding something in his hand.

Jackson is dead. Diabetes, acute emasculation, madness. I found his cadaver in a pitiful state. It seemed evident that he had been trying to castrate himself with a sharpened shard of peanut brittle at the time of his passing. Frozen dead grin.

My escape from the Toyland plateau may be at hand. I have contrived climbing gear from the unravelled hide of a dancing crochet circus chimp and several of her musical offspring. I kicked their stuffing to the wind. I don't believe, skinned and gutted as they were, that they were completely dead. Foul creatures. Eunuchs, dumb, happy, immortal. I will make my descent tomorrow morning.

I am very weak. I have chosen a place to descend, but it seems treacherous, doubtful. Still, I must attempt it. Last night I was visited by a golliwog in my dreams. Told me something in irritating voice. I forget. Diabetes. Oh, I hate Toyland. 

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