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For the band...

Partying With The CatchPenny Broadcast

Picby Marc Lionhart25 May 2014

Fell into place suddenly. No organised corruption here, but a frantic interlude.
Cab ride to a house in the suburbs, enveloped by vines, eluded by authority and free from conformism. We laugh as we pass through "cocking".
To alight, we step down a small drop and enter an abode not unlike most, full of music, rockstars and beer.
The lead singer with fire roaring from him leads the way, pulls a poker table from nowhere and slams it down, chips in place, booze rife and no hope for control.
We play Rush and cackle. Dangerous, ruined socialites and reclusive madness. Mentally homeless.
The band and friends have a prevalent cocaine brain, lively challengers of fickle crime.
Weed and youngsters, I see a personal live performance from individual members, noodling and reliving old tunes of youth.
Sniffing coke off an aged Zeppelin IV album, playing songs from an old strat.
There are cracks everywhere.
I love this house, feels warm.
The people are welcoming, which terrifies me, but they are encumbered by everything I am.
Guitar-god-worship, beautiful women and stories of underage love with all its insanity.
Featuring posters, such vibrant walls covered in culture, enticing me to talk.
My skin tingles, I hear gravel voices and left over melodies, left over from the night before.
I'm deep, alone but befriended, homely and inhuman reveling in my pseudo-comfort.
Kissing the ceiling, noticing we are all partying now, partying with The CatchPenny Broadcast like hellfire, like obliviousness or rebellion.
I went there once before. Loved it, it hurt me, so I went back.
They are still there. Still waiting, still partying.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck she's incredible. Close your eyes, wake up? Not tonight, not my time.
I am sandwiched between the floor and the sky. Encased in cement.
Not really sure how I got here but questioning it causes a big headache, drowning it helps, but not too much, just enough, tip about more, that's it, more, bit less...
Alas, no more narrative. Don't think it ever had one.
Painful the next morning. Remembering things I shouldn't.
Isn't that how a party goes?