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The Sunday Hangover – The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band

His chest is heaving violently. His hand is clasped over his mouth trying to restrain the hot breaths that seek to cloud the air in front of him and reveal his hiding place. They romp and snort and bay in the distance, overturning trash cans and benches in their chaos. Their leathery snouts are stippled with saliva and sand as they press firmly to the ground, noses down, eyes raised, smelling as they charge forward. He parts his fingers to allow one full breath to pass out of and back into his burning lungs, and that’s all it takes.

They are awake with renewed fury, sprinting down seventeenth street. They move as one, greyhounds, yorkies, chows, great danes, poodles, fox terriers, an enormous furry amoeba enveloping, destroying everything. They’ve chewed the stuffing out of every sofa, chewed the brains out of every squirrel, chewed the siding from every house, chewed the legs off every stool, just as they aim to chew every bone from his soft flesh. Their paws drum padded thunder against the pavement. Tooth and claw are poised, sharpened, ready.

Last week he held a microphone, ears pressed firmly inside enormous ear-covering headphones and listened as people explained their “lives as urban dog owners.” His fiance’, Dana, looked through the video camera and watched the owners jerk chains, grasp collars, administer “treats,” and impose sweaters. Was that anxiety, plotting, pleading, desperation as she zoomed in tight on the dog’s eyes?

Tonight, the microphone has been chewed, the headphones chewed, chains, collars, sweaters, and treats chewed.

And Dana. Dana is chewed, and now he cowers beneath a dumpster hoping the stench of rotting garbage will mask the allure of his boiling blood.

His eyes dart out across Harrison park, and he contemplates relocation. Suddenly, the slight clank of delicately wrought metal cuts through the night like a hot needle through stained glass. Rabies vaccination tags dangle from a collar only feet away. A giant snout helicopters past, inhaling and exhaling at the speed of hummingbird wings. Four huge paws stop just in front of the dumpster. A head is lowered, and they lock eyes. The dog inches closer, trained on the shaking man beneath the dumpster. The man feels the cold moisture of the snout, sees the frothy spittle around the mouth, the spreading snarl and the bayonette teeth. He reaches out a shaking hand and laces his fingers through the blood tangled fur and whispers softly through a quivering voice, “I won’t hurt you.”

Listen – West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band – I won’t hurt you

Download: West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band – Part One

More Info On The Band.

Posted by: Jamie

Category: Music

14 Nov, 2010

Category: Music

Tagged: , , , , , , , ,

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