Lyrics The Howler: An English Breakfast (Chapter 1, Part 1) - Pigface

The Howler: An English Breakfast (Chapter 1, Part 1)

You might recall we left Barbara dripping on the floor
This was her favorite way to freak out important visitors, especially foreign
diplomats, who were already so intimidated by the instructions in etiquette
they had received from The Demon Ping that they were quite terrified of making
a social mistake
Yes, on a good day, Barbara could actually make quite a splash on the Royal
tiles so to speak.
Mind you, sometimes that nasty little Greek, the Howler,
would spoil her triumph and scurry across the floor licking up her juices
whilst making a totally unnecessary slurping and sucking noise just for added
effect, and extra attention of course
Foul little man.
Why on earth was MacQueen still with him?
God knows what THEY
got up to in private, wherever that was.
«Whip Me!»
indeed.
She’d like to
fuckin' whip him.
Little turd.
He’d soon take off that stupid sign
Her thoughts drifted for a moment.
Away from the dwarf’s cock, away from the
Howler, back to those earlier, more innocent parties that Feelin' Bored used to
organize for everyone.
No, that was crap.
Just straight sex, titillation and
whores.
They’d all become connoisseurs since then.
Only the silly «Whip Me»
sign remained as a witness to those appetites.
Maybe, after all,
the Howler had it right.
Maybe it was okay to keep a symbol of how it began,
a relic that contained all the energy ever released and satiated since then.
Shit!
What a lot of filth they’d managed to enjoy
Being descended from God and above the law sure made pleasure perfect
«Cap orve tay, Babs?»
asked MacQueen
«Oh most certainly, of course, not too much cream, just one sugar please.»
MacQueen motioned to one of the mosquitoes, as they all called the servants
«You know Babs, I really love it here.
These spring mornings.
The smell of the
grass as the overnight dew evaporates.
The mist hanging around the edges of the
fields like poison gas.
The grey sky before it gets warm.
Especially if it’s
rained during the night.
D’you know, I even start to like the dawn chorus and
that terrible cockerel over by the stables.
I wonder how many eggs he’s
fertilized…»
MacQueen’s voice trailed off.
Being fucked by pregnant teenagers wielding
hand-carved bone dildos was her favorite fetish.
BY now she’d had so many her
labia were callused and hard, Though she liked to joke it was through horse
riding.
Whore riding more like!
The Demon Ping returned.
How did he do that, wondered the Howler,
how did he manage to always sound like a roulette wheel as the ball settled
into a slot?
«May I, Ma’am?»
Ping leaned over Barbara’s left shoulder gracefully.
With a surprising sense of purpose, and a great deal of mysterious sensuality,
he tumbled the most delicious and juicy looking strawberries into her cereal
bowl without splashing a single drop of cream.
One by one he added the berries,
and each time, by some extraordinary erotic association, Barbara gasped,
clenching and opening her slim legs in spasms.
Her silk bathrobe fell open,
so lightly tied at the waist was it, to reveal a symmetrical cluster of
vesicular and bulbous lesions.
A small, clear trail of viscous fluid was
running from her swollen vagina onto the purple velvet seat
«Eh'll hev som of thet wane you’ve feneshed op thare, Ping.»
said MacQueen.
«End be queck about et.
Eh don’t want them too go orff.
Those are thee
strawberries grown in Sourth Americon nightsoil, aren’t thay?»
«Of course, Ma’am.
Of course to both questions, Ma’am,» replied Ping
He had chosen control and dispassion as his path to perfection so long ago.
For huge segments of time he had persisted, an entity believing so completely
in itself that it became almost real.
But entities can only do so much on their
own you see.
They can approximate form, and seem to matter.
They can even set
themselves up as strange attractors outside earthly time and space.
That is how they get nourishment and density.
But to manifest as beings with a
form and purpose all of their own, able to co-exist with a planetary species,
they need directed desire.
They require fixated individuals, whose urges to
infinite, limitless pleasure redefine hedonism.
They must be invoked;
assembled orgasm by orgasm;
transgression by transgression;
unspeakable dream
by unspeakable dream;
insatiable sexual disgrace by insatiable sexual disgrace.
Until, as remorse and regret become laughably atrophied, and in an accelerated
kaleidoscope of fractured images and loops of meaning, all is flattened.
Meaning is ruptured, and only irreversible terror is left
There is a sound that accompanies this.
Once this noise begins, nothing,
nothing at all can stop it
The sound of several galactic histories passing immeasurably fast,
as such an entity finds planetary form, is a sound not dissimilar to the sound
of a roulette wheel slowing down until the steel ball is able to drop into its
apparently random spot.
At such times are the fates and futures of more mundane
creatures decided irrevocably, in a rush of fear and excitement
Ping was born out of risk and ennui, out of irresponsibility and fixated
sexuality, out of a most considered form of reckless behavior, out of this
appalling sound.
Once this noise begins, nothing, nothing at all can ever stop
it
Recklessness being the most appealing human emotion to those such as Ping