Pound me 'til I'm bloody but don't ever stop the music. Music of reassuring terror, of blood and fists and muscle and sinew. And don't ever stop the music. Pound mountains 'til they topple with sounds that could move mountains. Sounds as great tribulations that raze whole landscapes, that destroy pop-cultural geography with two sets of hands. The miracle of sound in motion. Instrumental driving music for felons that drives felons to felonies, then hears their screams. Screams whose screaming means this is instrumental music no longer. Kill post-rock stars. Bludgeon emo. Scream. Driving music that goes far beyond driven. Pneumatic music. Unrelenting. Makes men grow beards. Looks at you with wolf eyes. Pounded 'til a bloodied face runs blood like rain on windows through caked-together eyelashes and so comes cried tears of dirt and sweet sweat and bloodied red. Screamed bloody hell and bloody murder followed. Pneumatic music. Drilling expressways in yr skull. Trepanning. Van-driving. Expressways. Ruins lay in ruins and the rubble crumbles and the world decays and the oxygen turns and the stacks of tires burn and I see you in that gas mask and the terror has started and I can't believe that all I want is to be hurt like this and I doubt there's a greater rock-shtick ever than this. Like a teenager, spending seasons in the abyss. Wattage as tonnage. Rubble and ruin, lying in ruins. Two men. Bass and drums. Popular music. Popular music in agony. They don't relent, and you love them for it. Relentless. The end comes when it stops. Take a breath. Press play again. Prepare for terror. Furore. Good pain, like workout pain. Burning. Press play again, again, each time subsuming yourself to music. Yet bringing things to ask. Like prayers to God. Come asking. And I come to this: ask this. Actually sound like the words "heavy metal." What this should mean: sweating just listening; ears ringing; crappy car vibrating; hear sound like muscles tightening; tight like a fistfight; elephantitus of the night; male sex music for the fires of mount doom; burn little black rocks in the sun; again. Don't stop 'til I get enough, come on, and you don't stop, don't stop 'til I'm bloodied up, come on, and you don't stop, don't stop 'til I like it rough, come on, and you don't stop.