About Die Mannequin

Die Mannequin

16 Years old: Bags packed, gripping guitar, garbage bag of clothes and knapsack bulging of Cds, tapes and book upon book filled with words.

I scribble softly down with you…never been back. While losing lovelies I've lost myself crushed beneath a haunted home and a breaking soul. And like the size of a heart: blamed to black, beaten and gauged, I staggered and fought, screaming and bleeding through years of songs, shows, bands and foes. Arms Bled teenage chains as I rattle and roar kicked out and mixed up for too long (She's on, She's Off). Congested with poisons of every kind, Caroline Mescaline and the love of my life. But I had to resign. The former high priestess of holy water + holy spoons R.I.P. No Star.

So now in the tumbling daylight where beats tamed by the light of their own feverish disease go to die, I crawl from the teenage graveyard and hush my head in a hole (beautiful fucking ruthlessness minus the habit)

Staggering still, filled with the old ghost but blessed to breathe, I search the congested nicoteen teen-rage slaved streets of this one-fuck town (some call it home). Near the end of myself Harry Hess had grabbed my hand and homed me, leading me unto the arms of EMI Publishing. Soon after I find a friend. Pat M. plays drums and now I've found another razor and we sever along together. Ethan Deth plays bass.

Wear yr murder on yr sleeve and we will curse this girl forever. Careful now.

Die Mannequin

p.s. the model is fading boys and girls and ghosts. So stop waiting to escape when yr burn is impossible, and the haven has died and simply become yrself. So where are you going and what home is hell if you were even there to care at all?

R.I.P. Care F.
(care failure)