I had heard about Wat Angkor.
'Con artist delight,' said Max.
They were just old buildings that had been patched with concrete.
'And 80 percent of the buildings are fake.'
I always wondered why the place looked like a Disney theme park.
'Because Disney owns it,' said Max who suggested we go to a rave party on February the 1st.
'Why Feb the first,' I asked, more out of curiosity than being a nosy bastard.
The DJ from the cemetery wanted another gig.
He proved himself over many times.
Me and Max set up mist machines.
They were supplied with cocaine and ecstasy.
The academics said that Asian nightclubs lured in customers with the promise of hot chicks and free angel dust.
I was under the belief that if people wanted to get high, they'd just take a pill.
'Usually the case,' said the DJ who went by the name of JG. 'But it wouldn't hurt trying it out.'
The cream of party-goers converged on the Siam Reap.
'This is going to be a big one boys.'
JG had some wicked tunes, 'that will make a grown man cry.'
I believed it too.
He told me the tracks were overlaid on the industrial turntables.
Are you saying what I think you are saying?
'They'll be weeping once I'm done with them.'
The Book of Inundations, part five started off slow.
Then Jesus got up on stage and did some groovy moves.
Another guy was riding on a Honda proclaiming to be Yahweh.
Moment by moment the hot disco sluts started taking off their gear.
The generals and politicians got down and dirty and fucked on the hard earth.
Then the DJ got down to business.
'A generation has burned.'
That got the hip crowd nodding their heads.
Those mist machines were really infiltrating their skulls.
'And this generation will burn.'
The DJ had his sound mixer, two guys from Berlin.
They knew JG's proclamations well and put an evil spin on the words of this wizard of Oz.
'Fucking pussies, the lot of them,' said Max.
A thousand guests, broken. Distressed. Hysterical.
It was a deluge of grief.
'Courtesy of the Book of Inundations,' said the DJ who knew a thing or two about cluster fucks.
'Con artist delight,' said Max.
They were just old buildings that had been patched with concrete.
'And 80 percent of the buildings are fake.'
I always wondered why the place looked like a Disney theme park.
'Because Disney owns it,' said Max who suggested we go to a rave party on February the 1st.
'Why Feb the first,' I asked, more out of curiosity than being a nosy bastard.
The DJ from the cemetery wanted another gig.
He proved himself over many times.
Me and Max set up mist machines.
They were supplied with cocaine and ecstasy.
The academics said that Asian nightclubs lured in customers with the promise of hot chicks and free angel dust.
I was under the belief that if people wanted to get high, they'd just take a pill.
'Usually the case,' said the DJ who went by the name of JG. 'But it wouldn't hurt trying it out.'
The cream of party-goers converged on the Siam Reap.
'This is going to be a big one boys.'
JG had some wicked tunes, 'that will make a grown man cry.'
I believed it too.
He told me the tracks were overlaid on the industrial turntables.
Are you saying what I think you are saying?
'They'll be weeping once I'm done with them.'
The Book of Inundations, part five started off slow.
Then Jesus got up on stage and did some groovy moves.
Another guy was riding on a Honda proclaiming to be Yahweh.
Moment by moment the hot disco sluts started taking off their gear.
The generals and politicians got down and dirty and fucked on the hard earth.
Then the DJ got down to business.
'A generation has burned.'
That got the hip crowd nodding their heads.
Those mist machines were really infiltrating their skulls.
'And this generation will burn.'
The DJ had his sound mixer, two guys from Berlin.
They knew JG's proclamations well and put an evil spin on the words of this wizard of Oz.
'Fucking pussies, the lot of them,' said Max.
A thousand guests, broken. Distressed. Hysterical.
It was a deluge of grief.
'Courtesy of the Book of Inundations,' said the DJ who knew a thing or two about cluster fucks.
