dead fish dreaming

Rage, rage against the dying of the night. And so on.

One last dead fish at black spark. The open mike where you can air your dirty laundry and DADA the night away. Where the unpolished, inadequate and diseased blossoms like the faith of a mutilated outcast. I know you got one of those hiding away, behind that brittle angel act, that sloppy excrement of virtue we coat ourselves with.
Poems. Screaming. Cute jams. Heckling, roasting, dancing, secrets revealed. Whatever you got. ANYTHING. You know the drill.
As is the custom, I will degrade myself thoroughly at the start of the evening for your shallow enjoyment, and if the need arises, throughout the night.