Archive for the devil Category

Velvet Hammer – The Mardi Gras Alternative (for the sleazy and greasy).

Posted in devil, Drunk, fantasy, Gay Paris, gig, Politics, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, Sydney, sydney band with tags , , , , , , , on 20/02/2012 by gayparis

Easy peasy, greased up and sleazy!

FACEBOOK EVENT – so your friends know how rad you are!



Posted in devil, Drunk, Gay Paris, gig, live music, Swamp Rock, Sydney, sydney band with tags , , , , , , on 15/02/2012 by gayparis

Like we don’t love playing The Annandale with Totes Unicorn!



Facebook Event!

Black Cherry NYE – The Ultimate Gay Party!

Posted in devil, Drunk, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, Sydney, sydney band, Tour, WH with tags , , , , on 25/10/2011 by gayparis

That’s right, you sweet bastards, SOBs, dirty ladies, goths (and reformed goths), men of low moral character, possible werewolves, educated dandies, high functioning alcoholics, smut lovers, pirates, swingers, sexy librarians, clergymen, fashion conscious punks, NBA players, tiger trainers, stoned botanists, rap dudes, history buffs and everyone else, we’re playing Black Cherry NYE at the Factory Theater in Marrickville.
Bring us party favours and booze money. We’ll provide an unrelenting tide of sleaze and rock n’ roll.

Party Like It's 2999!


More Stupid Shit from the Phone of WH

Posted in devil, Drunk, Horror, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, Sydney, sydney band, Tour, WH with tags , , , , , , on 07/08/2011 by gayparis

This week we went to Wombarra, we recorded with Hammer at Def Wolf and maybe I’m finally getting a pomeranian.

Bearded Immortals – A Poster!

Posted in devil, Drunk, Gay Paris, gig, Horror, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, Sydney, sydney band, Tour with tags , , , on 03/08/2011 by gayparis

No Quiet Nights

Posted in devil, Drunk, fantasy, Gay Paris, god, Horror, Nerd, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, sydney band, WH with tags , , , , , , on 31/05/2011 by gayparis

Last night? What the fuck happened? The eggs tasted good and there was so much gin. Dreams of tongue kissing something that has an impossibly long face and huge hands. Dreams.
I wake panting, face down, burning inside and the feathers scratch my skin, the nettles and tinsel dance and tickle and poke and find their way inside me. Some kind of trash bird nest. A note blurs into sensible.
Don’t be sorry, you sorry bitch.
Gore full, my belly bloats out in front and my breasts are pregnant tender. Beak marks and teeth, ripples of red around the areola , bile in my throat.
I’ve gotta get out of this tree and back to the underground.
Down in the woods, down on my luck, down on myself. Who the fuck did I get down with? Go down on?
I’ll say sorry to the white owl king and start again because every night is a night out.
The PA shudders through the woodland tunnels:
Come on down with the wolves and the owls, get on down where they hoot and howl
Dance around in the skin of a sow
Get the spook piggies and a thorn covered crown
Ooh la la, Pom Pom le Rouge
Tell us what you did last night!”
There is fear in the halls. I’m stinking of it with every breath, like a recovering alcoholic, dream taunts and piss stank skin, bags under my eyes holding all the old knowing that will blow me wide open and leave me on the floor before him, spread-eagled and barren.
Flashbacks from black to brown:
What’s the dog doing wearing the head of a man?
Now I’ve got a burn in her gut and a bite on my hand, where are my rings? At least he let me keep my fingers.
I must remember to take the appropriate measures, kill the baby goat with copper wire and hot golden broth.
Visit the apothecary and make love to the alchemist. Set fire to the evidence as a form of penitence.
When it gets too hot, just remember, there are no quiet nights in the arctic.More from the PA:
“Down on your knees in my court”
He appears in his terribly clean robe, impossibly albino, erection jutting at a proud and awkward angle.
The Owl king hoots and calls for more whores.
“Who will spit? Who will swallow, it’ll all be the same and the night plays out like a rosemary stain!”
As usual he is dramatic at the moment he approaches climax.
I say “good morning” in the evening and give ersatz curtsy, dipping my chest low and feeling my nipples remember the chewing hounds, birds and men of yester eve.
He’s checking out my bosom and I’m playing his game
“Are you sorry, Le Rouge?” He booms and gushes and the small women faint and drown while the larger ones set sail to stranger shores.
I’m always absolved, so I never abstain.
Now I powders my cheeks and smear honest blood on my teats, swig absinthe in the latrine and laugh long and loud at the drowning dead, their spirits won’t sink as long as He provides the vodka, by barrel and burlesque, they are kept afloat.
I’ll Keep dancing with the dragon gone from scarlet to green and let great white wings canopy my bed, even if it means oceans and apologies and fear of the dark, a hatred of gears and steam and wires and clean living. I’ll say “M’lord, it meant naught, an honest mistake,” and false men in black with fuck my corpse at my wake.
When I wake on the morrow, I’ll say sorry again
Even if Hell freezes over.
Remember that there are no quiet nights in the brimstone lodge.

The Pale Surgeon

Posted in devil, Gay Paris, Horror, Southern Horror, Swamp Rock, WH with tags , , , , on 28/04/2011 by gayparis

Cold swamp water, like a bathtub where the diseases meet for bukkake parties.
She is splashing. Skirts low, a floundering mermaid cursed with legs, soon to be hogtied and dipped down and down again.
I can hear the mongrel kicking at the walls of her womb.
Unnatural. What is that smell? Over the sulphur burbles and fetid whispers, what wonders are fettered within this awful apparition of awkward womanhood?
Fecund and freezing.
My claws clack.
My claws clap.
My claws clack, clap and splash.
My claws glisten.
The sheers are calling, but first: a syringe.
Booming, my eyestalks achieve the pinhole focus necessary for this work.
The ants are running off my carapace in silk black rivulets, giving up tiny deaths when they don’t make it to their leaf galleons, fleeing this terrible scene.
They’ve seen it all before.
Check the bracken stirrups and mangrove cells – a sweet hell of claws and gumbo, a pot for the placenta, possibly and what to do with her skin?
The slip-off trade is good down here and I heard that old Guichard is looking for something to fuck, so maybe if I dip an old slattern into this one’s facade, well, the sonofabitch can really get to grips.
Darling, says I. Darling, you look unabashedly a’feared, what say you let your antlers hang out, I can cover where the ache forms.
She moans.
Tell me where it hurts. What if I do this?
What about this?
And this?
How about here?
And here?
She coughs twice and the viscous worms dribble like latter day ‘aints down the breasts of Saint Barbara.
Get the golden sword and prepare my sheers.
Where are the forceps? What the fuck do you mean we only have wire and cat guts?
At least tell me we have that unicorn horn I was saving.
Ah, yes.
Spirals without end and the dust walls crumble. I can hear it howling.
A gentle tap on my shoulder.
I will brook no interruptions!
A second. Less gentle. My mandibles clack clatter snap.
Sir, you raise my consternation to the very ires that bale in hell!
I come apart at the joint where my tail slithers into hip level vertebrate, upper torso twisting backwards while my hard cock, still sleeved in unicorn horn and tied tight with violin strings reaches it’s opus.
His monocle has misted with the heat of rage and gloved hands want vengeance for the soiled finery, my ichor and blood mixing and matting with his fur.
Weirdly, my lower body moves of it’s own accord – drowning ants jeer at my comeuppance.
Then he pulls off my head.