Written by: Phro
It’s a dark and rainy night. The kind of dark and rainy night where you stay home and jerk off your cat with one hand while counting the number of people who love you with the other. (It’s zero people. No one loves you.) Then, when your cat won’t cum and you’re at the darkest depths of despair, you hear a knock at the door. It’s demure, yet violent; lusty, yet apprehensive. You pretend to sigh as if annoyed at the interruption, but in the shallow, tepid depths of your heart, you know you’re happy.
Removing your sweaty hand from your pet’s raw genitals, you stand and go to open the door and struggle to control your shock and turgid pleasure at seeing this lovely face:
With the heavy breathing of a pedophile learning he’s gotten a job as Naked Bathtime Mickey Mouse at Tokyo Disneyland, you stammer stupidly.
She giggles, takes you by the hand and leads you to your bedroom, where she tells you to strip and remove your clothes. Without pausing, you comply, as eager as a teacher’s pet diving head first and mouth agape into the naked lap of your obese, hairy, sweaty junior high math teacher.
Music fills your ears as she slowly pulls her rain-soaked coat from her shoulders. It is the music of angry, scorned, love-lorn nerds who have made numerous, anally painful pacts with Satan. The music literally burns your eardrums as if a thousand fire ants had climbed into each of your ears and stung you simultaneously.
Your erection and/or sopping vagina bid you not to mind the aural agony, begging you to accept this mild inconvenience as the bountiful specimen before you slowly begin to hike up her skirt. You don’t need to be told twice.
The music roars like thousand-metre tall waves breaking guileless surfers upon jagged rocks, Poseidon’s revenge for his daughter’s tryst with a legged sailor. Gnarled riffs become strands of barbed wire sawing through your head, in one ear and out the other, tearing your already weak brain to bloody, pulpy shreds. The barbed wire saw swings fast and maniacal like the ax of a tweeking lumberjack murdering his way through a carnival of sentient, screaming trees. Through the bloody, gooey mush that dribbles out of your ears, you can hear howling Arctic gales screaming with tips of stinging flecks of ice.
She smiles, her eyes filled with the kind of love you have but dreamed about every night as you slowly rock yourself to sleep, hugging your teddy bear, crusty with dried cum, close to your chest. With the deftness of a magician, she pulls her one-piece dress off, revealing her naked body.
The music intensifies—though you had not thought it possible. The howling Arctic gales become the tortured, gleeful roars of genetically-modified, sex-slave pigs, fulfilling their function and screaming to death as laughing children beat them with spiked dildos.
She takes your hand—your hand quivering with excitement and fear that this is little more than a dream—and holds it against her soft cheek. With a meaningful look, she begins to touch herself. You struggle not to look down, not to look away from her eyes which seem to beg you not to peek. You are mesmerized.
The music surges and pulses wildly as if conducted by a drunken, cybernetic Beethoven trying to kill the musicians through exhaustion. The drums rattle your skull as if they were a million baby elephants mosh-pitting through your head. Their tusks, sharpened into serrated blades, rip through your head.
But you dare not look away, your eyes tied to hers like a prisoner locked within a cell of solidified orgasmic joy. As her arms work furiously, she moans, loud and hard, and you can feel your urge swelling to a crescendo.
Suddenly, she screams and something hot and sticky sprays across your face. You think it is the juices of love, but when you look down you realize that she’s shoved her fist up through her abdomen and into her ribcage. As she falls to her knees, she rips her heart out, holding it up for you to take.
Blood pours in fat thick rivers of tears down your face as the music rips through several linings in your head.
“Why?” you try to whisper, your mouth barely forming the words as the mush of what was once your brain pours out of your nose.
She merely laughs derisively as the light fades from her eyes.
Go-zen is an “Akiba-gore” band from Tokyo, as one would assume. They have drawn much inspiration from Jig-ai, which seems kind of backwards when you think about it. The album “reviewed” above is Hitoshizuku, which is available on the Japanese Amazon. Their webpage, which has streaming songs, is go-zen.com. They have a Twitter page here and a Facebook page here. At their ReverbNation page, four songs are available for free download.
Since you’re probably a lazy ass, here are some of their songs.
This would be a picture of the band. The third person in the live video above has left the band, apparently.
This is the cover of their first EP, which was recorded entirely by the gentleman on the right above:
I hope your genitals are bloody and sad now.