skippy raze they say a lot of things about you. with a belly full of bad acid, they tell me you made up your mind to break down your drummer's hotel room door and spike him with a fire axe to save his soul. you didn't get past the front desk. you spent six months entombed in the oldest public hospital in america, shot full of thorazine, and wrote a whole album in your head. without a piano or a guitar. without even pen and paper. you held on to all those scraps of song and carried them with you on the back of a motorcycle to nashville, still wearing your blue prison pajamas. you overdosed in san jose and sat up asking for a glass of water after they pronounced you dead and brought your body to the morgue. your best drug buddy was a white rat named oswald. your oldest friend thought an exorcism might mend what had ruptured in you. cancer ate away at everything you fought so hard to keep. you died listening to people you'd never met singing your own lullabies back to you. i don't know if any of it's true. i only trust the music you made to tell me who you were. 240619 what's it to you? who go blather from