#15 - wokeups - "fragged aht"

Dearest Deacon of Fraggersville,

I write with an urgent entreaty. Thou must listen to “fragged aht” by wokeups. It arrived in my eardrums like a messenger on horseback, a carrier pigeon in the night.

There, betwixt the percussive shards and voluptuous synth line, thou shall behold a pillar of vocal matter so luminous it shatters my conception of the real, the human — and verily I am a humanist but its sheer majesty surpasses all that my mortal mind is capable of envisaging. None of my feeble transcription services were able to convey its meaning in lyric form. I tasked my scrivener, Spongluss, with deciphering the message. His result: GUOOOGOOOEGOOAAAH. Upon the instant I heard its gleaming GUOOG, I felt myself o’ercome with a sense of rapture — a glorious surrender it twas indeed in the way it vouchsafed beatified brain-bliss. Heretofore I had never experienced such an emptying of my ego. It makes the plebeian bards in the town square busking “Medieval Rap Type Beats” with their costcutter woodsmiths’ mandolins resemble mere Shakespearean fan-clubbers.

Prithee take heed of my heart’s petition: thou must persuade Pope SoundCloudius XIVX to deploy this sonic blessing as a potential antidote for those suffering from the Streambait Plague. My dearest, thou know I have been gravely afflicted by illnesses such as Long Covid. I must say, the singular beam of radiance that is “fragged aht” cured me of all my sundry ailments — grippe, quinsy, vent gleet, dropsy, the French pox.

Ensconced in the celestial swath of synthesizers and regal Auto-Tune wizardry, I have become a healed and holy man. Rather than litter gravestones with flowers and “RIP” text, I propose we protect our dead with wokeups’ lyrical fragments. I just went to the cemetery and inscribed “Ho got hella coke, she finna blow her nose galore (galore)” on my grandnan’s tomb.

Yours fondly,

K