Not sure if you are aware or not, but Slipknot's Corey Taylor writes a monthly column for the European publication Rock Sound (which is kind of like Metal Edge here in the US). In his most recent writing, he speaks about inspiration - "What inspires us, what we do to inspire others." Before going further, we are asking for your inspiration, in the form of Slipknot art, poetry, whatever. Slipknot wants your inspirations on their upcoming website, as there is going to be a section titled CONCEPTS, which will be all about the fans - your art (see our PSYCHO OF THE MONTH contest for full details - email goods to email@example.com). So, need some help with inspiration for your creations? Take a tip from Corey. From the pen of Corey Taylor, the following comes from Rock Sound (note - for more of Corey's writings, check out www.Rock-Sound.net): Hey. it's me. Gonna talk about inspiration today. What inspires us, what we do to inspire other. Geniuses and fools alike look to a book of fiction called the Bible for inspiration. Others see a young man help an old lady cross the street and they donate half their inheritance to the fucking Salvation Army. The thing about it is, it's so involuntary. You can't decide what gives you the courage to run through a mall naked, screamin, "Leather and cotton are corrupt!". You don't pick your inspiration. It picks you. A lotta people ask me where I get the ideas for my columns. I try to be polite and helpful, especially for budding writers, so after my three personal bodyguards pick them up off the ground, release them from whatever death grip they learned from tours in 'Nam, frisk them, perform fuls BCSs (body cavity searches) and run their prints for prior convictions ... I spend a lot of time basically talking them out of lawsuits. I also let them in on this, my secret creative engine. I will now, for the first time, unleash on an unsuspecting public, the recipe behind my awesome intellectual prowess, my wellspring of eternal inspiration. I take a shit! Seriously. Almost 90% of my lyrics, columns, poems, screenplays and whatnot started out as an inkling on the shitter. I have more notebooks and pens in my bathroom than toilet paper, which lets you know what I do with the stuff I don't want to keep (talk about being your own worst critic.) But, by the first grunt, I'm not reaching for the newspaper. Usually, I've got an idea. Sometimes it isn't more than a few lines. Other times I stay in their so long I have to jump in the shower because last night's dinner just dried up my ass. Am I impressing you yet ? Anyway, i don't know what it is. Maybe it has to do with flushing the toxins from your body. Maybe it's about releasing what's in your soul, as wellas your intestines. Maybe I'm becoming a pretentious fucking sod in my old age, and I'm trying to romanticise the fact that almost everything I wrote on our first album started on a porn store toilet. But, the point is - who gives a flying fuck ? Whatever way works for you, work it, right ? I mean, I'm not constantly shitting, for fuck's sake. I can obviously to this without including fibre in my diet! "Christ, my deadline's tomorrow! Honey, where's the Ex-Lax? I've got writer's block!" Please. I think I've got it. It's that moment in the day when we're totally alone. And I mean TOTALLY ALONE. C'mon, if you've got people hanging out in your john for coffee and gossip, you've got some really filthy, nasty habits. Where was I? Oh... shitting. But how inspiring is this ? Picture it: the house is quiet, you just woke up.Just you and your bowels. You look around for your paper or notebook, romance novel, whatever you're gonna get into for the next ten minutes. Maybe you grab your coffee, or cigarette. You get comfy and get down to business. And then it hits you@ this might be the only time you really have to yourself today. When you walk out that door, not only are you leaving a rancid reminder, but also a tranquility that's hard to muster anywhere else. Life is gonna wrap its arms around you until you go to bed that night. School. Work. Kids. Friends. Dates. EVERYTHING. Not a moments' peace, except for right now. And then it happens... PLOP! "Aaaaahhhh...." Okay, that was out of bounds. I admit it. Tell you what : if you pretend you didn't read it, I'll pretend I didn't write it. Deal ? I know people who have lived their lives without that four syllable word, and I got to tell you, they are some of the most morose walking corpses I've ever met. Sometimes when we go out for coffee, I have to reach over and check them for a pulse. Maybe that's why I'm going on at length about it.