a dead form:
I need a thousand ghosts splattered on my windshield, going 85 down farm roads, going ballistic in skin wrapped bone auditoriums, falling faster to get up slow. Walking through book stores, the weight people place, the feelings they displace, onto printed pages bleeding boredom busting nuts, brains that is, all over hipster boots shuffling. Peers say the art is there to question boundaries, while they confine themselves to lovelorn loser lice-filled fuckfests where the throbs of meat rockets transpose to pen squirts, scribbled love admissions sadness, sorrow, suck. Art is building ladders from the bones of the deceased, to reach construction zones, claiming (Heaven: COMING SOON!) Yet, now it is strip malls with little problems and little people, blowing little kisses and espousing little disasters. And all i can think of is...
This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission. This is a dead transmission.
Move along.
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