blocked drain
a palatable disintegration it ticks the right boxes the squirm of despicable character the crumbling face and the excuses trot out we find the rot
fuck the doubters
fuck the doubters who do nothing but doubt fuck the shouters who do nothing but shout know that without us they’d have nothing to talk
The Artist And The Acts
It really is hard sometimes to divorce the work from the artist, and there is a point where you wonder whether if you took everything
Another Erewhon
He sat down at the edge of the lake and he pretended that it was a mirror that he might throw reflections into that would
concrete blindness
you, brief explosion you, mis-target heart you, somewhere in the dark a half translated movement from a full realised collapse like a synapse fried for
Never Play Just One Note
Catharsis poetry has its place, and what I think of as head music poetry, like-wise has some value. But there can be a strain of
punch and due day
punching late punching underweight punch and contemplate punching clocks party punch drunk punch and judy why are you on the defensive? was it really so