Your web-browser is very outdated, and as such, this website may not display properly. Please consider upgrading to a modern, faster and more secure browser. Click here to do so.
of the imagination’s puzzling encounters. lift us above and beyond our monochrome minutes accelerating into a lake. it is not colour merely but and orgy of monastic inhibitions repainted as mosaic. lifer, one hard thrust and
with a cry
the night lives in triangles and the morning dies in squares. these tessellating figments drive us further to madness, chipping away at pixelated purposes and porpoises, becoming
which leaves no room for checklists or paragraphs but plenty for paraphrasing, ripping quotes wholesale from savages and dirty uncles. this far, but no father.
a rippling twist of bright defiance and chaos, a smothering and a release from those manacles of decorum that lash our monocles close to close the deal with a wink and coffin toast.
WHY? cries a lone man in a deck chair, swaddled in his apathetic fury. he dipped his nib into the country’s blood and scrawled mushrooms.
all shall be well
or strangers will be eaten by the squalls of desperate seagulls, squawking oblivion. we rest, ferociously, like the masturbating maidens of outland were the wind swallows our mistakes.