SF&D | Fall 2013 [Mash Up]

Page 66

Kenny Mooney | away senses of on machines

Our medicine dreams in soft, the beneath, the many calling murder. The men of nylon grinding thieves into fat. This crime blasting some fragmented field with gaping. Dark make of the nylon, and nervous this from you. From desks, shame in the air. Godless these sinister years. Violent over-machine of some itch. Oh history, out of centuries. A debris of dark nylon, landscape all shattered liars.

lxiv | SF&D