Issue 14. Bleed the ruling classes. 2011 now. eventually. then.
wiver, swivel, sink and suffer. C C Con Congratulate the elementary board for the convergence and regression. Pause for a moment and let it all waft in. The stench of the money republic, the clench of a policeman’s fist on his ugly baton. The wrench felt by those less present, when later presented with the photos, and sometimes the facts.
ivergance please but not with weapons, we are all wrong when we think we are right. Anyway all these words fade when the next waves roll in, and nobody really spends that much time to think. It’s summer and the warm rain runs in small remnants, glossy little reminders. Memo’s from the sky. Inside the chambers of the weed god’s ghost we see the artifacts, later to be interpreted as artificial facts through the effectual efforts of the documentation team.
n the desk of the witness were his own effects and future prospects.
t’s all still pretty fucked people. Quit the bank.
Photo - Nathan Taare
The loosely spangled spanner strangler bangle was a bracelet.
The taste is on the tip, of the tongue, down the throat, of a lover. The feeling is on the screen, on an open mindâ€™s edge, clinging to a wheelie chair, sprawling out a window, trying to breathe, air. The noise is made by brittle nails, chewed, scuffed and gnarling together in the cold chill, clenching like knotted knees. Hear now the drumming gentle persuasion of habits, to fall back into when the high tides retreat themselves like smoke, to rest. Alone, being refreshed by the cool breeze, from an open window, down, on the street.
\ The blood, from brain to bone to hearty home, falls gently down the seat. And comes only to rest, where the white paint sets, amidst the arrival of another tempting summer storm. And in the eye of all of it, the green blood vessels, bloated swift, quivering on the red river.
On the street the wind blushes through the trees, teasing the skirt of summer.
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