Silver Shoes on a Grave (*Excerpt)I recently encountered a tribe of fair but strangely subdued relations. A tribe of suffocating antrithers accustomed to the bitter stones of their harsh life. A tribe of plow-pushing, flint-gazing hermits and herbivorous females. Still, I beckoned them aside, giving a dip of the quarantine whistle. I've examined these unusual feet probes, wondering where they get these fashion free glands. Sheer perverted wanting! What will the government suggest; a polemic law targeting a life expectancy in art? A group monogram already plotting. How anti-climatic! Dada, Saran Wrap, Surrealism…They have yet bitter cobwebs they be squirming through. What have you in common? Sigh. Spare the introduction; we are a village of cherubs….Dispel and yoke the self. Brandishing thee. Frighten uncomfort of the deems fetish, venom of heebie-jeebies. Yet, strangely quiet. The naughty kids trailing bait.Where Beauty Blooms.Antidromically back on stump with darts of the zombie. Pawns of the creepy cucumber eye. Could it be? Art, at the end of art.(...)
