Here we erupt into attack on the immortal soul of cabinets. We’re in search of friends who aren’t serious: Bantu brethren and macumbeiros, honorable weirdos and freaks, dethroned emperors, deaf nuns, lowborn thugs with hemorrhoids & all who abhor monochrome dreams of Arcadian poetry.

We know very well that the fragility of small satin bows is a protozoan luxury. Be violent as gastritis. Down with gilded butterflies. Reflect on the glistening contents of the shitters.



* translated by Henrik Aeshna, w/ the bantu jazz-hop spice of Chris Coe hart crane deadbird of Baltimore, Michigan