T-sonic scream / Uncategorized

Hans Pekerboot

I see all those sketches that burned in the cold wild intuition of madness lost and frozen, forgotten in the bleak ashtray of confusion that gird our rickety legs to these torn hundred dollar jeans. And when it gets late I see distressing pinholes in the fearful skin of hipsters, where the damn desert fog emboldens boys and girls and girls and boys to weave their own night suits. In fact they roam the streets looking for the bloom of poetry and jazz, of sunday afternoon, pleased, betraying in an ephemeral strike the thousand bloody hands, too guilty and too wasted to get dirty with the flavors of the young tasteless sperm of democracy. This is a sentimental blues for the widow of Hans Pekerboot.


Jan Monegau.


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