Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club
7 hours ago
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Word. Just, word.
on my honor, i promise to sharpen my wits on a dead man's skull, to worship the flaw, the mole on the belly of an exquisite whore; blood on the tv and thorozine brain cloud; to relish the terrible thrill of new loves on the blood covered ground; to struggle with diminished zeal, insolence, collapse and fright; to behold the age of murderers and embrace the vampire that watches over us; to exploit all circus freaks with pale dead fish skin and scorn the luxury of the lepers; slaves, let us not curse life, but stand proud like the bitch after the assault of dogs, licking her flank from which hangs a severed entrail...amen....
Mark Hoagland FTW
A Uranium Madhouse kindred spirit.
PS Comment if you caught the Patti Smith allusion, or any other allusions that I didn't catch.
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1 comment:
this sounds like the inside of a serial killer's brain. the last image gave me nightmares.
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