Brett-Stout

Zero year 1979 wasteland kamikaze and the eventual death from above. Now crawl inside your cardboard Jesus box and watch it fucking crumble. Under pressure from David Bowie and acid rain, lint rollers and Post-It Notes gather dust and debris. The derelict hands of winos and Bigfoot staple Miles Davis on a rented lonely hotel room wall. Fascist cockroaches infest decaying suburban neighborhoods and foreclosed strip malls, just one in Atlanta with a dream and a utopian ideal, then thousands spreading and infiltrating the NSA and the PTA. Just like them moths under seditious illuminated lamps, pools of concrete toxins, transmission f

“Umbrellas For The Blood Rain”    The metallic neon blood    singed    safety pinned    accessories and mementos    of past enthusiastic wars.    Black tie dinners    and    cheap garbage bags    born solo    on gargantuan    waves of methadone and    severely    defaulted mortgages.    A coagulation    of    euphoric embittered orgasms    of hands to face    and    face to face,    central station nervous    system    teasing derailment,    the zinc white paint fought    dried and died    ten years strong    but failed and crumbled    like forgotten moping English castles  

“Shudder Towards The Apocalypse” Concrete leads the way to a bleak landscape greed and gluttony oh my capitalist beast. Corporate isolation, surrounding me,   covering me, smothering me,   with their trademarked logos of hate and oppression. Atomic bombs are released in euphoria as the suburbs of utopia lay in rubble, and once pale men turn to   charcoal colored dust. The lab rats are released from their captivity, they sit on my couch and watch cable TV, growing disillusioned and obese. They truly are Americans now, value sized and cheap.