A tattoo, your person. A country. Every stone you've turned your ankle on wincing while climbing seas to lighthouse beacons.
This is Banker Street. A trap you don't enter willingly. The sprayers knows this, lure you in.
Filth, love, redemption, call it what you will -- many a tongue, many a script.
He's each. She's every. Dog. Bag. Bird. Flower.
You've sunk into skates while trying on swamps. W, X, Y....
All the pithy voices. All the noise. More and more we are the robots making music that no one with a soul listens to or wants to hear.
It's the long moan, the short wait, the end of woe, the start of ish and ness.
One day you realize nobody has ever had answers, especially those who crow the loudest.
Take the steps. Get yourself there.
Pause. Realize the steps take you.
Carry on. Disappear.
Without margins. A lamp. Its glow. Wake up. Nobody cares about your identity.
Or your trademark.
Or the copywritten flourish in your grin.
What do these anarchistic bombers want? To please us, or to piss on us?
Maybe they want applause. Chaos. A paycheck in order to buy more paint, food, drink, narcotics.
They'll be the first to tell you there's nothing self-indulgent in what they do.
That property is meant to be shared. Unless it's their property.
This is a contradiction they live by. An adolescent boast. A sneer they call art.
You can't do what Leo does under cover of night.
Or what Mr. Hure renders of himself in lilac.
Why would you desire to? Surely, one Mr. Hure is enough.
And then there's Hero. What arrogance does such a name suggest?
Prison time? Victimization? What's the kernel here embedded deep within such pathological vituperation?
For the support of all androgynous revolutionaries?
Leo knows. Leo gets around.
Lola knows too. Whatever Lola wants.
The cats, the mice, the speedboats -- they're indifferent. They have other agendas.
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