brentley.com

In undisclosed locations, before a mecca of the idealess (we are everywhere but we are silent) you can hear us feasting, dogs in human form fisting a carcass in the flickering livingroom. We applaud the cold hands of the surgeons who scalp the rich their theatres white and green, who measure things in inches, who themselves are familiar with the hypodermic sting. Black as the winds blowing against the House of Windsor is the future for those CEO’s… Cold as the stiletto that went though the forehead of that guy at the girlybar.

Take the back off your shirt to help me clean my windscreen.

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