aan-t-gedachte-inkt

Clown faces, clouded spaces; I exchange paces in doubt. Sane hearts corrupted by vulgar persuasions - The paper endures no love, black and white social science; Thunderstorm radio was born. Transmission lucrative blues… The crusade for mental freedom, my beloved soul Is entombed just beneath our tongues that twitch, Eyes that tangle, feet that trample on the patchwork Of knitted life; concrete, glass and stainless steel. We are getting old. Cold. Enslaved in doubt. Superhero vagabond, coins do clash. Independence, isolation; domesticated animals, fuck! I’m furious, raging for freedom love. Love that can love me dead