Genur.art

There is a hole in the flesh, a group of the sex having its way until used it is discarded and only the wall remains: there is a hole in its flesh, preparing us to be used for its uses, to be crenalated like boards of mind for the broken and broken. And of the use, what said is said, what done is done, down into the celebrant earth awaiting our dust, our fucks, our dirty shame and rutting like pigs in the mud of such meagre bodies. Oh the fucking endless greetings, the shopping malls and pedantic fucking greeting cards, piled so high you could fuel a country for generations. You are a pedantic waste personified. And so she discards you like so much other trash into the flame. You will not be missed: there is none left to miss you.