here’s a piece of dark, toxic futuristic poetry from Shoreditch mystery man Dead Satellite… poured hot on your skin, it feels like a dried up nosebleed on a black velvet pillow… like wearing a faux mink coat inside out on valium…
i have seen into the future, it is ahead of me…
in the dead of night, noiseless as the galaxy,
and now I see I’ve been off course…
my blood is mercury. my blood is mercury,
my blood is mercury. my blood is mercury….
mint!