Street freaks

We were artists, but they called us vandals.

We were faceless defacers rockin’ black bandanas and latex gloves.

We were flat black bombers blowing up every spot in our path.

We were Rusto ruffians burning bridges and buildings.

We were aerosol angels painting Sistine Chapels on billboards and overpasses.

We were street freaks with mean streaks and Krylons, hop scotching across the tops of buildings, throwing up our names for fame.

I guess they were right, we are vandals, but what does that make them?

Vandals.

We’re all vandals.

They vandalize our minds with advertisements for food that kills us and materials we don’t need.

If they’re allowed to put up billboards for a McDonald’s Big Mac, we can top it with McDon’t Big HeartAttack.

If they’re allowed to put up a billboard for Google, we can change it to Gulag.

They make millions while we pay restitution.

If you want to call us vandals, fine, we are vandals, but what the fuck are they? And who the fuck is they? The man? No, corny. “They” are not the Illuminati or Masons or any of that retarded shit; they are the people who cashed in on human nature, claiming philanthropy. They made dollars on supposed “individuality” while turning us all into somber automatons; they told us green hair and septum rings made us different—it does not—you are boring; I am boring; we are all boring…not special…not unique…no matter the clothes or tattoos or piercings or artificial eccentricity: YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL

Do you want to be special? Deny it all? You will never know the name of the most unique human(s), because they are in tiny villages, or living in cardboard palaces, or up in the hills or in Alaska. Unique people don’t scream HEY, I’M HERE via tattoos and piercings and colorful clothing, or black and white emo cuntery, or any type of particular style. UNIQUE people are unique because they are not people, they are a person, and you will never know their names because they hate you; they hate society; they’re not charlatans, clinging onto nihilistic fads, starving artist bullshit, buying shit from thrift shops, all that jazz. You will never know us; you do not deserve us.

You call us vandals, but we’re fucking artists.

Buff our art, wipe it away, cover it with propaganda, it doesn’t matter—we will always be there to throw it up somewhere else.

Call us fucking vandals, we wear it with pride.

My name was KO-Bane, koba for short, occasionally KOb or K-Bane, but my name didn’t really matter all that much—all that mattered was my message: FUCK THE WORLD