there’s a cautious sneaking in. a crackle, a fizz, all dainty, like tightly wound lynch / splet frottage. gentle tendrils snaking out; fingers in sweaty hellcellar nooks and crannies. grains and waves. twitchy. awaiting…
there’s a spasm. an untranquil sea.
a strobe blinks with pornographic metronomic precision.
bang bang fucking bang.
hard, like it’s a pose. veiled behind a hundred year old beard of bees. dressed baader-meinhof, dressed big bossman. take off those goddam glasses, show us the eyes behind the mirrors, those red amphetamine sunsets blazing. take of that skin let me plunge fingertips into mush and mulch. i can’t see you in all this bastard chiaroscuro…
an exercise in contrast. activity / inactivity : light / dark : noise / quiet : dysphoria / euphoria : restrain / release : masculine / feminine
lea cummings’ kylie minoise (dis)guise always felt like a snickering needle, a puncturing puerile gabba-ish/gibberish cartooning of noises worst excess. this feels like a control exercise. the border guard posturing a hall of mirrors goof on all that vatican shadow military seriousness that’s gripped dominic fernow’s bastard techno thrusts.
bang bang fucking bang.
it never feels like something real…
sounds like charred plastic, like burnt out fusebox. black metal miasma that lumbers from speaker. kaleidoscopic textures and tone. vacant static exhilaration. an immersion in white noise, drowning not waving. discord building, bookended by re(trans)gression.
somewhere between ritual fumbling and surgical precision. a torch forms a luminous / crepuscular muffled skree. this is where electricity pupates, mutates.
…until it is something real
an avalanche of swollen tongues, torn throats. an exultant shriek to/at/for something.
it’s a contagion, i feel like catching, howling sober at the moon. it’s a frenzied malaise, fever tics, gleeful in its discontent.
it’s where whatever this is flares, hot and sharp, and dies.
being in darkness and confusion is interesting to me. but behind it you can rise out of that and see things the way the really are. that there is some sort of truth to the whole thing, if you could just get to that point where you could see it, and live it, and feel it. in the meantime there’s suffering and darkness and confusion and absurdities, and it’s people kind of going in circles. it’s fantastic. it’s like a strange carnival: it’s a lot of fun, but it’s a lot of pain.