puncture.
holes.
chords of patterned holes
patterns raise to a pitch and we one riding slipping shining down a
wave- we gargle involuntary sea water as it begins to strum-sex our
vocal chords and we come to breathe that water. slowly paddling, fins
begin to function swimming rhythmic attempts to traverse noises inhaled,
sonic shit digested pumped into the veins. seaweed tickles our dorsal
fins, we become-sea-creature down to the depths . we tribble tremble
push across the ocean floor with thrusts of underwater gas entrusting,
pushing us toward the surface only followed by a sinking celebration of
the ocean floor- pulsing pulling life along in an aporia of crushing
crescendos.
in moments of trembling we fish are born and fall away.
Unknown, keyboards + laptop, Abbey Pub, 5.30/11, Chicago
1.
a mechanism with holes poked through-
a handle turned,
a cranked white light white
machine.
strobing spitting
spotting between cycles
we are bathed attacked with white light spat out, surges of neutrality reality
crawling down our throats vibrations-
choke-
and dribble down our chins.
build a house upon the presupposition that it be punctured through. make us a throng that, begging for it, the cement poured down our dampened throats our insides filled, our depths deprived of constitutive meaning, we unfold in beats, pull our disorganized corpses along a surface.
2.
training it- tracking, packing, railing, rolling along- and rock haul concretizing to a- never mind the stop we rubberbands in a box rubbing fucking deafening: have friction rendering deaf to the point of terrifying slowness, concrete almost hardened in our throats.
3.
a grater down my throat nailhammered through my skull cats purring on the landscape through the process they've betrayed me.
a mechanism with holes poked through-
a handle turned,
a cranked white light white
machine.
strobing spitting
spotting between cycles
we are bathed attacked with white light spat out, surges of neutrality reality
crawling down our throats vibrations-
choke-
and dribble down our chins.
build a house upon the presupposition that it be punctured through. make us a throng that, begging for it, the cement poured down our dampened throats our insides filled, our depths deprived of constitutive meaning, we unfold in beats, pull our disorganized corpses along a surface.
2.
training it- tracking, packing, railing, rolling along- and rock haul concretizing to a- never mind the stop we rubberbands in a box rubbing fucking deafening: have friction rendering deaf to the point of terrifying slowness, concrete almost hardened in our throats.
3.
a grater down my throat nailhammered through my skull cats purring on the landscape through the process they've betrayed me.
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