Embossed rectangles of detached wooden partitions, nailed into hinge points to reveal cavernous area. Flip the switch off, flip through denim, fuzzed carpet. Record the sounds of people talking, cock gun fire. Record the sounds of people kissing passionately, as if they are calling breaths. Jam as MIDI 3 plays over MIDI on flute.
an ooh! an ooh! an ooh! an ooh! an ooh! an ooh! an ooh! an ooh!
*A [ 1]1 ?K5 ?4Qkkw-&
-kk+e'-w6- mH, sat in the corner of the eye, is grasped, shaken, sometimes destitute. The memory is complete: the organism is gripped; the organism becomes a virtual object; the organism becomes a reveler. "We are inside the Batcoeur Club, where the humours are fuming. I blew air kisses as if they were mine, like a load, but the difference was that the blood became a sort of object. The Batcoeur Club is packed, and I’m looking up staircases, every room is pausing as my glances are noticed… I’m unconscious, and I’m freezing cold. I’m freezing water.
P. Lovan walks in from Batcoeur. He is wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans with the words, “Unconsciousness threatens to destroy the Union!” Black noise builds in, Wacom “Alice in Wonderland” blankets tossed over by the Berlin Wall. A woman is wearing a black dress, a skull cap, and a wig. A woman is wearing a braided wig. Two peeks of disappointment.
Glass ceiling creaks. Blood flows down the hallway. The man is wearing a black tuxedo. He’s shaking his mons of flesh. A woman sitting in his underwear. He is draped in blood. A policewoman is there, too. She’s wearing a tuxedo. It’s a T-shirt, black, blue shorts, underarm, underarm. Alcohol is flowing through his body. A woman is screaming. I feel heatstroke. I kneel. I lie in the turgid room. I am unconscious. I am paralyzed. I feel heat stroke has swept through my bodice, my jupon. I am unconscious. I’m in a dark room. I’m in the intensive unit. A physician is there, strapped to a wheelhouse table, legs over torso, spasms spread over legs. He is shaking his mons of flesh.
The gases travel on cavities (disruption of paths), which keep the spheres static. The gases release carbon dioxide and nitrogen. These gases push the spheres further, colliding (disruption of paths). Teorema di Gasparo
My flesh is glazing on asphalt, fingers gripping woodblock and asphalt. I’m trying to feel sneakers. Bodies shiver. I’m freezing cold on my desk. I’m frozen face. (c) is frozen on my desk. Teorema di Gasparo
North Carolina producer Lvers makes “occult beat music”—crackling noise with heavy industrial rhythms that's surprisingly alluring. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 24, 2020
Mesmerizing melodies sidle up against percussion-forward minimalism and grainy textures on this new EP from Seoul's Arexibo. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 6, 2020