About the Artist
...
About the Work
There’s wet blood on the ground.
(Wanna roll around in it?)
You ask around if someone has any leads.
A girl floats nearby with a towel around her midriff.
She surely has been “membraned.”
You ask her and she explains, just like this:
“There’s a beat down there,” and you put your ear to the ground and wait and listen.
You can hear it, sure. Sounds like DUM DUM DUM DUM. You’ve heard it before, in a Skillerex song.
You light a cigarette, and smoke it. Tastes like cigar.
Touching the blood, it’s still wet. Intel.
You shudder. Feels like intel.
Wet intel. It’s enough to make you orgasm.
The cigarette goes out. Another orgasm. Another cigarette. Another orgasm.
You’re out of cigarettes. Good luck. One last orgasm before you hit the road?
Why not.
It’s a relatively quiet night in the rainy desert.
All signs point to you. Something big and new in the virome rides under the waves.
Your patek gleams in the breeze, but the hands are petrified. If anything tilts, it’s you.
Buzzing of ancient neon architecture pulses up through your feet. You are reversed by the the the the city.
BOING! You do flips on the balcony. SPROING, You forget about darkness for eighteen seconds.
Big mistake. If there was a sniper here, you’d be a hot salad on the soft concrete.
It’s the music coming down the corridor. DUM DUM DUM ... You wait for the fourth beat, shift your energy for a kick that never comes.
Communication goes dark. You hear a cockroach filing its nails.
Someone’s doing lunges in the shadows.
It’s a long deep trip to get back down onto the street.
You need to get yourself an octopus knife.