THE BEAUTY TAPES: FIELD RECORDING

Reshape. Downscale. Upsize. Scrawn. Yawn. Selective cut-outs of random material. Cityscape. Commotion. Angels lifting off from central square historic statue, throwing up and shitting mid-air to fully cover an austere and generic general of some non-descript army completely. Vomit birds of paradise. Streets clad in afterbirth. Layers of blood turning grey in slow innercity exhaust coagulation. Pipe. Light. Bucket. Miss. Trickle down into obscurity in some underground sewer system. No raves this week. Inpromptu techno parties up ahead. Moog synthesizer bedding. The sorrowful leniency shown towards someone who tries to pass on a quote from "Mein Kampf" while not actually having read the book. The sad itinerary of a bum who has had his shopping cart stolen. The milky thigh of a underdressed teenager moments before she pees herself. Light-wing. Left behind-wing. Condolences. Regurgitation. Silences. Succulence. The narcissistic claim to violence upheld by the aristocracy. Impatience. Impotence. Government-supported governments. Endless. End. Less.   

MORNING BREAKS IN MEDIEVAL LIVERPOOL

Gas station. Man in long overcoat. Rotating advertisements. Candy wrappers taking the place of non-existent gas station tumbleweeds. A second man in long overcoat tries to enter through the now decommissioned sliding doors, remains immobile outside, not pacing. First man in overcoat turns, reveals an object, presumably a shotgun or a bouquet of flowers. «Schadenfreude.» They both speculate on this failing sense of recognition. The sausages grow cold. Wasn't there a woman? An attendant? Someone shouts from either inside or outside the gas station: «Tristan da Cunha!» One of the men turns around. One of the men turns turns around. There is the sound of a large bell. And water flushing. Traffic. Tornadoes. Just before opening hours.

STEP IN YOUR SPRING

Spring is an enforcement of well-being. Crude, unrefined wellness shoots out like clogged marbles from a high-powered water hose, spurting out in beautiful black and white only to crown it's trajectory with rude rainbows of crystalline colors. Houses, so happily lived in through winter, are abandoned to the grey interior of their plattenbauch, slowly turning cannibalistic with corroding(Origin: 1350–1400; Middle English < Middle French < Latin corrōdere, to gnaw to pieces, equivalent to cor- cor- + rōdere to gnaw; akin to rodent) slow-motion frenzy. Flowers are catapulted out of dog piss sanctuaries. Grass returns to cover it's own grave. Out of shame perhaps, trees slip into insect-ridden night gowns. The skies once more spread their legs onto the infinity of a universal black pussy.

Then people,