LIEVOHCE

Here we are again. RDKPL returns to its throne of rust and liquefied steel. Impaled upon a rib of frost. Rear end patched through extensometric procedures. Ribs gnawed clean by galvanization. Mouth vomiting reddened bolts, viscous oil, and fragments of kinematic torsors. TETSUO-MUZIK. That languid sensation of being hammered from within by impossible machinery. Cold lights erupting behind the eyes. Screwdrivers transfigured into crystalline tears, slowly rotating through flesh. Molten fiberglass flowing through forgotten arteries. The organs become matrices. The brain is merely another deviation—plus or minus one—in the abyss of stupor. Three tracks of corroded electronics. Industrial convulsions. Chrome delirium. Misaligned engines chanting through frozen ducts. Crisp fractures. Mechanical ecstasies. Rust blooming beneath polished surfaces. Sparks nesting in cavities where memory once slept. To make love to a shear pin while Newton watches with the ecstatic eyes of a larva-saint. Hydraulic-press grimaces. Dust everywhere. Metaphysical regrets. An armored socket wrench buried beneath the tongue. I am the machine. And it twists me, exquisitely. LIEVOHCE unfolds across three pieces of cold, deafening, de-calibrated circuitry—a procession of grinding gears, luminous corrosion, and impossible mechanics dragging their iron shadows through the dreaming meat. -Sir Kuliktavikt