Life After 2

The bolts are humming. There is a multicoLoreD metaphysical fire poker lodged somewhere inside my ribcage, and from the wound come schizophrenic butterflies, rabid phosphorescent cockroaches, soft winged screwdrivers (square-headed), blood-soaked Froot Loops, lunatic seashells, star-snow, dancing celery dipped in pink vinegar, chocolate praying mantises and enormous quantities of confetti in every possible—and several impossible—color. This is Aubade. One of the many unstable identities of experimental artist Angel B.—also responsible for Narehate, Beholden, Kept Woman, Muybridge and other mutations still crawling between names. Life After 2: six delightful transmissions, six to eighteen minutes each. Modular noise-muzik. Petrochemical psychosis. Burroughs cut-ups translated into sound and left fermenting beneath an explosive sky that shines-shines-SHINES over the night of asphyxiated days. Sometimes liquid: molten metal screaming. Sometimes gaseous: curare clouds giggling like tiny anthropomorphic cartoon mounds of cotton candy. Sometimes solid: asphalt to snort. I vomit manga pages while my spleen implodes. Katana-JAZZ?! A string quartet eating magic mushrooms—slightly sour, slightly sweet. Vapor-Noise-Emblematic-of-the-Flaccid-Suzerains? Yes. It is beautiful. I want to gouge out my eyes and stuff this sound-matter into the empty sockets instead. And finally see. In four dimensions. -Sir Kuliktavikt