plech recøveil

Hymns extruded from a throat lined with rust. They arrive already decomposing, already slipping, each segment separated by microscopic wounds that leak duration instead of blood. Between them: pressure. Between them: a dizziness that chews through altitude, through bone. You enter a grocery structure that recognizes you before you exist. Its walls pulse like opened musculature stretched over scaffolding. Refrigerated infinities hum behind veils of tendon. You point at something. It unwraps itself. It is meat, but it remembers language. It trembles in your hands, whispering frequencies that have no air to travel through. Clocks are not measured here, they are cooked. Dial-faces blister over beds of incandescent thistle, barbed wire tightening like thought loops around their circumference. Time screams in thin metallic threads, then caramelizes into a black syrup that stains everything it never touched. This second transmission from RDKPL for ECHØVEIL RECORDS is a factory that learned how to hunger. Conveyor belts drag fragments of cracked cartilage, bent screws, sheets of metal that still think they are sky. Electricity misfires in animal patterns. Viscous clusters of fly matter pulse like auxiliary organs. Fermented sweetness curdles with arsenic dust. Mustard gas blooms softly, like a flower trying to remember war. Everything is assembled incorrectly on purpose. Everything fits too well. You are invited to consume it. Not listen. Not hear. Consume. The grill opens like a mouth that has outgrown its skull. Sound drips, congeals, ignites. Your guests laugh until their jaws detach. Lava, thick and neurotic, folds over them in slow affection. Their silhouettes soften, then blister, then reorganize into something edible.