Vernissage: Samedi 29 Mars, 18h
Opening, Saturday March 29, 6pm
«I don’t want any friends, he says, they ‘ll just stab and jab my flesh and grip me to the ground. They’re rottens cracks, perfect terror embodiments for terror itself. Forget about those cheap fantasies, when you die, you just die.
At least you will unleash those pathologies on a non ideological outburst. A human bric-à-brac will pop up, a «sentimentalisme cynique», ecstatic genius on velvet.»
Lolita Lempicka alike.
«But since you’re not dead, you just let things happens. You pretend to sleep, you pass by, drunk, Prada, Gucci, Young Thug, Napalm Death, Jean-Paul Gautier. On your main slip, you look at those romantic burger’s wrapped paper flying, you chase the pink neon lights, the grid-shaped bodies of those hookers.»
Once he in her he rubs his beatnik cock onto her aluminum -turtle-carved-shell designed lamp.
He switched on the light.
She doesn’t wanna give it back to her parents cause he thinks she deserved it. No predator or illiterate eyes, they‘re just sweating, ghostly monstrous hormone-bread child.
Rue de Zurich, rue de Berne.
Copulators, hators gators Pakistanese knights son a sharp cutting-edge, and self-proclaimed king of minutes. A excruciated Time Bomb.
A vectored shock, computer generated mutilated cow-boys they. Snowboard like STINKS, cartoonesques faces full, Artificial Intelligence empty, drug-addicted gangster, neuronic surgeon after prison psychic experiments. All those words transcending community, shocks AI and sharp like Young’s:
«I got six cars and I also got rentals and
all of ’em tinted
No, I’m not Nipsey, not from L.A., but I got keys to the city
I fuck it, I suck it, I beat it down, then she beat me to the ceiling
Stoner my lifestyle, I’m living too wild
I came to make you proud, that money keep her around
In love with her head, I can’t turn it down
Can’t wait for my time to come back around»
Xrayed heart bits.
Lucky Strike. 1996