Spectres inhabit the royal collection

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A corralic pool party 2018 - ongoing .jpg
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A corralic pool party 2018 - ongoing .jpg

Spectres inhabit the royal collection

400.00

Spectres inhabit the royal collection
Mixed media collage
2013-2018, a gradual evolution.

Spectres inhabit the royal collection. They twist and fold. The crackling Oxygen in this room tastes of static. Lets close our eyes for a moment.

As the doom of our particles give way to the dance of black tar.

Somewhere along the way something festered and grew in you. A gradual decay that changed you. It was probably something you ate. I suppose all in all it just wasn't that tasty and so we're left with no choice.

We’ll just have to let this house burn down and never rebuild the carcass.

Percussion begins. Percussion begins

A rhythmical chant that is erratic and un-tamable. Arms flail in the air as a river of cold wind rushes through the crowd.

 "Brilliance, pure brilliance", sing the audience as one. They welcome it all with shining teeth and distended aching bellies.

Soon it will be their turn……… and they yearn to feel again their great disintegration.

A well suited man in a bowler hat looks to the sky and speaks: "I have found the woman who's footsteps bring our gravity, who's breath creates our atmosphere. I spoke with she that holds the earths caverns in her chest, and its skies in the whites of her eyes. With the air from her movements she cast me into dust and poured me into this form.”

"Get off me Jones, Leave me alone. I'm reading my books and I need time to read the thinky. Don't gaze at me boy! I need SILENCE." The match sticks start to dance. A union that reminds of old synchronised swimmers and the disney-brooms. "JONES the taps they are a' leaking, I can smell your foul odour from here. Shut the door and bother me no further."

The house is in extreme disaray. The garden weeds are fighting hard to penetrate the entry points.

The walls are covered in the decaying wallpaper of the last 100 years the plaster is turning to sand.

There are old parisian french magazines all around the house.

A hand reaches out from an armchair covered by a pile of blankets. It's franticly grabbing at the floor and after a brief struggle it catches a newspaper. "Ah yes, the old collection”

Spectres inhabit the royal collection. They twist and fold. The crackling Oxygen in this room tastes of static. Lets close our eyes for a moment, while the doom of our particles gives way to the dance of black sludge.

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