New season, new thrills. 2016 addition is the Mouth Ride. Finally feel what it feels like to be lunch meat. I’m giving it a shot right now in the wet dryer. Juices are flowing in squirt city. The cannibal’s jumped the list a bit and jammed up; there’s ten of us in here right now, when full capacity is at eight. Bubble gurgles up and pops. The swinging sounds of reflux bury the low-reel tropical pulses of the cheilitis cha-cha that play out there beyond the lips, beyond these brash-ish waters. It’s wet out there too? Seems there’s no place to dry off, or any semblance of personal space. Skating rink bump; the skates have no laces. Reflux is louder and louder. If I had a foot and not a skate, I’d turn down, with my toes, those boiling pots of glycerine blood, sweat and tears. Wherever that reflux is bubbling up from, I’m glad I’m up here — not quite in the middle but close enough to the grounding tropical pulse — and not down there — down in the depths. It must be deafening down there. And wet too.
[Visit full site to view media]Accidental Sirens by Witchbeam