BUFFALOMCKEE / SATORU SEKIGUCHI
Prepare for Afternoon Uropods
(Chocolate Monk) CDR $7.00 (Out-of-stock)
COMING SOON. “A washing machine full of pink Jell-O and a metal bird in a wire cage drops ball bearings into a silver cup of clam chowder,” says Rick Potts. “Now submerged and the dolphins are not friendly. Taken prisoner and led to their plastic grotto. The escape hatch jets hurling into the wild blue. Dinner at the girlfriends & Camera Dad drops nuts. Jamming in an endless toilet stall where Fahey plucks off high mid-ringers. At a toy Disco party in space then tin fingers join in and a lunar wind chime falls over onto a crystal harpsichord while the bass vacuum cleaner ejects hot air. Hallways leading away from the empty swimming pool where otters roll on a glockenspiel, napping. Head hit and blacking out with sparkle vision as the sides close in. Memories of taking an evening walk and a drunken synth band echoes between buildings. Sound waves doubling and colliding into themselves. The drug kicks in and it’s off and running in a 70s cop show. A muscle car brodies around the corner liquor store. A Malayan tapir sax hose is spraying over kitchen canisters and garbage disposal ants are sanitizing with ultrasonic guns into drainage pipes to the storm drains full of broken bicycle parts. The telephone may be broken but clearly no one is answering. A swallowed mic played through a wheelbarrow speaker as hinges sing in rusty unison while a doorknob is bowed. Distant car horns. In the undercarriage of a bumpy rumble seat hardware is jingling as it slowly comes undone into a muddy patch and the exhaust pipe is full of gelatinous grease. Not sure we’ll make it but I see a break in the clouds. Nope, we’re stuck. Racket balls hit against the wall of a Data Centre full of copper carpenter bats. Drones try to intercept but it’s futile. Squadrons emerging but the bats and drones intersect like a M. C. Escher print. Monkeywrenchs do their work and the steam hisses out and it all deflates into the rubble. Police and news crew helicopters arrive and illuminate the scene. Rubber clogs are on a marimba putting out the trash bins while trying to start the incinerator with a flint and a pocket watch. The tennis shoes tumble in the dryer. Not a good smell. Drinking out of a twisted bong. Damn, it spilled… again. Clocks erupting springs and gears and circuit board flotsam in a factory of suction cup machines while Mr. Hulot roboticly dances and containers overflow. The relentless error indicator alarm is ignored.” Edition of 50