tumblr is a lost cause.

ByE

existence crisis

Insecurities, Debra Baker, 2014

Kaninchen's other single artwork

Shot our next single release cover today for Kaninchen.

Craig Taylor-Broad - Poet, writer, musician, photographer.

"Travel in three’s to grab what you need, one to distract, one to react and the last to pass a glance whilst stuffing their pants with product"

{My dream of 05/02/2014 slumber}

The store shut during opening hours. My eyes shut during the waking moments that blinded them back into an infinite #000000 cluster-fuck of experiences. Personal actions have no undo button, nor no make-up to cover-up my fingerprints that remained inside the hollowed out eyes of foetal positioned laxative wastes of skin and tissue, blooded the cardboard dripping through the floorboards into the basement. There was no recovery, there was no rehab, there was no turning back except into the tensed biceps of the law to arrest. Our visit to the convenience store was only to us and to art.

We closed the store gates whilst everybody held their teeth next to the ground, gritting forcefully enough to grind their calcium potassium salt into powder for us to snort later. It was their insatiable hold on their teeth or each-others hands, however, the atmosphere caged these clothed intellectual beings back years into their foetus state of mind, without any at all but to curl up and hope to come out alive. Our actions was the burst banks of internal flood defences, and the umbilical cord around their throats. We were the mothers to their future but we didn’t want any children.

With fishing wire we began to construct the forthcoming ceiling puppetry, removing the squares individually before tying around the metallic structure that kept the roof above our heads upright. The ghosts of crying dogs possessed the vocal chords of the customers wishing for a refund of their time spent on the floor, but no-one has receipts for decision making, no way of stepping back from a reality which has been designed to keep you on a purpose-built track into situations that was meant to happen for your consciousness to develop an understanding, not simply of what’s happening, but given a chance of inner-awakening. To lie down and think about self-worth and dying, of chances never taken and chances that made you feel like you’ve been given permission to access the gates of Heaven, to replay your life in a small time-scale like you’ve always been trying to do late at night, it is those who can only think of injustice in such situations that are the ones who fall first, for they have no worth other than to breathe, complain, breathe, stop breathing.

We only had electrocution rods and fists full of anger, after learning about the humane behaviour inside a place of industrialized animal slaughter, where it was perfectly okay to beat and kick if only to commence the death of a living being quickly, but it’s torture, humane torture. We began thrashing heads into shelves in desire to achieve non-existent money-off coupons of their time remaining, cashing in on the bludgeoned blows after blow until they were spent, we were rich. Those who pleaded earned more time to realize what life had meant to them, and before death, we asked them. Bodies began to get cleaned and strung up into mannequin positions, wrapping the wire around their chests, tapering up their back and held up peacefully with their feet resting easily on the red river flow. 

It was puzzle pieces were coming together, it was a dream turning out better than anticipated. My batteries were charged, my tripod was set-up, card was empty, laptop at the ready to upload, just a few more carcass’ to put into position until our artistic mission was complete.
Across the heads was a synopsis of their reasons to live, their last breaths drawn along their spared necks littered in capital letters depending on what was said, but those who screamed utter vulgarity were left only hieroglyphics across their knuckles, for the impact of negative words have an invisible, yet physical violent form. We have all been bruised by others words, and we’re all just yet to recover. Our limbs hurt when we need to shield ourselves the most so we don’t bother. We’re left crying in the corner wanting nothing more than our abuser to just hold us, it is an addiction to a depression that is left undiagnosed, it is where the only medication could be to open our mouths and provoke another dose, enough to overdose and become another preventable statistic, but, it’s the only way I feel that I can finish this.

For our final act, we gathered our images before uploading to all major news stations and underground gore-blogs, leaving the security footage in place and then escaping. It was our plan for this moment in history to be remembered, to never be forgotten, to stream across the globe like a bubonic plague without a cure, we wanted to be more currant than the death of a recent revolutionary activist and for longer, we wanted to open the debate of art and the question of the proverbial line. We wanted the world to talk, but we did not want to hear it. Our fates are sealed along with our will to live along with it.

Through the night we kept waking up by sounds of branch breaking and owls hooting. Into a silo we took refuge, made a pit and filled it with water, sinking it up to our necks, holding our electrocuting rods above our heads, turning them on and striking ourselves dead.

I’ve been composing music for my final major at university. It’s going to be a film about the youngest case of Alzheimer’s disease, a female aged 27. Non-fiction depiction, but based on a real situation.

This is the sweetest sounding organ I have ever had the pleasure to play.