I opened the door and my heart she perforated with neon green eyes. She smiled, through a cloud of ravenous red hair. She said she was a Matabruta. She asked if it was I that had called the agency.
¿I?
I only knew how to nod.

Born too late to understand the premise of life and too early to see its conclusion. A bunch of bulbs, shaking their meattubes above their heads. Back then, they couldnt distinguish between image and concrete. But thousands of cycles after understanding, little had changed.

And double check the disbeliever. We cannot afford to forget that. There would be no chance of pretending. We seek shock and veneration.

The first brutes bathed in an adoration that gifted them with consonance. This was only possible before. Before hardening. Before the reign of grey matter and its unending disromanticizing scheme.If the whim of the image was enough for the brutes, who knows what could have happened to the humids.

She stayed up all night, pondering over the semantic limits, trying to capture all thinkable meaning, so that nothing could escape her. “Organic”, as a concept, for Azul, was of astral importance. Like an anchor idea, to hold herself to. Or to live for, if needed.

It’s on screen, inside the frame. Under the embrace of the rectangle, that the imago finds their promised flesh. Their own artificial ovule. A place to brutalize. To roar and chew, to tenderize the meaning out of the pandemonium. Until it surrenders. Until it declares itself understood.

The Principle of Humidity they called it. The preorganic law according to which image plus sight resulted in temperature. “This is the engine” they said “And there are other things too. But not a lot.” The horny. The wet. The fuchsia beyond remedy. In this world, all the rest had to make way.

“There was once a then when image would ride truth on a daily basis. Concrete in the air, but no law. Image would dance with no care for bones. And like all whims it pushed to be seen. Boiling slowly underneath possibility. In little moans that knew about the taste of being.”

Milchi, Heart Nouveau

Fureshu CROSS
Milchi X Debi the Devil
Debi by @penguinbrowsart.bsky.social

"So intense was the nature of her thirst that the blisters in her throat had bursted into uncoagulated lakes of wanting. Yet she spoke calmly and affably, completely unaware of the killer red glint in her eyes." #fureshu

Tralala oh nothing just a 3 PAGE FEATURE IN this month's PROG MAGAZINE

#music #progrock #artrock #prog #progtothepeople #progmagazine #article

Matabruta Milchi
#oc

"The exterminators said they would send someone as soon as they could. Two weeks passed. The plague learned to tall. She wanted to be fed."

In the time of caves and huts, before the cities, the ancient humids identified a suboceanic vibration, the one signal filling their flesh of white. The fetishists called this frequency "pulso profundum".

tongue out, no thoughts