black tantra

hallucinatory disambulation and vagabondage

But what is Meowism?


The 1950’s radio celebrity  and naturalist G D Fisher and his series of books detailing his adventures in ‘hut country’ are a current source of inspiration. He would wander a small patch of countryside just to the north of the village of Lochwinnoch in Southern Scotland watching and commenting upon the habits and peculiarities of the ‘field folk’ as he described the animals he daily encountered. The amusing and surprising adventures of the local Stoat family, or the perspicacious personality of little Jenny Wren  …. ….  …. ….

Blood on the lawn (yes I know!)

Blood in my hair

Blood . . . everywhere!

I first became aware of Meowism in the mid 1980’s some years before it actually existed. Shaven-headed proles kidnapped me and forcibly re-educated me in the eternal verities of the irreducible now, the deep time of hard thrusting cock, the bloody handwriting of the Goddess on the beast with two backs and the sexy sexlessness of sex. In the endless perverted and polymorphous orgies that ensued I sloughed off my former self and entered a world of everlasting me me me! Now! Now! Now!

Exquisite priapism! 

Io Pan! 

Io Pan!

Oh the tangled bole, the gnarled grove!

Thrusting sword through galling fetter I fell upon your milk white arse oh Pan!

Download PDF (Free!)

Io Pan! 

Io Pornhub!

We’re a’ doomed!

With its last flicker of consciousness the burst pigeon lying on the approach road to the fast food restaurant drive-thru saw the operator of the car that had taken its life take delivery of a McChicken sandwich, medium fries and large coke and by some ineffable cosmic coincidence said pigeon had alighted exactly six months ago on the roof of a battery farm in Dumfriesshire, glanced through the skylight at the roiling horde below and caught the eye of one of its contorted cousins and yes it was the very bird whose succulent breast was delivered up to the driver of the car that . . . well you know the rest.

Later that evening the driver of the car, one Thomas McCorquodale, arrived at his girlfriends flat in a foul mood due to indigestion (unbeknownst to him he was nursing a sizeable collection of malignant cells in the lining of his stomach and had nine months left to live dying just as.. well read on). His girlfriend, Carol Houston, although exhausted from working a long shift at the local maternity hospital, had slipped into a recently purchased outfit that served to show off her gym-toned body to fullest advantage and then some. She needed a baby and knew that her boyfriends piddling little libido wanted emergency resuscitation. Opening the door to him wearing next to nothing happened to coincide with her neighbour Jenna Wright leaving her flat for a night out. Jenna, who had been harbouring a crush on Carol for more than a year, went bright red dropped her keys and in bending down to retrieve them smacked her head off the protruding broken bannister that had lain unfixed for six months. By chance a tiny Money Spider living in the broken rail drowned in her blood. As Thomas and Carol tried to resuscitate the unconscious Jenna another spider, a False Widow this time, was dislodged from the doorframe of Jenna’s flat, falling onto Thomas’s neck. The spider had arrived in the close eight weeks ago via delivery of Jenna’s weekly organic veg box made its way to a comfortable spot near the light-fitting and had subsequently got very fat on a diet of juicy moths. False Widows rarely bite but when they do it is usually harmless. In this case, in conjunction with Thomas’s depleted immune system, the bite turned septic and he was hospitalised two days later and never left, although not before he and Carol had made love and subsequently made a baby. The baby, Tania, would never know her real father. She would however know her mothers new partner Jenna who moved next door whilst Thomas was breathing his last…

The owner and operator of the company that delivered the organic veg box, Jerry Clooney had, due to financial troubles, been inveigled by a crooked employee called John Archibald into using a far-flung part of his farm to grow Cannabis. The Cannabis farm looked on to the adjacent battery farm where our doomed pigeon had eyed-up our equally doomed chicken. We are all doomed was a favourite saying of John Archibald, cribbed from a character called Private Fraser in classic BBC comedy Dad’s Army. John Laurie, who played Fraser was born in nearby Maxwelltown and after his death his ashes were scattered at sea. By a peculiar chance (ha!) his ashes mostly fell onto the back of a passing Lesser Black-backed Gull which nested near to the battery farm, getting fat from the contents of a skip used to dispose of left-over chicken bits.

One night, whilst tripping on some particularly strong skunk, John Archibald hallucinated the head of Private Fraser intoning – ‘we’re a’ doomed!’ – at the end of his sofa. He got such a fright that he leaped off the sofa and accidentally look just stop it ok! Fucking stop it I said! But what about Tania? And the guy who served up the McSandwich? And John Laurie’s wife Oona? And the rat that lived under the skip? And Jenna’s ex-girlfriend? They need to live too you know!

Fuck off


Some sodium-lit scuzzland infested with Buddleia and Himalayan Balsam swaying in the wind next to a trickle of bright yellow water. Furtive movement from animals and humans in the undergrowth. Shaky head cam footage of blurred shapes and pale faces, hands outstretching, bulky forms pushing through stands of Japanese Knotweed, the red eyes of animals caught in the glare. Too much noise penetrating the silence. Rustling and thrashing. A red glow in the distance, something was going on out there. A fire? No, the light was too steady but diffuse, with movement blocking it indicating what? Dancing? Fighting? There is a deep penetrating throb that seems to emanate from the ground itself mixed in with the wind in the trees and some indeterminate watery plashings. It was a swamp out there so whatever was happening was on a small patch of higher ground, was that a structure? Thin cries, but regular, ritualistic, terrifying really. I ought to be moving away from this whatever it is so why was I heading towards it as quietly as I could? Already my mind had conjured lurid images of cultists abasing themselves around some crudely carved stygian deity, but of course it was more likely to be the kids from the local estate guzzling and fighting whilst capering to primitive repetitive beats wasn’t it? Or was there any real qualitative difference between the two scenarios? A helicopter blatted overhead on its way to peer into back gardens with its searchlight or whatever they did. More sirens in the distance. Shots? Distant cries? Already I was in post-apocalyptic mode, conjuring scenarios of being at the mercy of brutish slapheads taking revenge for all the real and imagined slights directed at them over the years by the hated cosmopolitan scum i.e. me. As I got closer to the light I began to realise that this was something else entirely, a sudden realisation that (of course why didn’t I cotton on earlier) this was some kind of conceptual art thing for fuck sakes. I carefully parted some branches and there they were, crouched over a piece of glowing flickering red neon engaged in some kind of outré calisthenics, half naked and daubed with cryptic symbols and shining as if slathered with ointment. They looked to be about fifty or so, two arseholes who should have known better still desperately trying to make their mark on an unforgiving and self-serving cultural scene. It was like a mild form of mental illness really, imagining that their oblique manifestations would have some kind of wider resonance. Perhaps someone would even give them a show? Then they would indeed abase themselves willingly at the altar of contemporary art, thankful for whatever morsel was cast in their direction from the top table, grinning and mumming pathetically for the opportunity (soon to be revoked).

Still, at least they weren’t prostrating themselves before some middle-management cunt or other like everyone else and I suppose thats the real reason why everyone hates artists, because whatever you think of it they are usually having fun, deluded yes, often terminally so but nevertheless having a great time. The art scene is full of attractive members of the opposite sex willing to take onboard each others delusions, another reason for the lumpenproletariat to hate them I suppose.

Yet as I watched them filming each others daft gyrations something peculiar began to happen, my penis began to stiffen involuntarily! Somehow, in spite of everything, these two middle-aged chancers had managed to trigger a series of erotic tableaux in my mind. Their unremarkable and rapidly ageing bodies transformed into sylph-like creatures from a distant age of video art i.e. the nineteen seventies! One of them began to cut the trousers from the other as he/she sat there passively. Then the taller more emaciated one began to pull paper from his anus, already placed there and bearing some kind of printed instructions. They had transmogrified into a gorgeous androgynous couple, serious of face and sure of their stellar trajectory! Still in black and white the mood changed to one of a more desperate mitteleuropean intellectualism as the small bald one began to hack at his genitalia with a rusty knife shouting unintelligibly in Austrian all the while, as the skinny one crawled naked across broken glass towards a rifle. This was too much for me and I found myself adding a fountain of hot jism to the depraved scene. 


Once again our paths cross. I had glimpsed your unearthly glowing profile in the window of Demel’s Vienna, the light from a discreet table lamp intersecting with the sodium haze flushing up from a rain-drenched street. You turned and seemed to look directly at – into – me but, ensconced in shadow as I was, you could not possibly have seen me.

In Prague I observed from a distance as you entranced a room full of young designers, unaware of the danger they were courting, your deaths head beauty had mesmerised all of them and I too knew what it was to desire ones own demise at the whim of a capricious goddess.

I’d heard rumour of your reign as Imperiatrice at a week long equinoctial ritual in honour of Astarte in Mirenburg, it was said a dozen beautiful young women had sacrificed their virginity simply to make you aware of their presence.

You held court in a sumptuous brothel on the Rosenstrasse, catering for the needs of a succession of elderly and dissipated Dukes, debased and syphilitic Princelings and eros-engorged Contessas, all of whom were willingly reduced to dribbling idiocy simply to spend a half hour at your mercy.

Shuddering with barely-repressed desire I watched you slip on a succession of fanciful shoes and absurdist boots in an impossibly up-market boutique in Frankfurt, your opalescent limbs and feet were encased in – one after the other – leather, suede, vinyl, plastic, then snake, alligator and pony skins. It was a moment of unbearable ecstasy that delivered me on to a plane of excruciating sensation I had never imagined to be possible ­– I burned for you.

A week after this debilitating episode I stood in your just vacated hotel room in Warsaw and then lay on the extinguished body of the young woman you had spent the night feasting upon. I knew now that you were aware of my existence and deliberately teasing me with your leavings, goading me into ever more dangerous proximity and opening the path to my own self-willed annihilation.

In Dublin that Autumn your presence at an avant-garde festival had caused a decisive break between two opposing literary factions – the Transcendental Orthographers and the Visceral Realists – leading to several wounding’s and a series of near riots.

I watched as you prepared a meal in the kitchen of your apartment in Berlin, your glimmering silver dress in counterpoint to the gleaming knife that you were using to dissect a Guinea Fowl. I yearned to be under that rising and falling blade myself, being opened up for inspection by that efficient and merciless hand – a doomed divinatory seduction.

A general ‘tinkling in the ears’* announces your presence in the city and the people find themselves to be at once obscurely aroused, morbidly obsessed with trivialities and prone to unlikely fixations – a young man creates an elaborate altar to his long dead mother-in-law using purloined black lingerie, an ageing roué unaccountably finds himself at the doors of a church begging forgiveness for minor ecclesiastical infractions, a naked man is discovered rooted to the spot and in a state of priapic excitation whilst staring fixedly at a modernist tower block, an internationally renowned architect is struck down by a debilitating case of stereo-blindness, two sisters bake and consume an enormous pie using their father as the main ingredient and a number of schools experience a reversal of roles with pupils taking control and inaugurating endless playtime.

These incidents, amongst countless others, drew me in your wake until finally, in a discreetly recherché bar in the bohemian district your gleaming golden eyes beheld me, the lych bell tolled and we are a star within a circle placed upon the horns of a crescent moon.


*cf James Hogg, the ‘Ettrick Shepherd’.


We are the normal and we’re loitering on a concrete stairwell wearing our naughtiest lingerie, smoking cigarettes and masturbating for a crowd of the local arseholes.

We are the normal and there’s a smell – one part diesel, two parts spunk – hanging frowsily in the dank air of a deserted swimming pool at the far end of town.

We are the normal and we cruise up and down the avenues and the thoroughfares with only a tumbleweed of empty KFC cartons and a blood-spattered trainer tainting the night-time air.

We are the normal wandering the dogger-haunted woods, crunching and crackling across the fast-food detritus, torches picking out the spunky snail trail of the night’s torrid manoeuvres.

We are the normal decked out in leather and lace up the back of a deserted Weatherspoons on a Tuesday night going at it like rabbits for the boys on the CCTV.

We are the normal and its 3am in the local all-night Tesco and she’s unconscious in aisle four.

We are the normal and the 6 o’clock news is reporting a crime of passion in the multi-storey car park in the centre of town.

We are the normal and the police are seeking witnesses to a violent incident outside All Bar One involving a gang of pissed-up priests and pregnant nun.

We are the normal and the tension is mounting.

We are the normal and the cracks are beginning to show.

We are the normal and we don’t give a fuck anymore.

We are the normal

We are the normal

We are the normal


When I spotted the vintage Citroen CX on Ebay several years ago now I immediately felt a rush of very definite sexual longing course through my body, I had to have this exquisite exemplar of the progressive ideal in my possession immediately!

I imagined cruising around some pristine modernist euro metropolis, Frankfurt or perhaps Rotterdam with a beautiful and stylish woman by my side racing towards my gorgeous minimalist lakeside house designed, of course, by Amyas Connell.

She, lets call her Marie, lights up a Disque Bleu and adjusts the hem of her Martin Margiela metallic paillettes mini dress, crossing her legs the better to show off her endless golden and tightly muscled thighs. In my minds eye I see us ­– me in a Margaret Howell classic plain poplin shirt, Jill Sander Achille slim-fit wool-blend gabardine trousers and a pair of Tod’s Gommino suede driving shoes, a Junghans Meister Telemeter Chronoscope gold-tone and leather watch on my wrist, she in the aforementioned dress, a pair of Ulla Johnson leather sima braided heels, a delicate platinum chain around one ankle and nothing else but a Fleur Du Mal French net lace thong.

Of course I’d purchased her that morning from a high-class escort agency in Brussels and she had been briefed as to my particular esoteric sexual predilections, which had entailed an almost quadrupling of the agreed price as they came to an understanding of the trials she would have to go through over the course of a long and painful weekend.

Look, I’m not some kind of monster I take great pains to take my well paid victims to the very precipice of what it is humanly possible to experience and as well as this I provide them with as much in the way of chemical suppressants and intensifiers as they need to see them through the worst of my excesses. Naturally they have to sign a binding contractual agreement eliminating the possibility of them bringing charges retrospectively. Anyway my basement dungeon/birthing suite was a la mode, featuring a fully functioning kitchen (a little disconcerting I admit), power showers and guttering to efficiently remove/collect any and all excrescences. She, Marie, had already taken my specially formulated purgative and my penis was beginning to stiffen at the thought of all that delectable ejecta…

Of course I had a state of the art recording and editing suite with which to produce my much sought after conceptual art works, in fact this new piece had already been purchased by a high-ranking Chinese party official and his wife so the stakes were high that the session be conducted with a great deal of finesse. But my standards were by definition astronomically high and any restorative surgery or psychological damage would be taken care of up to a maximum of ten thousand Euros. In fact a recent work had featured interviews post-partum with my ‘wombs’ as I affectionately call them. The market for the tiny homunculi produced by my innovative techniques was literally insatiable with those able to afford them literally and figuratively banging on my dealers up-market office door.

The tiny creatures were an  admixture of Vltava river mud, fresh female faecal matter and an alchemical ‘first matter’ of my own arduous magickal devising. Through regular feeding they could grow up to six inches or more and took careful handling at all times, as they were powerful and easily confused. My little avatars were disposed at the sides of influential people all over the world now and were seen as indispensible to the arcane workings of state and corporate power.

Marie did indeed look a trifle disconcerted as I led her into my stygian lair, but the perfectly-calibrated dose of Rohypnol I’d introduced earlier had the effect of muting any untoward misgivings. I quickly arranged her spread-eagled amidst the magic circle, arranged the sacred fire at the junction of her thighs and began the interminable ritual chanting that was sadly unavoidable in these circumstances. After several hours of this Maries belly suddenly swelled and the creature flowed out in a manner that many would consider very beautiful. The little monsters pitiful mewlings awoke Marie from her slumber and the ensuing screams had to be alleviated by administering a dose of gas and air. All in all a satisfactory end to a very lucrative business indeed and as I led my latest ‘womb’ to an awaiting private ambulance I fielded a couple of calls, one from Beijing looking for news of their new ‘child’ the other from the Guggenheim in Sao Paolo offering me a career-defining retrospective.


Captain Hate and the Golden Babies @ HAUNT

A new art space is launched in a back alley off Argyle Street, Glasgow. Known as HAUNT, it’s a smelly little corner of the city perfect for doing things you don’t want others to know about and will play host to a new performance by Captain Hate called The Golden Babies and the New Aesthetic – which sounds in every way terrifying. We ask the Captain to shed a little light on the event

Who is Captain Hate and why should we care?

Captain Hate’s majestic nihilism is renowned throughout the land and your self-destruction is his forte. He’ll play on your insecurities like he would a Couchet harpsichord or a Kreutzer Stradivarius. He will take pleasure in fucking you over and fucking you up. Captain Hate is everything you’ve ever wanted in a man and a little bit more – a little bit more degradation (yours), a little bit more weakness (yours), a little bit more… hate.

Is this the Captain’s first appearance?

Captain Hate is everywhere and nowhere (baby).

Does Captain Hate hate a lot of things? Is that why he’s called Captain Hate? Or is he a more caring individual?

Captain Hate wallows in the emotional spoil heaps littering the Dear Green Place.

How did you get involved in HAUNT and what do you understand HAUNT is?

HAUNT is a celebration of the lost and the reforgotten. HAUNT, like Captain Hate, is a manifestation of Glasgow’s Secret Dread.

What will you be doing on the night? I hear there will be a performance. Is this true?

Friday the 13th of May is the inaugural event in a series of ritual tableaux designed to Make Glasgow Miles Better or die trying. On the night an offering will be made to the Giant Weasel God Kamaitachi.

Will there be anything left for people to see later or will it all be done and dusted on the night, leaving no trace?

The Golden Babies will spread around the city like a plague of little shining avatars, reminding us that it is oh so good to be alive. Oh, and all turds will turn to gold.

What is the title all about? What are these golden babies and what is the new aesthetic?

The Golden Babies are cute little psychopomps leading the people of Glasgow toward A New Aesthetic that teaches us how to appreciate the deep mysteries redolent in the Everyday. This New Aesthetic transcends the redundant either/or ness of our current mystico-materialist paradigm, moving towards a limitless realm that stretches beyond the perceived limits of time itself!

How do you feel about being in that horrible, shitty alley with all the gallons of piss and hep B lying around?

Captain Hate has used that alleyway more than once…

Andrew Cattanach | 12 May 2011

HAUNT, Old Wynd Lane, Trongate, Glasgow
Preview: Fri 13 May, 7-10pm, performance 8pm
Exhibition runs 13 May – 3 Jun, 24/7


a film by


(Hollingsworth & Colquhoun)


Tam Dean Burn 


‘The Hanged Man’


Patrick Jamieson



“The Night is also a Sun, and the absence of myth is also a myth: the coldest, the purest, the only true myth.”

Georges Bataille

The Profane Illuminations is a filmic disquisition on the cult of melancholia, an oblique manual on sexual perversion, a paean to drug-fuelled anomie, a para-oneiric non sequitur on the perceived absence of myth and an exploration of the dank pool of mysticism lurking just under the crust of modernity. Hollingsworth & Colquhoun take a non-linear trip through time all the while drifting amongst lush interior landscapes, touching on and merging with notions of Arcadian splendour, an aleatory beclouding of perception, a tumbling ahistorical multiplicity of forms and an exploration of the intertwined territories of consciousness, memory and imagination.



(As if the above were not enough Pantagruelism for one day!)

or: “Giving all of the answers implies knowing all of the questions.


or: nothing



Two Ruins – on whose gyrognomic circumbilivaginations, as on two celivagous counterpendulums the whole antonomatic matagrobolism of non-linearity homocentrically revolves, and as such we expect no applause from those whose Arcadian Ears, by the warbling of no Dunnock (!), are henceforth and forever demulceated. Or not.


Thus, creeping around someone else’s house touching their stuff, opening drawers and cupboards, testing locked doors, grimacing into fusty old mirrors, gazing at upside down landscapes inverted by glass spheres placed on window ledges, pressing against ancient stone as one ascends and descends yet another tower or cellar. Feeling the crust of herstory crumble beneath grasping fingers and stifling the urge to pocket a knick-knack or three. Sensing the aura, the gravitational torque of ancient lineage and the wyrdness of time as presence, as infinitely-accordian’d genealogy snaking all the way back to that Great Rift Valley in Africa or to somewhen else. Grok it?   

The Glasgow Miracle

Hello everyone, my name is Jim Colquhoun – I am a genuine Glasgow artist not ‘Glasgow-based’ whatever that is. I’ve no idea what ‘medium’ I work in, rarely know what the fuck I’m doing and constantly attempt to sabotage whatever small successes come my way (as you shall see). In other words for all my pretensions I am, sadly, still wholly working-class. There is no escape from the past.

I was asked to come along and talk by Ross Sinclair, mainly because I wrote a short piece of ill-considered invective after viewing the ‘Generation’ documentary on the BBC.

Like many people I’ve talked to since I was taken aback by its wholly predictable structure i.e. Douglas Gordon as the abiding genius, Nathan Coley the canny intellectual, Christine Borland the artist/scientist etc etc. As I said in the initial piece it seemed that another much more interesting film was struggling to get out but was prevented by the BBC’s desire for broad appeal, easy narratives and quirky ‘oo look at those crazy artists’ churnalism.

What we were witnessing was the ‘story’ of Scottish contemporary art being massaged into being before our very eyes, NOT a real in depth exploration of a scene, which for all its faults, was initially concerned with an attempt to democratise, demystify and sex-up the art-making process

Anyway lip service was paid in the film to the background of the oft trumpeted Glasgow Miracle, an ironic statement even when first uttered, but taken up by stupid journalists as holy writ ever since. In any case we can always rely on the media to take the easy option, especially where contemporary art is concerned.

But the media-driven success of the arts in Glasgow has had its own blowback scenario, wherein, due to a combination of favourable press, cheap rents compared to London, state benefits, a genuinely thriving alternative art and music scene and the art schools willingness to cash in on its former success, has seen the city flooded with wannabee art stars and other detritus. All of which is about to come crashing down around our ears thanks to the punitive policies of the coalition government.

Anyway I like to call ‘Glasgow-based artists’ – the prog rockers – a reference to the over-produced, ever so self-conscious and often dull music produced by grammar school boys in the 1970’s. For much of the work produced is strangely weightless, versions of versions of versions and indeed carefully calibrated to appeal to the Toby’s of this world. If I attend another exhibition featuring some shoddy semi-theatrical ‘props’ or see a canvas that has been splatted with a bit of gouache and then propped against a plinth, or some branding that’s been fiddled with somehow, then someone may well have to die.

As you can see I have inhabited the Glasgow art scene for many years, surfing uneasily through openings, chugging free booze, nodding to and being ignored by fellow sufferers, trying not to take offense when snubbed by some idiot I don’t really want to talk to anyway. But I can remember spotting Ross at the Festival of Plagiarism way back in 1989. I had no connection with the art scene then and had just arrived back from an abortive attempt at some bohemianism in London. I can remember thinking WOW! this is what I imagine art to be! Its been down hill ever since really.

At heart I’m nostalgic for a scene that never really happened, where art in Glasgow became a genuinely collective undertaking that broke the middle-class stranglehold, burned down the art school and initiated a golden age of socially-conscious art-making and general upheaval . . . In spite of everything I’m still hopeful.

(unfinished piece for the Steven Campbell Memorial Lecture. Got called away suddenly to have a baby…)


Coming up next week (17th to 25th) at Lydgalleriet in Bergen, Norway

A Voyage to Arcturus (Redux)

Two Ruins (Hollingsworth & Colquhoun)

Steve Hollingsworth and Jim Colquhoun perform regularly as TWO RUINS – a collaborative practice wherein they inhabit a hypothetical space somewhere between sculpture, sound art and performance.

In 1781 in the Critique of Pure Reason the German philosopher Immanuel Kant warned that the human brain, in squeezing the extant world through its feeble sensuous apparatus gives it a verisimilitude that it does not actually possess, in a doomed attempt to forge order from chaos. Otherwise, “all constitution, all relations of objects in space and time, indeed space and time themselves, would disappear.”
Fast forward then to the early 21st century and those objects have come decisively adrift from the death grip of the human psyche, staring back at us from their newly-forged otherness they correspond to a truth that is contingent in our moving towards them as they fly before us, always inexhaustibly themselves, always more than we can imagine.
A Voyage to Arcturus is a new installation exploring the affinities between film, installation, language and sound. They intend to explore a shared obsession with early speculative fiction through the prism of ‘Voyage to Arcturus’, an inter-dimensional travelogue which speaks of the development of bizarre new senses attendant on journeys to extramundane landscapes produced in 1920 by writer David Lindsay.

“Just as blue is delicate and mysterious, yellow clear and unsubtle, and red sanguine and passionate, so he felt ulfire to be wild and painful [and] jale [to be] dreamlike, feverish, and voluptuous.”

For Lydgalleriet and Ekko Festival Two Ruins peer beyond the extant and through the lens of early science fiction in an attempt to move beyond the ontological irredenta of our present spatio-temporal locale and towards somewhen else. As in previous works, the artists use their own bodies as a locus with which to explore the outer reaches of innerness, in this instance, as body becomes landscape becomes planet we escape the confines of our tiny cosmological dust mote and venture out, where no carbon-based lifeform has gone before. Two Ruins are Here To Go.

Featuring a homoerotic and visually sumptuous film-poem (director of photography Patrick Jameson), a text/neon hyperventilation and a pair of tasteful televisual portraits.