Words by Art Tavana

Enjoy the plastic silence. No heroines near the fire, only the forces of tribal gestures and hidden desire.  Black bohemians from the darkest jungles pour their uncivilized melancholy down the sewers of the city. White lights! Red velvet! The guttural banshee savagely prances through the ice-covered streets in vampire heels; not an animal, not a human – but a messenger from the netherworld. Blood pours through her exposed greenish eyes, covering the sheets of armor below her tiny feet. Pretty girls shake like tiny dancers in a hurricane of cold noise.

Mulholland Drive stares endlessly at the steely-eyed trilobite queen. Barbed-wire freedom on the razor’s edge of brutal rhythm – victimization through emancipation. No telly after midnight; a proper beating, first, show your weakness! Two-faced daughters born from the womb of strife; wallowing at the sound of pornography and anal talking heads. Everything is broken. Silence yourself. Reconstruct the deconstructed.  Proper hostility on the Fountainhead, behind the ballroom – revive nothing. No valentines; no floral arrangements; no label – just savages, bloodthirsty, cold, cute, slime green with envy. Medieval tendencies, 1862, the past conjured through the spectacles of a witch’s brew of dead roses and blood-stained cashmere. Wicked! It’s a noisy spectacle, an orgasm of noir – black and white. Guttural, size him up, master the shit out of him. Hostile, real fucking hostile. Be quiet, the honkey chateau is closed for business. Skinny girls go home. Wankers! We are all Savages; Lord of the Flies. The stringless instruments of  retired porn stars, fapping behind the curtain of monochrome propaganda. We are all savages. ◥
Listen to Savages.

Image via Riot of Perfume.