Saturday, April 18, 2015

HYPNOZINE #2 (second of one): text by JASON SQUAMATA / art by ANDREW Mc KENZIE




























(more HYPNOZINE can be accessed by clicking HERE

HYPNO KOMIX COMMUNIQUE #2:

Okay. So you’ve had the experience.

You engaged the alchemical conjunction of image, text, soundscape, and sacrament.

You lipped along with the incantations.

The glyphs and graphs and grids unfolded into doorways and staircase spirals and anamorphic Escherplexes.

And you fell in a bit, didn’t you? Maybe it felt like entertainment, mostly,

but the Beast at work within this feast unknown, it bit you.

So you did it again. You needed to be sure.

You needed to know that recipe for an epiphany was religious, made of actual Otherness, and not some sleight of mind.

That second time, or maybe the third

(magazine. soundscape. sacrament. magazine. soundscape. sacrament.),

you realized that it WAS a trick.

And that it doesn’t matter. It’s ALL a trick.

Matter is obviously MADE of the friction between conflicting funhouse refractions.

A vision is a vision is a vision, by any other name.

And now there’s a need in you.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

HYPNOZINE #1: text by JASON SQUAMATA...art by ANDREW MC KENZIE


HYPNOKOMIX COMMUNIQUE #1:

Good evening, true believers.
Wherever, whenever you are...let it be evening.
Let a twilight come and move through you into darkness.
A darkness that teaches us to see.
I invite you now to taste the vices of a lifestyle yet unborn.
You've been playing some role in the workaday world, i'll bet.
That was then.  Right know you are who you are when you're alone.
You're off the grid tonight.  This is your idea of fun.
But you've always been a strange one, deep down, haven't you?

"DEATH OF AN EXTRA" from ALPHA BITCH by Jason Squamata

(images of Brittany Murphy (1977-2009) by David Lachapelle.  used without permission).
 
from ALPHA BITCH by JASON SQUAMATA
(more jagged mirrorbits available HERE and HERE and HERE...)

Gwendolyn Riley's cel phone is ringing in a suite at the Chateau Marmont.
Through the jagged thresholds of her drug-fried consciousness, the ring sounds like a cluster of church bells, and she can feel the sound changing the shape of her space like you feel an elevator dropping.
She's been in this room for days or weeks or whenever, saying "fuck you" to all the frenemies and all the Chandras who don't return your calls or they do and they want to turn every night out into an intervention.
For Gwendolyn, the party has imploded.  She's a disco unto herself.
"Fuck 'em all.  Squares on both sides", a Gwendolyn she was in her first film says, "I am the only complete girl in the industry."
She crawls like a feral cat across miles of carpet (a broken glass shag the color of static), groping through all the pretty things they give her, looking for the little talking church, the salvation box.
She knows how it opens.  She's talking on it.