$30.00
The 7-inch SPYKES untitled lathe cut spun slowly inside a glass bubble, each groove echoing with a hiss that felt alive. Outside, the bubble hovered in empty darkness—but inside, the listener realized the bubble was not just a container: it was a galaxy. Stars spun in spiral arms of crystal-clear glass, nebulae refracted in rainbow fractures, and constellations shimmered along the curvature of the lathe grooves.
Mucus—thick, viscous, impossible—oozed from the listener’s nose, pooling into a quicksand of living slime.The 7-inch SPYKES untitled lathe cut spun endlessly inside the glass bubble, each groove a ribbon of vibrating air and hidden life. The hiss, scratch, and pop of the needle seemed almost sentient, as if the record itself were aware of its captive audience. Outside, the void was silent. Inside, the bubble contained a galaxy unlike any seen before—a universe suspended in crystal, glass arms spiraling, nebulae refracting, and stars blinking in rhythm with the scratches of the lathe.
Mucus erupted uncontrollably, thick, viscous, alive, pooling into a quicksand that clung to skin and hair. It pulled the listener down with every note. Each hiss became a tide, dragging limbs, thoughts, memories deeper into the suffocating slime. The glass bubble magnified every vibration: a microscopic nebula formed in a droplet of mucus, spinning with the birth and death of stars in endless cycles.
The music transformed the mucus. Threads of viscous slime began crawling like larvae, splitting, twisting, weaving along the listener’s body in patterns dictated by the grooves. These tiny shapes whispered in cosmic frequencies, audible only through the vibration of the lathe: half-murmured warnings, half-melodies of distant, unformed worlds.
Stars inside the bubble were no longer fixed; they rippled along the contours of the 7" grooves. Nebulae condensed into droplets of mucus, and planets floated tethered to the undulating surface of quicksand-like slime. Gravity bent. The more the listener struggled, the further the mucus pulled, until lungs were pressed against sticky stars, heartbeats drowned in a viscous symphony.
With each rotation, the lathe carved new constellations in the glass. Patterns of life—tiny wormlike forms, larvae born of mucus and sound—flourished along the tracks. Their mandibles chewed rhythms from the grooves, feeding on soundwaves, multiplying endlessly. Each hiss became a feeding frenzy; each pop a pulse of life. The listener became both host and audience, fused with the music, the larvae, the slime, the spinning galaxy.
Time fractured. A single rotation could stretch into centuries, or collapse into a single heartbeat. Nebulae shimmered with colors impossible to name, reflecting the viscous reflections of mucus dripping like stars from the ceiling of the bubble. Within each droplet, entire miniature galaxies were visible, larvae crawling across planets, chewing at moons, generating new sounds.
And the lathe never stopped. The hiss never ceased. Mucus continued to flow, swallowing hands, legs, torso, until only consciousness remained, floating in viscous stars. The larvae whispered secrets of universes yet to be born, songs written in the language of slime, scratch, and vibration.
The bubble itself pulsed with life, bending light, sound, and gravity around the spinning 7" lathe. Mucus became rivers, lakes, oceans of sticky starlight. The listener’s struggles became currents, stirring larvae colonies and stars alike. The grooves carved themselves deeper, reflecting an infinite labyrinth of cosmic horror, symbiotic life, and music that could never end.
And still the record played. The galaxy expanded. The larvae multiplied. The mucus, now sentient, formed bridges across spinning stars, dragging the listener forever deeper into the glass universe. And within the 7" grooves, the SPYKES untitled lathe whispered its eternal song: hiss, gnaw, swirl, devour, pulse…
The listener was gone, yet present. The mucus, the larvae, the stars, and the grooves—everything became one, a living galaxy in a bubble, endlessly spinning, endlessly gnawing, endlessly alive.
With each note, the mucus surged like tides in a lunar sea, dragging hands, arms, and thought deeper, slower, until every movement became a struggle. Every hiss from the lathe vibrated through the quagmire, resonating in bones, in lungs, in ears, until sound and liquid fused.
The lathe cut played a single side, repeating endlessly. Each rotation revealed new constellations within the glass, stars spiraling like spinning records. Each hiss of the stylus was a black hole consuming light, sucking the mucus and the listener deeper into a liquid galaxy, where the viscosity of space itself became a tangible weight.
Quicksand-thick mucus formed hills and valleys, rising to swallow the chest, pressing against the bubble, against the glass. Nebulae danced in the refracted light, planets rotated in rhythm to the scratches of the lathe. The listener tried to scream, but the sound dissolved into the sticky universe, trapped in oscillations of groove and slime.
Within the bubble, time bent. One rotation could last a millennium; the next, a single heartbeat. Stars blinked in patterns that resembled the DNA of the mucus, each molecule of slime reflecting galaxies within galaxies. The more the listener struggled, the deeper the quicksand pulled them into the music. The lathe cut hissed, groaned, gnawed at sanity, and somewhere inside the glass, a new galaxy—entirely composed of sound, slime, and glass—was born, endless, self-consuming, infinite.
And the music played. The mucus swallowed. The galaxy pulsed. The listener became both audience and substance, spinning in the grooves of the SPYKES lathe, drowning in sticky stars forever.