Artworks 2017-2020

Conspiracy in baritone (2017)

You may think that you can co-exist as a muffled hallelujah in a heron’s natural habitat, but it’s all just a conspiracy in baritone.

Mumble your afternoon recitals in Esperanto all you want, the watchful triangle of sonic highs will never be your circle of trust.

So until all the dolphins are diamond studded, just raise your tear-filled chalice to this loud misunderstanding and put your nightcap on.

Militant swans (2017)

Envious of the oil spill in the eyes of an angel, an anvil possessing the psychic powers of ginger in powder form hovers beyond earthly reach. The eternal duality of reason and passion remains ever so benign when faced with the grand symphony of the militant swans. May the ancient scriptures they mutter, as they revolve around the sunken isle, eradicate fashion from the sandpit of the everafter.

Vol précipité (2017)

Préparez vos récépissés pour ce vol précipité à destination d’un précipice paradisiaque où les écrevisses sont presbytes et insomniaques.

Grâce au savoir-faire de l’hôtesse diamantaire, à bord, vous bénéficierez des meilleurs soins rudimentaires et d’une savoureuse intoxication alimentaire.

Souriante, elle vous accueillera à coups de crosse et avec l’amabilité d’une grotte. Au final, vous l’aurez eu dans l’os. Cela vous apprendra à confondre un carrosse et une carotte.

Mano Pescatore – Alternative version (2025)

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard Mano Pescatore flight FU707, bound for wherever the unpredictable currents and the “pilot’s” whim may take us—an ostracised villain’s armpit in Austria, Room 237 in that frostbitten hotel, or a rollerblade rink velcroed to a cliff—if we make it. Our estimated flight time is everyone’s guess. We’ll drift off from this implausibly graffitied rock after a quick carotene fix. Please take your seats, before your seats take you, and make yourselves comfortably scarce while you still can. Fasten your conveyor belt—we’re expecting some tuberculosis and turbulence along the way. Store your existential burden in the overhead lockers—dread dispensers are located beneath your seats. Turn off your electric chairs until the pro-life sign is switched on. We’d also like to remind you that breathing is strictly prohibited on board. Thank you for your misunderstanding and we hope you’ll have a pleasant flight.

The smog salesman (2017)

All hail the smog salesman in his flashy suit, proud peddler of the life-saving soot that turns a regular handkerchief into a parachute.

Bringing chaos in the respirators of a global warming deniers caught snogging an asparagus, he floats in his gravity-defying smoking apparatus.

As a non-believer in space, he rejoices while his fogged-up demeanor goes to waste, like a shiver delivered in haste. So is that how raw liver tastes?

Calculus (2018)

The moment the black mirror of self-agrandissement draws you in, your fragmented identity is trapped inside the sterile cell of an Excel sheet where the miscalculated sum of all the odd digits triggers a sudden downpour of cutlery, capable of shattering your first-grade arithmetic like a fragile eggshell—if not for the close protection of your manicured goon.

Cactus among cacti (2018)

Marvel at this benevolent cactus snoozing among the tightly screwed cacti until he eventually remembers the absolute value of pi.

Selflessly holding on to the last inflatable E for lack of a better I, ready for when the remaining vowels emigrate to merrier plains to die.

Cheer up, old chap! It’s not time to sigh. Life is botanically beautiful with a tamed baguette that believes it can fly. Enjoy it to the last crumb—go on, bake some pie.

The chocolate resurrector (2018)

Plunged into the enchanted obscurity that blankets his facial features like a veil of shame, the chocolate resurrector bravely challenges the lowest common denominator to a mean-spirited sword duel between abundance and scarcity.

Defeated in what felt like a high-pitched duet in a cross-country race to the top of a sugary skyscraper, the rebel with the hooded dome enslaved a flock of punk hummingbirds to cross-stitch the inflicted cuts until they let go of their immoral confections for immortality.

He now has to live eternally in denial of his true sweetness while fending off the uppercuts of the twelve hundred Siamese twins born from the frivolous gentrification inside a time capsule, like liposuction draining all his freckles, spots, pimples, and eventually his whole identity.

Déesse asthmatique

Les doigts en cendre pointés vers le ciel qui ensemble forment l’arbre à cames sur lequel poussaient les grandes respirations de nos aïeuls. Passage à tabac pour un peu d’écorce dérobé en embrassant le tronc de nos adieux, bonjour tristesse.

Belle déesse asthmatique à la chevelure de feu, est-ce une luciole qui brûle encore en rigolant de votre splendide toux ? Un manque d’air sur les autoroutes pulmonaires étouffe la flamme de votre volonté comme un poil dans la main.

Une promesse qui résonne entre quatre murs de briquets, c’est promis j’arrête demain.

Eyewitness (2018)

Like I already told the other constable—the grumpy one who sounded like he had a trombone wedged up his aris—I didn’t see anything unusual that day!

There was just a bluefin ironmonger undressed as a FEMEN activist, flogging moot points, mood swings, and mudslides. I got a couple for meself, actually. A sun-kissed naturist was etching his memoirs on a mammoth’s pelvis. A bunch of old monarchs were taking dentures for a spin, speeding past a milk-fed leech renting out her skull for a handful of florins—bloody good deal, that was. Nietzsche was doing a rhinoplasty on a nose-diving instructor. And this unemployed Oompa Loompa, afflicted by all sorts of acronyms, was lining up his pet peeves neatly on a shelf.

I was gonna mention the crudely camouflaged clown holding an old phone hostage—turns out that was just my own reflection.

Petite molaire (2018)

Dis-moi petite molaire, comment ces bains de vinaigre conservent ils ta peau ? Est-ce le biofuel qui te serre le coeur comme un étau ? As-tu déjà demandé ton chemin à ton propre reflet dans un étang introverti ?

Dis-moi petite molaire, comment se fait-il qu’il pleuve des serpentins multicolores lorsque tu emmènes tes belvédères en sinecure de thalasso ? Pourquoi le bleu de tes yeux n’est-il pas aussi intense que le pourpre du poulpe ?

Dis-moi petite molaire, à quoi servent ces équarrisseurs sur la piste d’atterrissage ? Sont-il des ducs qui picorent le surplus d’ammoniac sur le dos nu des marchands de magnoc ? Y avait-il un brin de sarcasme dans ton dernier numéro de haute voltige, n’as tu donc plus le vertige ?

Dis-moi petite molaire, ne sens-tu pas ce coulis de fruits rouges en poupe encourager ses saints à devenir une nouvelle forme de voûte plantaire ? N’as-tu plus de réponses ? Donnerais-tu ta langue au chat ? Pas vraiment digne d’un représentant de l’espèce canine.

Vaffanculo et adieu (2018)

Le chevalier paresseux est vaillant comme la poudre de perlimpinpin qui lui picotait les yeux, fonçant corps et âme vers son nid de crystal dans les cieux tout en tirant un vieux nuageux qu’il vénérait comme un dieu, amouraché d’améthyste et de métal précieux, c’est avec le coeur et sans rancune qu’il vous dit vaffanculo et adieu.

Capillary confession (2018)

“Go away!” were the first words he ever spoke to Beaky. Nosey was trimming his nasal hair, as he did every hour, when Beaky appeared out of nowhere, snatched a clump of fallen hair, and flew off, streaking the air with a thankful trail of guano. An hour later, Beaky returned, and then again every hour after that, each time picking larger and larger clumps of hair, until they reached the size of a child’s toupee. This ritual went on for months, and they eventually grew fond of each other. “I’m using your hair to build my dream canoe,” Beaky confessed one day, “to sail the River Styx.” It didn’t fall on deaf ears. On the anniversary of their first bodily exchange, Nosey surprised Beaky with his longest nasal hair yet—1.78 metres—grown secretly in the basement of his favourite nostril. Beaky, lost for words, took it in his beak and flew off, streaking the air with his longest trail of guano yet—2.06 metres—never to be seen again. “Sail away!” were the last words he ever spoke to Beaky.

Violin of fear (2018)

The urchin-headed violinist plays a last lullaby to lure the orchid-scented fire ants, alleviate their craving for lead, and turn his net into a nest, forever ridding himself of his deeply rooted fear of empty rooms, half-chewed jelly beans, and calvados.

Testicular concert (2018)

Meet Lil’ Ballsy, your new favourite clarinet player.

The high life (2018)

Meet the pest you never thought you needed, until this voracious feeder, flirting with hypothermia, entered your field of vision and enticed you to join the mid-body flatulent adventure to chronic brain freeze of a lifetime.

Picture yourself perched on a remodelled cedar quadruped, venting off your excess heat, and unravelling, with every wiggle of your environmentally harmful straw, a hypothetical newborn with icicles for a nose. Isn’t that the high life you’ve always dreamed of?

Pay no mind to the disapproving head tilt of the gelato-headed planking shell of a man, his perfectly sprinkled overcoat, and—for the sake of your own sanity—his unnecessarily enticing genitals. Keep sucking the life out of him like every day is a Wednesday night—the perpendicular refill is on the house.