(images courtesy of http://www.no-w-here.org.uk)
The octopusmachine oozes into sight in the grotto-booth, its monstrous presence ignored by the horse-blindered staff, but is secretly enamored & slobber-obsessed over by the geek-pirates called projectionists. The hard-candy shell shields the lacquered guts of the mollusc-plastique of this cephaloped-celluloid, that is, its insectoid-slime secretions that constitute the cinema-viscera. This intestinal skin is dragged through the digestive tract of rotary blades & greased gears scratched by the lobster arm of the stuttering shuttering-claw that blinks incessantly through its Cyclops-orb. These frissons of horror admit to the sublime ejaculate of eruption as the tentacled lights sputter & spill all manner of haunted danse-macabre on the milky cave wall of our dark nautilus chamber. From the oily Medusa-machine, our optical-oedipus, illuminations expell through the orifice like a vacuum in reverse, a chimera shitting its inky spew in sphinctal-negative. Here the light-jets entangle the crystallized veins of subterranean eyes caught in the catacombs of the ocula-beast.
(Italics and font colour remain faithful to the original)
Find more ruminations on the materiality of film practice here, where, in addition several of Eros’ wonderful slide collages (or collage slides) are published.