WAFFLESTOMP - MARK FLORES & NICOLAU VERGUEIRO
February 15 - March 15, 2025
Wafflestomp me free, through the metallic grill against which intimacies are extruded from, interior refuse is stomped in drainage into gridded delicacies.
Wafflestomp: segments of orderly scat, twice extruded— recursions of fluid and
reprocessed chewable, vital scum buckets of stubborn, elegant paste.
Wafflestomp me free from the judgment of abjecthood to be vile, from the wincing
index that categorizes filth.
All there is are gutters through which industrial and organic life alike morph into serpentine coils, repelled by pulsating pleated passages— subterranean cables muttering mutiny between opposing sides.
Vessels, pipes, drains, tanks, syncopate consumed textures in earth tones— how rich thy putrid dregs! Liquefied bottles, tin cans, rubber balloon bits, upstanding rotten plastics churn in esophagi, drain from small and large sacs, slide down radioactive ribbed toboggans, sprayed with acids, chemicals, enzymes, broken down and collected in sewage deposits: oceans and whirlpools of obscurity.
From this recursive labyrinth, insides ooze out, fisted through orifices larger and smaller than space-age hoses. Dismayed routs plead motives: a refusal, an escape, an excuse, a denial. All there is are recursive extrusions of what has once been eaten, stomped again and again through manmade negative spaces. The world is eaten in parts—but always eaten. Wafflestomping feet march, colonize, rhythmically drumroll panicked visions of insides dropped into pristine basins. Recursive feeding sequences forcefully ground gurgitation, succumbing to a stupid little fastener of preventive anxiety.
Wafflestomp me to heavens! For the days of lucid delusions are earthbound and offer no way out.