Tue - Sat. 12 - 6pm
In the shredding turbine, pesky Marshalls in tropical work-wear gather asymmetrically like cubic zirconia studs. Champions of clutter-free testosterone greetings, their enamelled legs melt into freshwater teat-speech, inflated by jets of white noise percussion.
To stop the mineral bladder overheating, newborns and ninjas are lacing the ebonised fountains with sieves of dried mink stubble- their split-yoke facial ride-ons grinning in soprano.
Lovers role-play with flirty sacrifice-generators, tuned to audible mouthpiece surges and waffled by the plush munchkin tissues of bamboo stowaways, printed with high-vis moon-hairs. Top-coat-stretching, just out of reach, they elbow-grease their embossed goggles for clarity, as a two-way voice pitches the thrills of his one-handed rubberised trigger switch, to preloaded echoes of teenage breathing sessions as the rebound of a pegasus-masher kneads his chest valves.
On special occasions like this, an ageless crew of discreet but cream-based survivors with plump accents release granules of lava pigments, which they’ve scraped off the hero with a marble squeegee and long, wet grass-combs. Military disco-balls are illuminated by 3D skeleton-messages- perhaps launching a new nasal-fin Bistro by leaking champagne and suction-based stain removers into the dry-folds of sixty-year bikini necklines. Prune-cast trolleys oscillating with frayed raindrops, these pearlescent humidifiers drip hygiene-breakdowns from gilded rose elevators, tempered with crushed waterfall-laquer.
Shimmering. As the live-feed gutter-flare-ups of your slouchy, distressed power-status tilt kerb-side for 10 laps- A pair of telescopic, rib-knit rot cultivators hanging off your slip-thru tracksuit mindset.