1. |
Caucasus
03:26
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It isn’t coming. You know that, right?
what the hell are you doing?
It’s just GLOOM on Sunday
Did you paint your masterpiece?
It is never going to be what you want it to be.
They’re all waiting
Sarah Kane, remember?
Why don’t you go on that pilgrimage
see if you can’t find that bullet…
You don’t want to do you?
You never did.
The NOISE is always going to be there
you know that, right?
Caucasus
Dead Winter
a ghost in white
the VISION
those twilight hours when the sky is a near perfect
blue
A silent sea
her BODY rushing towards you
-273° Celsius
The Castration Complex
Ulrike Meinhof
The day is like wide water, without sound
Crete
A public shower
naked and immune
David,
what have you gotten yourself into?
Hash – the kind they banned in Afghanistan
Palestine
no, Rome.
In the sunset of dissolution
everything is illuminated
Gold
This city’s secret paths
a candle made of wax
the butterflies
My MEDIUM wants me dead
“don’t”
she said
“don’t…”
Keter
The High Priest
a face and a name I have never known
Navarre
Not a but THE girl mentioned
Desolation Row
Sunlight captured in a jar
ripe as any
and cloyingly sweet
the poison I will suck from your skin
take me to the Apothecary
won’t you,
Ophelia?
The spell I have cast will only last for so long
you can take my knife
this is our cue
My hands were made in ash
and your wounds will heal in time
and quicker than you know
Please
the blood runs from the backs of my Patella
I cannot help but kneel
The dice rolled VII
play your game
You and I both know that you want to . . .
Baudelaire
The death of G-d
Muchomůrky Bílé/
A bargain
YES
Speak THROUGH Me
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2. |
GLOOM
00:44
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“I could at least get a hundred for it, “ she says with a smile like I’m not even sitting there across from her. Like she didn’t just offer to sell me to him. What the fuck?
of course I’m still in love with her, perhaps more – I hope she pulls that shit all the time, never bats and eye, like she’s completely unaware – Fuck, GLOOM man, she takes from all of us. She referred to me as “it’. I feel like Valerie Solanis.
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3. |
In the Kingdom
01:03
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Kyrie hitched a ride with a
sad-eyed
charismatic
touched-moth
given aureole
Christ-like radiant
hand extended
horror as she trembled
through his passenger-side door
“Where you headed?”
“Doesn’t matter…”
Visions of
psychological experiments
performed upon
Her
phased
unbeaten
body
breathing slowly
Her
spine
a chiastic
phrase
drawn into two separate organs
the dawn again
new softly waking
In the Kingdom
she cried, “I know this song.”
He smiles
early magic hour
hair waving golden portrait into sunlight
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4. |
Centrifuge
00:28
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yeah, but his life really wasn’t that interesting
it was just depressing
besides, in the ways that it was it was it really wasn’t the sort of thing that you could talk about…
he was a centrifuge for a while
– it drove him insane.
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5. |
White Noise
01:17
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white noise.
getting stoned in my garage and reading White Noise,
getting stoned in my house and reading The Use and Abuse of History,
getting stoned in my living room and watching The Goebbels Experiment
– American Swing.
the long disaffected stare of a woman in upper-state New York.
going nowhere.
thinking about reading J. G. Ballard.
going nowhere.
hearing my twenty-seven year-old cousin attempt to censor my thoughts & taking the vague recollection of someone I knew who recently began eating gefilte fish out from the still –
a cut from the nitrocellulose plane.
play William Basinski at 78 rpm.
watching the ash crumble from the ember of my cigarette.
hearing the ring from my typewriter.
letting the slide crash.
lying cross-legged on the floor and listening to an album by Mazzy Star.
letting the tape disintegrate.
letting the songs turn to static and turn into the wave.
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6. |
Summer
00:35
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tall unkempt grass
mitigating sunlight
golden, kodachrome
70s palette
small dirt path
thin enough for just one bike wheel
every day from five to seven
he rides alone
fully clothed with cap even
in circles around his fenced-in backyard.
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7. |
Host
01:26
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Lying on the floor and
listening to the sound
of the din outside
the life in the city
and your grandfather’s clock
still motionless
on the strings
of an old mandolin
not quite in tune
or to any particular key
just the ringing of the bells
from the church on Brerton
A sound that I’ve invented
to mark the infinite succession
of the present
in makeshift time
slowing down
as if the jangled beads in your hair
could form candy colored raindrops
and
speeding up
to the windswept flutter of my heart
A Sunday morning
spent outside of the drizzling rain
and smoking on the landing
where the ember
seemed to attract
a rare butterfly
and I
was afraid to catch
the cigarette’s heat
in the beated wings
of this remarkable insect
The down and out brigade
down on Dobson
and my own stranded Self
caught between
Saturday’s aftermath
and the angelic host
of the Holy Spirit
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8. |
Figurine
01:11
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winged
moth
legs
touched off an outstretched finger
soft velvet
black costumes
and the bodies of a dancer
in near dark and double mirror
the geographical distinctions
where the blanket lies and your hair lays next to mine or somebody like mine
the clear plate glass windows in a building where we don’t belong
something clinical to this place
not the drifting wreck of home nor the expedient daze of work
but the calm of an empty room, an empty shell, a vacant house, or a newly painted canvas
mostly white
there is just something to being on the run that makes you forget about the past
collection of violent
photographs and unsung batelages
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