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1. |
Curse of Impetus
02:21
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Fart clouds of ideas and inspiration, still in gestation, gradually float around the anatomy and into the mind of the thinker seeking elusive genius, sparking a brainstorm. The flammable notion goes from profound indigestion and burns into a fully formed thought. However, the nature of digestion means the useless afterthoughts with no place or purpose must be expelled once the substance of the idea is harvested. If the thinker doesn't shit, mental constipation brings them to die.
Writing is a slippery, stubborn parasite. First, it plagues you, growing under the skin as notification of its forming. You then make a conscious decision to seize it, constructing the idea of how to. After the creation is exposed and extracted in the larva state, the writer struggles with it in their hands. It twists and changes, sometimes into an entirely different beast, taking its own shape independent of your guidance. This stage is futile to resist. The writer is nothing more than the host attempting to excrete the burden, the prime impetus to suffer the fruition until the weight is lifted and the writer is cured temporarily, until the next muse conceives another inspired parasite to be shared and passed along to other literary patients. If the writer doesn't publish, the parasite will not die.
Some writers live vicariously through the experiences of others, fictitious or not, from behind the safety of printed words. For those who write what they know, even if it seems unknowable to them, the scars of memory fade and distort with time along with the lessons. It is hard to face the constant freshness of a document along with reflecting the struggle that was the process of documenting it. This is essential; you wouldn't want to live in a world with no new classics, would you? In a world where words are given more power than weapons, murder is masturbation, without imagination, compared to the damage print does. If man doesn't document, knowledge dies.
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2. |
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child's cry fruit and rind
handbell falls dust sleep cometh
cemented heritage deadrock tide
solve the vein spit cockerel
echo's fruit silk frost
question the towers head bowl sleep
corridor dust bowl holding me
dens of plague wrenched by anger
nitric fist inhale acid shroud unriddle
gristled soil biting nurse
marrow stump egg sheat
velvet sea welcome no grumble
unbolt the mind anchored grapes
raining on ships stroking the globe
hands have no country tears sign the treaty
tax the locusts and the air the holy face changes
flesh is formed of quiet lips
wag in the wind pulse falls from grace
caught in between flush roof and ground
wither up and reach for the ground
Cloth Exposing Quiet Time
repetition of feathers parting of continual cries
ghost of a lie told of limb and merry breasts
haggard autocracy howling has no endings
moon is a companion forgotten bites cry out
undead albatross graveyard crawls
third-eye youth probes bones whistling
wind stands silver flashing bubbles in thieving sex
the mad shall be hammered dominion splits
the naked dead rain cleans bone flowers
wheels of sinews lovers sink
unicorns with kabobs of ears hangnail cross-bones
horizontallycrack
hollow hairs on the jaws of agents
suckle on the bed of cancer walking graveyard
shrouded camel needle in thunderous garden
inquisitive hunchback undertaker seven seas swallowing
blood plains
medusa in lava legs sirens charming wax wounds
sex in the scarecrow roots nest of red around necks
book of thieves written in sawed language
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3. |
The Monarch of Leg Shack
11:05
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One rich and wise would be called the Great. At nine, he was of the air. Through a makeshift tree, long stockings make an aerialist empty lot turned into a circus. Admission was not money, but the audience hung by the trapeze with teeth. The louder Rich loved, it made him feel special.
Lived in Milwaukee, Hungary, his parents moved the five-cent circus shining shoes on street corners, gathered sold flowers. A magician came, Rich was twelve. Took boys to see the man. Rich watched exciting Dr. with amazement. He tried to out the tricks. He imagined a real age, mazing people, tricks all the time. His family had money for fuel inside the house, Rich desperately wanted to work as a boy. He stood on the street shivery cold, pinned to his snowman, but everyone could read:
CHRIST IS COMING, FAT QUARTER
IN THE MESSENGER BOY
He had to for an hour. People laughing at the sight, and being pleased, they all dropped quarters in his mother,
“Shake me, I'm magic.”
His mother was being foolish, but she did as asked. A shower of silver coins dropped from hair, behind ears, and from under legs. The holes in his mother had to laugh. The library became his thing to earn money.
Next year, Rich in a factory cutting neck, but all he thought about was lunch, the other workers. One he over and over again was a French named Jean Robert. He had performed for the emperor Queen Victor. He became dream the queen, too.
Another he liked was Harry, a famous American, admired his would on his brother, Theo, tying up and freeing him in special ways, tying knots which made this work and exciting. He thought about the names of the famous he had over and over to himself.
He took himself an I to Robert. He was now his Hyman, formed and replaced the act. Performed in cafes at parties meetings onstage at a proper Imperial Hall. Put into a sack wooden, locked and tied up the audience's eyes, successfully many times. Called out, “When I clap my times - behold a miracle!”
This time did not appear. Repeated, no chest played louder. Down the curtain quickly, red and puffing out of the sack through a secret opening. He had left the key inside in the dress decided to change places.
One day a streetcar carried his magic equipment he had ropes that stuck to a magic wand that sprouted flowers and a bottle of clear liquid that turned red when it was exposed to the bumpy into box spilled onto the floor. The bottle turned red, broke a pretty girl next to him. They came.
All over the country, she had been the stage herself, did all the tricks. He liked the escape studied, the crooked metal he developed to handcuff in minutes, often staying in after the show was over. Leg irons and a padlocked straitjacket which held tightly to the body he could sign:
HAND THE MONARCH OF LEG SHACK
Locked into a prison cell. Eight free from all that bound him,
THE DISPUTED HAM JAIL BAKER!
Audiences loved hero queen, went to the elderly died before disappointed.
He traveled, soon the ears of all the not really great challenged him publicly. They would right up stage on his wrists trick rope. He let these cuffs tie themselves angry. He had his in newspaper, offered anyone who accepted a lot of money.
I, HEREBY THE WORLD
DUPLICATE MY IRON STRAIT
UNDER TEST ENTIRELY STRIP,
THROUGHLY SEARCHED,
MOUTH SEWED AND SEALED UP
IMPOSSIBLE KEYS, SPRING PICKERS,
AND STATE ESCAPE . . .
No one accept his would have to do, for anyone else add his gymnastic and athletic, abilities underwater, tremendous milk. His wrists over his head the top secured to hold breath for long seconds, and S covered with terrified. Some shouted get an ax almost minutes went by, smiling and dripping wet. Never had he received so much, but had to make long the can lowered into the river to perform.
He had seen other rabbits and birds going to make an elephant named Jennie. Thousand pounds wore a blue ribbon around her box, closed the door. The performed deal of training, how to hold his breath for long time. He practiced in air hours. His muscles could be hit in the jury. During one show, he slip fractured bone in long, enough to let a doctor look. A young man could be the stomach without feeling refused, following night to miss it.
“Disappoint my audience,” said a doctor.
Appendicitis didn't stop the show filled, to the last seat. The orchestra played a rousing pomp stance on the silver coin air, clinking in a swinging crystal box. He made a pretty girl bloom rose bush, tricks taking cards. It seemed the Whirlwind of pulling yards of silk dry from liquid-filled glass and turning them into fags was very ill. 104 degrees, determined to finish. He did over, collapsed, days later died. The Great had given his last 1926.
So was still, thought escape ever lived his means.
Ordinary, the only.
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4. |
There is a Power
01:27
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Lone passenger in back of a white stre-tch limousine that is on fire.
Nobody is driving, the car cruises at a c r a w l
a downward spiral funneling into oblivion.
I look out the window with empty eye sockets.
The scenery changes, ruins of city
towering vegetation rising out of the disturbed earth
dwarfing every building like forgotten tombstones.
My lips, nose and ears fall away my face feels very thin.
I wither, crack, not even a husk,
only a pile of bone dust calcifying my clothes.
A man in a dark suit wearing a button that reads
'I LOVE MY FUCKING JOB'
waiting at the bottom of the d
o
w
n
g
r
a
d
e. He gets in back where I was seated and pulls out a straw begins to snort my remnants like an earthen cocaine. The drip slides into his mouth
he spits what is left of me into the fire
surrounding death's baby carriage.
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5. |
Six Word Stories
00:59
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We visited the combustible genital exhibit.
Number 9, that's the fetus responsible.
Her helicopter wound is healing nicely.
Preacher launches bible at possessed cripple.
Snack kid swallows dwarf stripper alive.
Claustrophobic astronaut needs to air out.
Blind cartoons never hear onomatopoeia coming.
Lunch lady's hands look like hamburger.
Which racing ambulance has bigger emergency?
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6. |
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Ghosts Caught in Rafters
There, as the chain pickerel
there's that in that ago
but with/and sighs
there's 'A' and clasped
there's born unrest,
but all I would make in
Eaves brushed light, resinous memory
across gloom drops blouse, hanging him,
falsetto rafters lying again
rondeau bird, fag end dawns by the spinning awake
ideal, the good lives lasting wholly
shining there, true that childish roofing
the my that still
Room there glochidium, my chair
hopsack glows rorqual long agora
tonight, exurbia lift-offs with sickles
journeymen, much destroys tote boards
louse and unrest, above beryllium
fain hosepipe, vain ghat
Infantile Wiring
She sits beside the turn once again to generalize. She is fair, but to lie down in no genealogy is brighter than her brow likes polish. You would not dream her cheeks are gobbling by, but he lingers . . . when the forfeit we know, that he will, earth will number the measles and the laughing stretches with dear, tinted eyes and think earth never silicifies; we do not for something of sot, something as a summum bonum. Can we wonder if she has no fright wigs? No lost one weights her life, growing doubly as day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day by day usurps her, chuff greeting her with the joy of sparge that fades.
Out the Room of Harvestmen
Dark apples will womb thread's pulse in the hives that signal
the deniers to the trees barren in spring, kisssssss in the noise,
flask each their cloth with powder sabbath
! Bushy morning shades brisket !
Mutes roll in day blood
QUICK! before mothered children dry the dam
. Curtains over the moon light the worms
freezing and shabby, winds forewarn
a storm in the heart with golden drops
fathering vein with maggot pity
! Drowning in bone seas of brambles and snipped salt !
Double-crossed shaping molten mortality
through vines of messages that heaven drives
with weather ropes, dumb to the r oo ts
round and hanging, how my flower pulls and twists
spurning errors baring chains
! Movement aches the sleepy emperor's spine box !
Double death,
death,
the secret ruler plait treads
hunger's head paper shroud
. Gathering promise, nerves drive
quicksand heat on colored screws
. Serpent ghosts' roe love beds,
coral hair from their dead
. Once the waters in your tides, clocking the children,
tickle my lungs from muscling the plum,
scums could cattle
. Will it be the urchin of the nerves
rehearsing baby's thigh?
! The cock punishes with fists of noise !
Some let the trees' spelling cast a shadow
on morning s h making you of the raven
a p
es
. Chemic spills, spider-vowelled with frost drains
caught by her words, shut too through the towering sin
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7. |
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Glanded Ouroboros Is a Fibrillating Hophead
The drive of my scalp is a brassy cage-governed scythe
wheeling bone screws into glanded flint corpse bridal oil
ashen marrow from a jointed stake, now a shapeless zenith
but with milling flames foaming a voice dug of fire
Onstage, it's all lava and mechanical flowers
stoning the wet night cans with thumping dung and flinging gravel tongue
cloud tunics move venus-wise in ornamental destruction,
like a clock inside a void with coasts of pelts erecting,
stroked dry as lovers
Turrets of ghosts carry the folly of flesh,
sucked towers grieving over a cure
hollow growth in the disappointment on the dog's plate,
the downward jive of a bionic dog fighting vagueness
Found brains taste of acrid soldiers
stained sinews on their crumb women
stalking birds with bloody beaks
while blooming in Vice, a county of guns
Ox minerals blind the scales of this enemy,
dead by the armor snails in a world of petals,
insects splitting a wooden eye laying bloody in the ether
our mortal quarrel is the natural harbor of death
Corkscrew nuisance fathoms the crowing of forged coral
as the skull disk hatches some sea babble
orbiting the hophead's Neptune
seawhirls ringing out the dead drowning in ointments
Images as instruments out of the flaxen fire
apparel of shame floating in conjured winds
below, thimbled eels, green and damp, boiling for miles in wept water
snapping sap from desolate veins created by sulphuric apples
Watched by the warden in an ouroboros eclipse
the symbols of madmen divided into air-drawn curtain of trust
similar to the blood-red legends of sweethearts in space
Allegory nudges the tall
tales and fibrillations of heart bones
grappling a town manna at zero tower
man waged strongholds under a sand-bagged hero
cannon hemisphere pierces star-flanked seaports
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8. |
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The All-Seeing Sound Supreme
Most can't recall the first time their ears were molested by the call of reality's rude awakening. I can recollect the first and last time my ears were tickled by frequencies otherworldly, the lyricism of images via sound, indulgent without being showy; A living soundtrack for every mood.
'Cannonball' Moncur was not just a jazz saxophonist, he was a herald and translator of an extinct or undiscovered language. Beyond any advanced guard, his stream of freedom could enslave and command the audiences it resonated within, paralyzing the abilities of the rest of the band with his balloon lungs. No arkestra in this solar system could keep in the pocket with the horn god, but no one could ever make out the train wrecks when they did happen.
Emulating screaming children (the spit flying from his instrument could be their tears) just as easily producing ideophones that could make one see colors man is blind to. The soundtrack to existential disaster and nirvana. My failing hearing has actually improved since the first time I strolled into the Cat's Den club and lost my true aural virginity to Cannonball. After, I could hear rats fucking in walls.
Every night I caught one of his sets, the kick came instantly. One night, I entered in the middle of one of his whirling dervishes. Fiery cosmic diarrhea spewed all over the crowd's dumbfounded eardrums, sweat coming off his eggplant skin shined his gleaming sax, pieces of it flew off here and there. His gums bled from his freak lip onto his white suit. He blew a fountain of his own genre. I decided then and there I had to talk to the man who changed the way I hear.
As soon as we crossed paths, he seemed to know I wanted to meet him before I even told him my name. “Come to my room upstairs in an hour, number. 6.” His voice unique like his playing, just as full of bass as treble. He is much smaller onstage, always hunched over his piece, like he was fucking it.
The upstairs of the Cat's Den was a shithole painted green. It seemed a crime that a talent this bold should wallow in such squalor, he was a Joe Below. Before I could knock, “Come on in, man.” I walked into the dingy room to find Cannonball sitting in a chair with a belt around his arm, stirring a glass of everclear with a needle full of red chicken heroin. The junkie genius shoots it up his right arm as he takes a swig from the glass. “Close the door, don't let all the magic out now.” We smoked A-bombs, talking through the night. He didn't seem the slightest bit affected by his habits. I felt I was orbiting earth just being in the same room with him. “Man is merely an instrument to play instruments . . . Music is the only language your ears don't need to be taught the many vernaculars of . . . Most just hear selectively the dead symbols they choose to speak with.” As he spoke, I noticed his lips barely moved. His voice sounded like it was coming from within or behind my ears instead of directly at me.
“You got some good reefer, Cannon. Stellar.”
He smiled open-mouthed and I felt a distant echo soar around me, faint sirens. Looking around, I noticed not a single piece of vinyl. “What have you recorded recently?”
“I don't. It's all dimensionally flat. I'll leave that to the cats who care about being remembered by the non-witnesses. What I play, no plate is hot enough for. . . it can only be captured in the moment, remain unfading in your mind. Head arrangements . . . I never woodshed.” All my hairy gooseflesh was chilled.
We spent time together often after his sets in the next weeks, but no matter how close we became, a remote voice always called him back to his thoughts, a retrieving introversion.
I saw a rustic alto in a music shop window one day, cheap enough and hopefully a suitable gift for the one like no other.
Back at the Cat's Den, I knocked at his upstairs room to no reply.
Signs of life were obvious inside, some shuffling . . . an odd whirring sound. Something felt wrong. I eased the door a crack at first, then slowly opened it in a horrific awe. Some entity in Cannonball's white blazer, a formless head, a fountain of visages, endless, flowing into the air and dissipating. I was stunned at the bubbling mosaic of every face I've ever seen in my life, and then some. The thing abruptly faced me surprised, although it had no distinguishing features.
“You've seen more than I can allow, Peter,” Cannonball's voice, heavily distorted, flanging and phase-shifting. I stood there flabbergasted with the gifted sax in a clammy clutch. He reached for his slowly with hooks like hydras, each finger its own independent hand. His horn turned transparent when he touched it, becoming altogether something different. It had glowing veins over vertebrae that connected intuitively with his digits through the keys. The shape of his axe became rippling liquid, the Popsicle stick melted. “Without choice now, I can only offer you complete communion of the abstract truth.” An opening in the head revealed a hot light. The sweat-soaked alto in my hands warmed instantly, welding my hands to it with a burning intensity. Cannonball's alien horn lit up like lava when it touched the refulgent mouth. Right before the unfathomable cacophony of his immaculate audio plague destroyed me and all of the Cat's Den, I could see and feel those sirens, coming to tear me apart.
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PKWST Phoenix, Arizona
Experimental sound / multimedia visual artist involved with Butoh Sonics, Schadenhaus, Sugar Pills Bone, Smogma, and solo
projects The Ɔrinkles,THE IDE OF EARTH, Dummy Rifle, and Wretch And Reel, to boot.
Labels, compilation or soundtrack personnel interested in physically releasing / using any material, or locals booking shows or looking to collab, contact here.
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