going around and around in my head like a petit mort. But is it really dubstep?
Archive for September, 2011
The man in the room is not all there.
It is difficult to see him – different parts of his anatomy slipping along increasing lines of soft focus. When he speaks his words are those of a detuned radio, fuzzy and indistinct. Every now and again the frequencies align and a single word will leap out with crystal clarity.
The room has no door,
no windows. There are no light fixtures either. despite this the room is bathed in an autumnal glow that is everywhere at once.
There are no shadows in the room.
Apart from yourself and the who who is not exactly there the room is empty but for an old school blackboard. The man is no help – corporeal but more like a statue than a person. You have more luck talking to yourself. Memories crawl behind your eyes. You know who you are just not how you came to be. For a while you stand listening, making sense of what words you can hear, but for every third that comes through the static and whine you forgert the first.
You approach the blackboard. Finding a piece of chalk in the gully you begin to write the words out. Excitement creeps as a narrative begins to unfold bfore you. Sign and signifid amassing. Meanings spreading between one another like roots. A tension begins to build inside you.
Getting to the bottom of the board you flip it around on its hinges urgently.
On the otherside are the words you have just spent the past hour writing out immaculately.
Bubbles like nitrous pop in your mind. You spin it around again. The words are still there. You reach out and touch them, rubbing the palm of your hand back and forth on the rough surface, expecting the words to blur and disintegrate, but they don’t.
You can feel chalk dust on your skin regardless.
Panic sets in. You are losing more and more words with each passing moment. With no more blackboard real estate you drop to your knees and begin writing frantic on the floor. You try your best to write in short, straight lines but they quickly become crooked. Soon sentences stretch and sway as if caught in a hidden breeze which freezes them on the spot. Your kneecaps begin to ache as you move across the floor, like a child drawing rainbows on the summer pavement.
When you run out of floor you turn your attention to the walls. You become aware that when you run out of walls you will have nothing else to write on. The thought like a lead gets stuck in your throat.
You don’t know how many days you have been in that room
when you reach the final wall but you ache from head to toe.
The end is coming.
As you squeeze in one more word everything becomes silence.
The man is gone
and you are alone
with nothing but the words
to keep you company.
This album is flavouring my morning.
The heat is rising; up through the filth,
trapped by layers of fabric.
Caffiene elevates the desire
to break free from the skin, run dripping and crimson
in the open air.
The omnibus is a rollercoaster of the mediocre where bones
crash against epidermis.
Just below your feet black steel grinds
against a diesel heart,
riding veins of cracked granite tar.
A capsid of human waste.
Have you ever tried writing on the stagecoach?
in the passing
spent and gone without shame;
goosedown fingertips grip the mattress,
spine pushing gently against the otherside.
That limbic staircase.
Many eons ago there was an underground goldfish bowl that many historians refer to as `Glasgow`.
The fish and their wives (commonly known as “fish wives” ) who dwelled in this urban landscape struggled to notice the huge simularities in each other.
Instead they would focus on marginal differences hoping to gain a mythical status of “Top Fish”
many historians belive this myth was popularised and perpetuated by Bea Smith in Prisoner Cell Block H who used the iron press more than the rest.
The fish used a method of chinese whispers barked at ludicrously sky high volumes usually under the influence of a poisonous liquid known as alcohol many of the fish were addicted to.
These stories made their way from house party to taxi driver within minutes .
read the rest ::HERE::
the ladies toilet
in the bookies
Key available on request.
motherfuckers acting crabbit
stepping up to me and chatting shit, i say i’ve had it
i know that you’re strung out
yeah, i know you got a habit
but you better quit yr shit before i grab yr soul and stab it.
A delightful bed time story for you. Loves that sample!
Lest any of you either/or/bored hordes missed the tweet, do yourself a serious solid and check out the poetry of Lauren Jensen.
Like having my heart eaten by parasitic wasps and loving every 2nd :::: Lauren Jensen: Poet’s Sampler
Black Forest Orchestra were put together to perform at the Woodland Gathering Festival in July 2011. This is their only performance so far. Wooodland Gathering was an event staged by Radio Black Forest in Fellfoot Wood, Cumbria UK.
Black Forest Orchestra
Shaun Blezard – electronics / laptop
Glenn Boulter – bowed guitars
Simon Jones – electronics / objects
Ian Simpson – electronics
The recording was very kindly and wonderfully made by Kevin Busby of Phantom Circuit.
Artwork is by Ian Simpson (copyright 2011)
Black Forest Orchestra over at archive.org for the downloadinz.