And
as my hands were behind my back,
I wrote one word on the envelope.
My face,
it was still soaked through
with the golden leaves upon it.
Oak leaves.
Again, he changed
this time to create surplus flesh
on his lean body.
His fingers shook slightly
when others mentioned the bugs with long feelers,
a stop light goes on for self security,
he is aggressive
Hundreds, perhaps thousands of flux pods
were making their way
seizing the spray
far up
a few hundred yards above the street lighting
closer to the wall.
It's true.
That is where they come from.
And the other things up the river
over a time variant
over fifteen hours,
like leaves before the wind
looking down
perfectly still
His ears breathing
gingerly grasped the edge of the hatch,
hit it with a few small charges,
a stimulating effect,
and the lights thrust,
and the action had secrets
twenty-seven on her labia
and a thick one was being applied to her clitoris.
So she decided to bide her time
for the time being at least.
But something surely was doing things
to his intuition, intelligence and wisdom.
The second girl now approached him
A naked girl,
holding a handful of powder to the Southeast,
to the sodden forest below.
About ten years back,
the idols of old,
the false floppy discs were prolific.
The hiss heralded a menacing step forward
around and around.
What noise was unscrewed or pulled out for?
For Heaven is dusted
with a bit of fat bottom rubble,
the ancient text messaging word patterns,
the grace of the children of the film cartridge.
I'll be shopping for the intelligentsia.
Greens into a riot of colour
across cryptographers smoking cigarettes,
bow down the wall,
profitable in business.
Certain of themselves
it's designed that way.
Never went to the out fringes,
a row of metals across
one thousand two hundred bowed nipples.
They stole it from his hands.
Paralysed from action by giant cryptographers,
hoarding stolen ingots
Storage banks.
Your trust, isn't it kind of cold?
No, I haven't.
You would think that I don't blame you.
You're not the first
at the same time.
I've told the best friend,
an imperfect child,
whatever
the motley assortment
of two or three dozen in the same place,
grown from the tangled wreckage
What's going on?
He's alone.
Books were scattered all over.
He was going to get swamped
frowned on.
On the far wall,
a patch of red light and useless decorations,
secret photographs,
pain sounds pleasure sounds
meant nothing.
From the window of the office,
I looked down
and the streaming rain ran rusted guttering,
turning to powder.
At the end of the line
slates had blown
heavy rainfall sprayed.
Levered aside the stones
pounded demolished houses.
Peeled off dragging
bobbing minivans along the water,
surged back and forth
smashed dancers took running dives
and began to writhe
in a deep sea of leathery animals.
Genitals
objects
faces that meant nothing
tossed large slabs of stone
falling with bits of soil and sea everywhere.
Overflowed dropped drowning.
Birds, guts, flowers, rats, and mice,
golden grave goods,
a length of splintered branch,
human limbs,
hunter, and hunted
mixed deeper, and deeper,
so deeply.
And he waited for it to subside.
And start a pattern
to cause a shape to be formed
high enough to stand in like a fortification,
like thirty feet of cement chamber
that reeked of bones and body odour
Along one side, there was a soggy flap.
It dripped its earthly grime
somewhat like a massive fountain pen.
At the other end,
there was what appeared to be a tiny square lens.
I'm checking to see
that the plate is secure.
Things didn't look too good.
They're whispering.
Clothes will not be worn
while the computers take over.
I kicked the door open.
Tiny particles of dust drifted upward
Inside was an enormous protective web
clogged with shit
ancient shit.
beatnik shit.
If I yelled,
it got stuck in my throat.
I turned away and as I turned
polycarbonate phlegm filtered the sunlight
beaming in through the windows.
I moved forward
barefooted in the wreckage
that rose five stories
wooden crates filed in spirals
looked as if they had been standing there for years,
A wash basin,
jig steps,
and the oddball characters
attract many flies
coughed up memories of the old ones.
Thousands prowl the laboratory
it's on the map and in the vocabulary,
a sleeping animal fog drifted across the street
river fog, slurring social strata.
Different levels of wealth,
races, languages, and cultures,
the elements whipped,
the powdered grime and thorny tentacles,
moss and dandelions
an ant's eye view
is not the only point of vantage
Up close
the buildings were even more grey and damp.
Windows and doors were securely shuttered silent,
total silence
to the noise,
to the sound.
Nocturnal Emissions' Nigel Ayers has continued to work with a strong underground of cult support, avoiding music industry fashions, and following his own creative path he concentrated on creating a strong sense of a wilderness identity through sound.
Pure enjoyment of sound, never knowing what will happen next except for the fact that it will be even better than what you just heard. I love this one, thanks. saimonix
This ambient pop album from Chute Records label head Jan the Man captures melancholy, contemplative moods simply, and without words. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 15, 2021
