winter moth

a visible ache on the horizon 

performs, 

soon flakes

the dandruff of an alphabet

in a month when moths are tethered to the earth

with a single tilt we may upend 

the poles of daily living

and rescind all life cast down to earth from a seance in the sky

...emerge sober from a riddle of sleep

...emerge sober from a riddle of sleep 

that lacks the sour swoon of sloshed regret

for you have not yet damaged your liver from drink

though the follies of night-REM still usher form through a fantasia

How does time arrive damaged?

For, you once held an anchorite in the womb

Now arms sprout and drift 

through the poles of the globe;

  as you gawk at the cleft lips of Pangaea

untitled poem written after reading Stanislaw Lem's One Human Minute

a complete or impressive collection...

recently asked,

'is there something within

that determines without

is it mind that permits all matter to move,

or perhaps matter that enables time 

and its resemblances to float freely through the mind,

and offer Either/Or - as at confession

for we haven't any sand,

and yet the hours somehow betray a linear movement through the desert

...of divine or prophetic tokens

Early Machinefabriek recordings

Rutger Zuydervelt, aka Machinefabriek, the Dutch sonic alchemist, has compiled an assortment of recordings spanning the years 2001-2004.  For those readers who are not familiar with his work, Rutger has had an EXTREMELY prolific career; he has released well over 50 recordings under this moniker since 2001, and this does not include his work on remixes or in collaborative efforts.  Though his recent work has largely been comprised of field recordings, much of his work employs far more traditional compositional elements.  This collection of early recordings is often quite catchy!  As the liner notes admit, this work owes a heavy debt to late nineties post-rock and classic Warp Records mad scientists such as Aphex Twin and Autechre.  Despite the relative ease with which these influences may be discerned, the collection never staggers.  In addition, Rutger has cleanly woven the tracks together with his latest mixing/mastering.  The result is quite arresting.

He has provided a link on his own site which may be accessed here.

Enjoy!

the color in her cheeks spiders at my touch

the color in her cheeks spiders at my touch

dancing like a cloud, 

whets this paper

born from a physic that excites; as I trace 

anew I create a new sound; 

all frosts over as new waters 

converge

We call it by a name...

We call it by a name as if there were yolk within the sound 

and an umbilical connecting our tongue to the world

When wind teases dreams spilt upon the pavement,

there is no sound as they transform, only movement

and a growing sense that time is the great modifier,

ever reinventing its own composition

(I often sew thoughts to my ears

and watch them billow like poison smoke

drawn from the earth's remains)

Day is not the light that permeates

Day is not the light that permeates

our love affair with paper

is not in the way we eat and sluice

the flavor of the Fall

nor the solar tap that enables time

to cannibalize our dreams
 by trailing glucose in its wake

Grace appeals to praxis,

leaves a residue upon the refractor:

the protean plasm with which we grease the gears

A ravine bleeds through a canyon

A ravine bleeds through a canyon; here, Christ washes.

Water cascades over her face and down her shoulders,

cleansing resin from her hide. As sediment thickens the water,

the liquid becomes course, offering a palpable skin speckled through

with earthen pigments. But the pool is unable to breath.

Like this woman, the water is choking under the care of meek fiction, meek time excited by distillations of a glowing dervish in the clouds; and yet, her voice grows more piercing still while she gasps for air.

Now, imagine scanning Christ from the shallow depths of the pool to the fraying tufts atop her head. Does Christ not confuse? For, Christ is neither in those spaces where texture engulfs the moment nor in those phases where thought is animate; she is in repose.

But what if you and I were to climb down her throat – what then would we see?

A vestibule of brittle teeth and lavish pinks within the mouth...the plush corridors of a mechanical vault that is neither flesh nor metal.

Pulse

Pulse

a

communicative babbling           coils 

of a mantra cycle

spiral along the curves 

of space         sound a fissure in clouds

some seek the proud

sight of matter

sight that grounds fantastic movement 

within the bedrock of spherical drums

while others follow dreams' admixed color

through the marrow of skeletal suns