1. |
Fragments I - IV
02:27
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I
Do evil
do evil
and
commit many sins
but do no evil to me
do not touch me
do not make me do evil
to myself
I shall revenge myself cruelly
you soil and you injure
God
there is nothing left for him to do but lose
he has already committed every filthiness
no evil to me
no evil around me
no evil where I am myself
let me live
in a world
pure
let me have around
me
the pure
the pure heros
II
it is me
Man
who will be the judge
at the last accounting
it is to me
that all the elements
of bodies and things
will come to be referred
it is the state of my
body that shall make
the Last Judgement
III
The place where you suffer
where you know you suffer
where you feel it
and where systematically
and voluntarily
you maintain the things which you do
and which you eat
in the breast of eternal sadness
(without letting them go under cover
in an organ forever useless
where a being waits for them
IV
the beings do not come out in the exterior day
they have no other power than to burst forth in the
subterranean night where they are made
but for eternity
they pass their time
and the time
it takes them to make
one
such step has never been produced
they have to wait for the hand of Man to take and make them
for only
Man
innate and predestined
has
that redoubtable
and ineffable
capacity
to leave the human body
in the light of nature
to plunge it alive into the gleam of nature
where the sun will wed it at last)
(Antonin Artaud)
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2. |
Apparition
03:35
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The moon was grieving. Seraphim in tears,
Musing in the calm of vaporous flowers,
Were drawing, bow in hand, from sad violas
Sobbing islands over blue corollas.
— It was the blessed day of your first kiss.
My reverie, enraptured by the abyss,
Imbibed its wisdom from the sad perfume
Which even the dreams we gather in full bloom
Distill within the heart that gathers them.
My eyes on the worn stones, I wandered then,
When suddenly you happened to appear,
Laughing, with evening sunlight in your hair;
And I thought I saw the fairy with the cap
Of light, who passed before my infant sleep,
Opening her hands to scatter through the years
Snowy bouquets of richly scented stars.
(Stéphane Mallarmé)
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3. |
That Memory
05:03
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I saw you
I saw you in the distance in front of the wall
I saw the hole of your shadow on the wall
There was still some sand left
And your bare feet
Your footprints that went on and on
How would I have known you
The sky took up the whole background the whole space
At the bottom a little bit of the land shining in the sun
And a little more space
And the sea
The star came out of the water
A ship passed flying low
A bird
The line at the horizon from which the current was coming
The waves laughed as they died
Everything continues
No one knows where time will stop
Or night
Everything is erased by the wind
We sing differently
We speak with another accent
I recognize eyes which have stayed alive
And the clock that used to strike in the room
An hour late
The green morning that comes after a sleepless night
There is a laughing brook of clear water and other cries
In front of the door a silhouette which disappears
A face in the light
And in the midst of everything that lives and wakens
The same and single voice persisting
in my ear
(Pierre Reverdy)
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4. |
Illusory Home
04:18
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A chef clutches the blue sky. Four fingerprints are left; gradually
the chicken bleeds. Even here the sun is crushed.
Wardens of the sky who come inquiring. I see daylight take off
running
An empty white house where no one lives.
The long dreams of people encircled this house many times, then
wilted like flower petals.
Death deliberately clings to my finger. Peeling off the shell of
night, one layer at a time.
This house connects a brilliant road to the distant memory of a
distant world.
A chef clutches the blue sky. Four fingerprints are left,
— Gradually a chicken bleeds. Even here the sun is crushed.
Blue suited wardens of the sky who come inquiring.
I hear daylight run by.
In prison they keep watch over a dream longer than life.
Trying to reach the outside world that is like the back of an
embroidery, I become a moth that slams into the window.
If for a single day the long tendril of death would loosen its hold,
this miracle would make us jump with joy.
Death strips my shell.
(Chika Sagawa)
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5. |
Fragments V - VII
03:50
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V
Thus there is nothing made more ignobly useless and superfluous
than the organ called heart
which is the dirtiest means which the beings have been able
to invent to pump life into me
the movements of the heart are nothing else than a maneuver
by which the being relieves himself on me for me to take
that which I ceaselessly refuse to take from him
that is to say that is how I live
The beings are that virtually parasitic life which is created
on the margin of the true life
and which ends by having the prevention to replace it
the life taken by itself
constitutes exactly one of the bifurcations of being
beside the real life
and which ends by forgetting it is false
and ends by pretending to see the real life follow
its ignoble movement
VI
disgusted as
a choice of
body
I say shit
to everything
and
I
go to sleep
VII
it is very cold
as though
it was
Artaud
dead
who
breathes
(Antonin Artaud)
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6. |
Faun
02:25
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Haunched like a faun, he hooed
From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost
Until all owls in the twigged forest
Flapped black to look and brood
On the call this man made.
No sound but a drunken coot
Lurching home along river bank.
Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank
Of double star-eyes lit
Boughs where those owls sat.
An arena of yellow eyes
Watched the changing shape he cut,
Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout
Goat-horns. Marked how god rose
And galloped woodward in that guise.
(Sylvia Plath)
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7. |
Errors
04:28
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Jealousy. Whispered weather reports.
In the streets we found boxes
Littered with snow, to burn at home
What flower tolling on the waters,
You stupefied me. We waxed,
Carnivores, late and alight
In the beaded winter. All was ominous, luminous
Beyond the bed’s veils the white walls danced
Some violent compunction. Promises,
We thought then of your dry portals,
Bright cornices of eavesdropping palaces,
You were painfully stitched to hours
The moon now tears up, scoffing at the unranked portions,
And loves adopted realm. Flees to water,
The coach dissolving in mists.
A wish
Refines the lines around the mouth
At these ten-year around the mouth
At these ten-year intervals. It fumed
Clear air of wars. It desired
Excess of core in all things. From all things sucked
A glossy denial. But look, pale day:
We fly hence. To return if sketched
In the prophet’s silence. Who doubts it is true?
(John Ashberry)
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8. |
12-2-1360
03:32
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Empty handed I entered the world
Barefoot I leave it
My coming, my going -
Two simple happenings
that got entangled
(Kazan Ichikyo)
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Vera Cruise Minneapolis, Minnesota
I also make music at painritualmn.bandcamp.com
fuck fascism
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