Antechamber music

Sound poetry (that's what you say when you're not a musician and you like empirical tinkering, you know)

Minimalist as it may be, this little audio satellite page dedicated to my sonic tinkering also exists to give my raft a bit of lunar attraction. For my expression, it is one more rescue boat, a laboratory bench, a wasteland to plant, a vessel to fly away...

I trace, I trace. On the path of dead children I trace. With a stroke of my pen, with a sword in the water, I trace...

THE PASSION OF THE LIVING DEAD | Excerpt from "The Sleeping Fleece" | David Noir
"The Fleece is Sleeping | Episode 9 "The Sacred Man of JaZon" | Photo © Karine Lhémon


In terms of my mental health, I'm fine. Even if I'm going to my death, I'm fine. What does it matter; I have nothing else to do. The body is still young and even if the heart is suffering, what does it matter? We write, it's okay.

Enfance en chambre | Les camps de l'Amor | Photo © David Noir

Childhood in a room (clue)

Clue! It is childhood that kills childhood. In the nursery, I accuse emotion with imagination and fear. On the spot, summary execution at the edge of the pit. Welcome home! You are back in the Camps of Amor.

Far from the rodeos | The Amor camps | Photo © David Noir

Away from the rodeos

In my naked girl's tights, wearing my big helmet with ram's horns, I marry the forest. I drool over the nourishing earth. Inside the still life, a blurred road carries me. Far from the rodeos I go away.

Emma | Scrapbooking, the feminine in all its states | Photo © David Noir

Emma laughed.

Emma was laughing without anyone being able to guess what she was laughing about. Her mouth was forming words, but their sounds were inaudible, absorbed into the mass, the luscious mass of her well-fed face.

The path of the dead children | I trace | Drawing © David Noir
The path of the dead children | I trace | Drawing © David Noir