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
Suddenly it was a mess
Wipe the trail left by your fly. Your love in return should be shat in your mouth.
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.
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 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.
