1. |
Affection Membrane
03:49
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i closed my eyes and saw that years had gone by. penetrate sadness far enough and it will be bliss, unrepeatable and thoroughly redundant. i wanted to hum just a moment ago, just before now, such a long time past, it never happened, which is also a lie. everyone knows what it is all about, pretending to know. but you are merely trying to work for beauty, while all the exploding coincidences flash by you, who is still gagged and bound by the slime of nostalgia. and i am, too, breathing eratically, running in place, leaping into your world with new joy.
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2. |
Learning To Be Gone
03:06
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what i see is what i see, and i can only change. i keep throwing the chunks of raw meat into the campfire, to suffocate my smouldering desires, as they say, and i have not heard them say it in a longer while than i would care for if it was ill, but time heals itself only. please understand, or i have lived in vain: my most honest plea since a fictitious date. yet not honesty, but anger has driven me to pound my breast with my fists for a nervous audience of white moths. i have to kill them all, if i want to wear clothes again. you infuriate me, mirror.
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3. |
Relunctantly Coming Home
04:46
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my magic splintered on the edge of your lostness, you merely turned into a piglet squealing for and refusing comfort at the same old time. but your voice is too smooth now for me to hear, polished to harmless passion by the insights you fancy calling disappointment. fortunately for the balance of powers in this room, i replaced my brain with a little doggie on a certain level of experience, which i do not dare to understand yet, and never will want to, for the half conscious animal joy of being a body has grown out of my hand into this night. so cook me some sobriety now, i am going to stay where i am, without yearning or change. in deed and thought, i am sitting on your couch now, panting and soiling the carpet with the drool of the ever wanting hole that is me, too, and not a stirring of any reality more or less or above or beneath, kind regards, and belligerent love, please show me how to stop.
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4. |
Self Pity And The Mouth
04:07
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i will not insist on struggling against my desire to draw attention on a sheet of white paper. i conceal my pulsing fists behind naked air, and i think of an emptiness, hoping to be invisible for the ticket inspector in the sweating subway. my drawings are swirling on the breath of an imaginary and loyal companion. he and she speaks out of my mouth: be harder, make everything happen, before you fall out of the person you feign. i am caught without a ticket to the cemetery, and life is not an issue.
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5. |
Swallowed Dogma
02:55
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madness! the cards are razorblades, and the dice click like your teeth when you are surprised. under the table, groping for my last coin, i crawl to and fro with the dying wasps half smashed by a rolled magazine about furniture. your legs are faces snarling at me, i kiss them back into the shadow of your chair, never sure where to stop, never convinced that well meant is well done. do not tell me the rules of the game, i want to lose my knowledge to a monstrous headache, and i want your hands hidden behind your back through all the pounding of time, because the pain might turn into sleep: leaving me unhealed and sane, still not torn to memories, and still pitying the lonesome question mark.
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6. |
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by 9 o'clock in the evening, i was not much older, and i am astonished in spurts. the clarity of this marvel demands its eternal repitition, for we love what and who makes us feel better than we think. i am naturally tired of thinking, and my thinking has become singed strings of what people who have turned their backs on imagination call "denial". i am ready to be supported by imitations of nature, i do have time to lose, and i will: the sweetest loss i know, and i know what it takes to withstand complacency, and i know how to forget what i do not fancy. in every end, the relief has a face, as long as we cling to time, that is, at least.
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7. |
The Incomplete Core
04:31
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a door opens where there is no door. your face has fallen asleep, mine is in the corner, with the cobweb and the squashed corpses of summer's gnats. nothing scares me when i am gone. the floor is creaking with my breath. all life is waiting to stir, death a déja-vu. when the static hum falls silent, i will start fighting the end of late until the last early. but now, the trap is set, and it is a gift for me by me, cheers, rice and a faraway explosion: a door is open where there was no door. i make no step, to be moved.
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dhatūrā records Grenoble, France
Experimental, electronic, ambient, atmospheric... whatever music that paves its way out of the usual trail.
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