Guts

*** 

Anomaly

***

 

 

Red Dust Wakes (Sandstorm)

***

 

 Boats Caught in a Whirlpool

***

Sunset Song

 ***

 

A fiery sky, the autumn’s slow retreat,
Waning wings, their ghostly echo lingers…
Gone.

Gone, too, the birds, silent in their flight—
Farewell, then, to this—
this cracked and hollow shell,
A shattered kaleidoscope,
its fragments lost in the dust.

Farewell to the fleeting,
to the crumbling of time’s bright illusions,
as the fading light falls soft upon
this lonely, empty world.

 CHLOE...

In Atoms

***

 

"Daft Punk is Playing at My House" without the physical presence of Daft Punk

 ***

 

LCD Soundsystem's "Daft Punk is Playing at My House" (2005) is a catchy song. Its infectious and energetic blend of dance-punk and electronic elements creates an almost irresistible groove compelling listeners to move. The song's catchy lyrics, delivered with James Murphy's charismatic vocals, add a playful and memorable quality, making it a standout track that resonates with fans across various music genres.

Without thinking about the song terribly hard, it seems patently obvious that it can be enjoyed independently of the actual physical presence of the music group Daft Punk. And yet the seemingly innocuous notion of Daft Punk without Daft Punk points toward an interesting philosophical problem in the realm of aesthetics. In particular, this scenario can be related to Walter Benjamin's concept of aura and his ideas on the reproduction of art.

Walter Benjamin, in his seminal essay, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (1935) posits that the aura of an artwork is inexorably tied to its uniqueness and authenticity, a quality that he argues is eroded through mechanical reproduction. Applying this framework to music, particularly live performances, Benjamin's theory might suggest that the live experience of Daft Punk playing at someone's house possesses a distinct aura derived from the singular temporality, spatiality, and the authenticity of presence.

The analogy with LCD Soundsystem's rendition introduces the element of reproduction. In this case, the musical piece becomes a reproduction of the original event. Benjamin's theory would anticipate a reduction in the aura, as the unique context of the live performance is seemingly lost in the mechanical reproduction of the song. However, a critical examination is warranted.

Music, as an art form, exhibits unique characteristics that challenge Benjamin's framework. Unlike a visual artwork, a musical piece is inherently temporal and dynamic. The recorded version of a song, while a reproduction, encapsulates its own distinct aura. LCD Soundsystem's interpretation, musical nuances, and production choices infuse the piece with a new layer of authenticity. The listener's experience is shaped not only by the original live event but also by the act of listening itself.

Drawing on Benjamin's contemporary, Theodor Adorno, who explored the unique authenticity within the realm of music, one could argue that each performance and interpretation carries its own aura. The "aura" of LCD Soundsystem's rendition emerges not as a mere replica but as a product of the artistic process, a reinterpretation that maintains a connection to the aura of the original while establishing its own artistic authenticity.

In critiquing Benjamin, one might contend that music, with its inherent ephemeral, interpretative nature, presents a significant challenge to the notion of aura's inevitable decay through reproduction. The enjoyment of "Daft Punk is Playing at My House" without Daft Punk's physical presence is not necessarily a dilution of aura but rather a testament to the resilience and adaptability of musical authenticity across various modes of reproduction and interpretation.

Dance on.

 

 Walter Benjamin

 

 Sea Monster 

***

DOTS

****

 

Indifferent Sky's Child

 

 ***

Midnight whispers weave twain icy pines, 

A hunger awakens, as sky's darkness aligns.

The creature emerges with antlers so high,

A ghastly visage under the winter sky.

 

Amidst the snow-laden trees, its presence does wend,

 A spectral figure, where all life meets its end.

 With antlers like branches, and eyes dark as coal,

 It stalks through the night, consuming its toll.

 

But as dawn breaks, a faint glimmer of light, 

The horror retreats, vanishing from sight.

 Leaving behind a trail of fear and of dread,

 In depths of forest, where lost souls have fled.

 

Into the Maelstrom

The horizon undulated, a grotesque semblance of sleep, the sea heaving in its forgotten stupor.

The ship was no more than an insect, struggling against the dark abyss, flung helplessly into the wild frenzy of black waves.

The sea struck the hull with the fury of an ancient grudge, each impact a blow that reverberated deep into the soul, not just the ship. Wood screamed, metal twisted in protest, as if the very bones of the vessel had begun to shudder in dread.

The crew, those pale, trembling shapes in the sickly, unnatural glow of the storm, hung on like madmen to a threadbare existence. Faces contorted in terror, illuminated only by the jagged rifts of lightning, their expressions a cruel mockery of life. They were not men but shadows—reflections of some doomed eternity. The rain whipped the air with its bitterness, the deck groaned beneath them as if the world itself were disintegrating, and the briny taste of salt clung to the air, like an omen too old to remember.

A rogue wave—monstrous, inevitable—rose from the depths, swallowing them whole. Time fractured in the fall, a suffocating descent into some bottomless abyss.

The faces, contorted by primal fear, grasped at the ship’s rusted edge, holding on not to life but to the hollow, fleeting illusion of it. Reality itself began to dissolve, swallowed by the storm's relentless, indifferent assault.

And then, the inevitable.

Eruption

***

Where horizon kisses day's end, a slumbering colossus stirs. 

Whispered tremor, ancient sigh, ruptures calm facade. 

Waking fissures, fiery dance, molten beauty untamed.

 

 

 If I Were a Spider

***

Silken threads we weave,

Sacrifice in nature's dance,

Sup upon my soul.

 Redder

***

For those interested in juxtaposition of sound and image, the album cover to King Crimson's "Red" makes for an interesting case.

While the cover may not have an especially elaborate artistic design, the photograph itself holds significance. The stark and individualized poses of the band members, not a single picture, but a composite taken from three distinct photos, symbolizes the internal dynamics and distinct musical contributions each member brings to the album. The black and white aesthetic evokes a sense of simplicity, honesty, and above all, a rawness that aligns with the experimental and progressive nature of the music on the album.

Symbolism also lies in the direct representation of the musicians themselves as a whole, yet apart. The collage image underscores the collaborative yet individualistic spirit that defines the album "Red." The cover invites listeners to connect with the personalities behind the music, offering a more personal and intimate perspective on the artists and their creative process.

Seeing Red

***

 

 

King Crimson's album "Red" stands as a masterpiece in the progressive rock genre, showcasing  unparalleled musicianship and an innovative approach to music. Released in 1974, "Red" marked the end of an era for King Crimson, featuring a power trio lineup with guitarist Robert Fripp, bassist and vocalist John Wetton, and drummer Bill Bruford. 

The title track, "Red," is a sonic tour de force, characterized by Fripp's intense and intricate guitar work, Wetton's commanding vocals, and Bruford's dynamic drumming. The album seamlessly blends elements of jazz, rock, and classical music, creating a complex and immersive listening experience. The instrumental track "Starless" is a highlight, with its haunting melodies and a breathtaking buildup that culminates in a powerful climax. "Red" is often celebrated for its dark and experimental sound, pushing the boundaries of conventional rock music. 

For those craving a musical experience that transcends the ordinary, "Red" is a must-listen. Its enduring influence on subsequent generations of musicians and its status as a progressive rock cornerstone make it an essential addition to any playlist. Don't just read about it—immerse yourself in the extraordinary sounds of "Red" and discover the timeless brilliance that continues to captivate audiences to this day.

 Reasons to Enjoy "Give Me a Reason"

 ***

Immersed in the dimly lit ambiance of a goth-themed music night, I recently found myself captivated by the hypnotic, ethereal allure of the track "Give Me a Reason" by Boy Harsher. The venue, adorned with glitzy lights and gothic aesthetics, served as the perfect backdrop for an experience where dancers seamlessly merged with the haunting melodies. As the opening notes of the track reverberated through the space, a transformative energy enveloped the dance floor, and the boundaries between the dancers and the music dissipated.

The hypnotic pulse of the electronic beats seemed to synchronize with the rhythmic movements of the crowd, creating a symbiotic relationship between the auditory and the corporeal. The haunting synthesizers and the evocative vocals of Jae Matthews resonated with a magnetic force, casting a spell that drew the participants into a collective trance. It became a conduit through which the dancers expressed and communed.

This immersive experience prompted deeper reflection into the intricacies of "Give Me a Reason" and its contribution to the dark electronic landscape. Its adept use of musical elements, combined with thematic cohesion and immersive qualities, contributes significantly to the evolving discourse within the darkwave and synth-pop genres.

The composition exhibits a nuanced amalgamation of musical elements, deftly weaving minor scales inherent in darkwave aesthetics to establish a tonal foundation steeped in melancholy. The deliberate application of dissonant notes and harmonic progressions contributes to the atmospheric density, captivating the listener through its emotive resonance.

The catchiness of the track is further illuminated by its meticulous arrangement, striking a delicate balance between minimalism and complexity. Noteworthy is the interplay between vocal delivery, spearheaded by Jae Matthews' evocative, ghost-like performance, and electronic instrumentation. Sustained notes serve as poignant motifs, fostering a drone like, repetitious thematic continuity throughout the composition. The repetition of the titular phrase, "Give me a reason," acts as a leitmotif, reinforcing the thematic coherence and engaging the listener in a cyclical emotive experience.

 

Photography by Courtney Brooke   

I heartily recommend readers explore "Give Me a Reason," and with more caution, encourage them to view the short film The Runner (2022) directed by Boy Harsher's Jae Matthews and Augustus 'Gus' Muller. The track is sublime. The film, despite its imperfections, provides a compelling viewing opportunity for those intrigued by the intersection of music and visual storytelling.

Iceberg

***

Glacial giant floats, 

Hidden depths in frozen dance, 

Silent tales below.

 

 

Trireme

In Athens' ruin, the shipwright toiled,
His hammer striking the heart of the soil.

Lysander’s shadow hung, dark and near,
A sword’s cold edge in the grasp of fear.

The city wept in the wind’s cruel song,
Where echoes of war and ruin belong.

With each stroke, the old wood seemed to groan,
A dying city’s lament, alone.

But Hermes came with swift wings, a breeze,
Whispering words that danced in the trees.

"Callias, rise, the war may not last,
But the soul is free when the storm has passed."

 

 

 Light Shines

 

 ***

 

No dusk can dim vibrant cheer,

No memory any cause to fear. 

Eternal sunshine, mind's free play, 

joys twixt time forever sway.

 

 

 

 

 

Sun Song (To William Blake)

***

O, sun, laughing in my window-pane:

 Please marry the tangible to the arcane, 

And kindly close the separate and the between

and, if you could, 

shine indelible light on the unseen.   

Double

 

 Double

 ****

In the days of shadowed twilight, he fled,
Chasing the wind, ever retreating from himself.
A twin, spectral and silent, lingered close behind,
A mirror unbroken, an echo unceasing.
The sky, once whole, had become a wound,
Its crimson veil bled forth from the heavens,
As though the world itself wept for the man
Who sought to run from his own reflection.
Through barren lands and across endless seas,
He fled, thinking the shadow might be outpaced,
But it grew no smaller, it gained no distance,
For how can one flee what lives inside the soul?

At last, reaching the precipice of a perilous slope,
He turned, and the wind whispered secrets—
The long, mournful call of the abyss below,
The red sky an iron shroud over his heart.
There, at the edge, with the cliff yawning wide,
He stood, his breath caught between fear and release.
The twin stood at his back, a specter of fate,
Silent in its challenge, silent in its claim.

And then, in that moment of suspended time,
The truth came crashing, an ancient tide—
In fleeing the double, in running so far,
He had forsaken the self that was his to keep.
For what is escape when it denies the essence?
What is flight when it leaves behind the soul?
The twin, the shadow, the specter unyielding,
Had only mirrored what he had not yet seen—
The flight had been the prison, the chase the chain.

With a sigh, deep and resigned, he saw at last—
In fleeing the false, he had lost the true.
And so, without a word, without regret,
He stepped into the red abyss,
Where the twin could follow no longer,
Where the self, unbroken, awaited its return.

 

 

 MAD CRY OF A DEVIL-CAPTIVE

 ***

 

 

Roaring heights, conjurer's desire, 

Captive mystery, salamandrine lyre. 

Haunted river, timeless flow, 

Laughing dreams, secrets aglow.

Secret

 

Secret

***

Shifting earth, in endless flow;
Vivid breath, where shadows grow.

The traveler trembles, truth unspun,
In the grip of stars, all undone.

Atlas’ weight, a tremor deep,
The heavens stir, no restful sleep.

Eager hues, soft winds in bloom,
As Time unwinds in silent loom.

Each step an echo, silent scream,
A fleeting thread within the dream.

In clay's embrace, the sojourner sighs,
And through the dusk, the cosmos dies.

 

False Compact

***

The pentagram howled as the occultist completed the ritual. In a surge of smoke, the demon materialized, red eyes gleaming and adroit. Twisted lips curled into an unnaturally wide grin, revealing sharp teeth that suggested an inhuman hunger.

The summoner, triumphant for but a moment, quickly felt a bone-chilling dread. The demon's eerie smile hinted at a malevolent intelligence. With a voice that was not a voice, the creature promised power.

Compact made, the demon's grin widened, leaving the summoner paralyzed with terror.

The room quivered with malevolent energy, and the shadows seemed to converge upon the summoner's trembling form. The demon's eyes glowed brighter as it fed on the summoner's fear, absorbing their very soul. A ghastly scream pierced the air.

The magician's life force withered like a neglected flower. His body crumpled to the ground, a lifeless husk.

The demon, eerie smile aglow, ascended in a vortex of shadow and pale fire, leaving the lifeless summoner in its wake.

Strix

The trespasser, burdened by stolen wealth, staggered into the woods, his hands clutching ill-gotten trophies, their weight a mockery of his desire. He moved not with purpose, but with the desperate hunger of one who knows nothing but grasping, consuming, and never truly having.

Shadows, thick and pulsing, bloomed like dark flowers, tendrils of malice creeping across the air. The trees themselves seemed to whisper, their voices lost in the rustle of unseen things. And then, from the blackened silence, she appeared — the Strix.

Her hair, long and tangled, hung like the forgotten detritus of a dream, streaked with gray and madness. She was naked, but it was not the absence of clothes that exposed her — it was the absence of anything human. Wildness coiled around her like a living thing, an unnaturalness that stretched the very fabric of existence. Her eyes — eyes that did not belong to a world of flesh — burned with an intensity that could not be borne.

No words, no sound, only the ancient, inevitable force of being undone.

Roots, thick and serpentine, erupted from the earth as if the very soil sought retribution. They coiled around the trespasser’s limbs, his breath caught in the unforgiving vise of a nightmare. His wide eyes, now glassy, saw not the coins scattered on the ground, nor the silver cup fallen in frantic haste. His vision was consumed by the witch-demon's gaze, the world constricting and fading in on itself.

He writhed, but there was no sound. His agony was as silent as the inevitable collapse of all things — a scream that could never escape, a soul that could never flee. His greed, his trespass, had invited this—this unholy return to the earth from which he had tried to steal.

And then, as the darkness grew colder, as the moon itself seemed to shudder in revulsion, the Strix withdrew. Into the night she retreated, leaving behind nothing but the unsettling silence of a forest now aware of its own emptiness. The air, once thick with vengeful power, had become an oppressive void.

The night was no longer simply cold — it was a tomb, a sepulcher of icy warmth. The trespasser’s body lay still, forgotten, and the world around him pressed ever closer to the brink of nothingness.

River Hunger

Moonlight, pale and cold, trembled on the surface of the water, casting fractured reflections that seemed to warp with the pulse of an unseen force. The river, still and patient, whispered its secrets to the night, a mirror to a world far older than the feet that dared tread near its edge.

A solitary figure plodded through the murk, unaware of the river's pulse beneath him, the quiet danger that waited, coiled and unseen. His steps were heavy, driven by something far removed from the knowing of the earth, his gaze fixed on nothing but the path ahead, a narrow thread woven through a world of shadow.

Then, a growl — guttural, primal, and full of hunger, a noise that tore through the calm like a jagged breath. The water, dark and oily, began to churn, disturbed by a force ancient and vile. From the depths, the river’s guardian surged, its body a hulking mass of muscle and predatory grace. The crocodile emerged, its eyes gleaming with an intelligence born of the deep, its hunger a thing as old as the world itself.

Razor teeth snapped shut around the wanderer's leg, the force of the strike sending shockwaves through his body. His eyes, wide with disbelief, locked with the creature’s — a fleeting moment of terror before the jaws tightened, grinding bone and muscle with terrible efficiency.

He gasped, a sound like wind through dry leaves, a desperation so deep it was almost a prayer. His body thrashed in the murky water, but the river held him fast, the beast’s grip as unyielding as the earth itself. The croc's eyes burned with an ancient hunger, its presence a dark mirror to the depths it came from.

As his final breath left his lungs, it was swallowed whole, his scream drowned by the sucking void of the river. The beast retreated, taking its prize, leaving only ripples that spread out into the silent water. The swamp returned to its stillness, as though nothing had ever occurred — only the faint echo of hunger lingering in the air, a reminder that the river's hunger, like all things, never rests.

Under Moon

Under moon, a veiled embrace,
Whispers float through starry space.

Siren's voice, a woven thread,
In silken tones, the dead are fed.

Eyes aflame, yet vacant, deep,
Echoes of a dreamer's sleep.

Silent plea, a truth untold,
In astral veins, the pulse grows cold.

Soft murmur, in the void's refrain,
Restless hearts in cosmic pain.

Fate, a cipher, twisted, bound,
In melted souls, no peace is found.

Beneath the moon, where shadows writhe,
Time and thought together dive.

Cold - Haiku

Darkness, snow's warm bed, Embraced, 

O, silent descent, 

Chill claims life's echo.

Cold, Complete

 

He stumbled, a fading shadow lost in white,
His breath, a frayed thread in the cruel expanse,
Clinging to the fabric of what little warmth remained.
Layers of wet cloth clung to his skin,
A suffocating embrace, betrayal in every fold.

The wind, relentless, flayed his face,
Chipping away at the last vestiges of heat,
Until his steps faltered, each one heavier,
The ground beneath him cold and unforgiving,
Its silence a weight, pressing him deeper.

His fingers, once nimble, now twisted in frozen agony,
Gripping a bundle that had no meaning,
The faint, distant flicker of shelter
A mirage, pulse-like in the vast nothingness,
Each glimmer a mockery of the life he could no longer claim.

The cold whispered its claim on his bones,
Turning his movements into jerks of despair,
As if fleeing from something unseen,
The horizon now a blur of black and white,
A phantasmagoria where nightmares took form.

Weariness, profound and final,
Pulled him down to his knees.
The snow, indifferent, cradled him with frigid arms,
A cradle of death, soft and hollow,
Where breaths once defiant now wheezed their last,
A dirge swallowed by the void.

The distant light beckoned, now a cruel taunt,
A specter, not warmth but a lie,
And as darkness bled through the edges of his vision,
The stillness took him, silent, cold, and complete.

 Dasein Haiku

****

Thrown into the world, 

Geworfenheit's dance unfolds, 

Freedom in constraint.

Steel Kiss

 ***

An unseen presence pressed against her, an icy exhalation of dread crawling down her spine. Overhead, a flickering neon sign sputtered, its "EXIT" glowing with a sickly urgency, a reminder of an escape long past. Time fractured — a rush of movement, an inaudible gasp — and the blade, cold and familiar, flashed briefly in the pallid moonlight, carving the space between breaths.

The street, once mundane, dissolved into something unrecognizable — a canvas of surreal hues bleeding beyond the realm of logic, the air thick with a shift in meaning. Her body, now a thing of abstract terror, cast shadows that seemed to linger too long, twisted by forces that defied any understanding. The killer, a presence more than a form, vanished as easily as breath into the suffocating night, absorbed by the absence from which he came.

The alley, in its strange and quiet finality, returned to its familiar apathy. The sign buzzed its indifferent song, a mechanical drone that carried no weight, no promise. And in the hollow, a life slipped away, its extinguishing so small, so utterly inconsequential. A secret was held — not in a body, but within the crushing blackness that devours even the idea of a soul. The void between stars, empty and infinite, seemed to close in on itself, carrying the weight of a truth unspoken, unasked, and forever beyond reach.