Guts

*** 

Anomaly

***

 

 

Red Dust Wakes (Sandstorm)

***

 

 Boats Caught in a Whirlpool

***

Sunset Song

A fiery sky – no, the sky fires,
verbs itself into cinder –
and autumn, that old conjuror, retreats in slow motion,
a magician backing out of his own trick,
leaves still applauding long after the hands are gone.

Waning wings –
or were they warnings? –
their ghost-sound lingers, a phoneme without a mouth,
feathered parentheses closing the sentence of the year.
Gone.
Gone says the air, practicing grief.
Gone say the trees, mispronouncing themselves into bones.

The birds depart in silence so loud it bruises the ear,
flight without music, music without cause –
an aria sung by absence,
a choreography performed by what refuses to stay.
Farewell, then, to this –
this cracked and hollow shell I keep mistaking for a home,
this ego-egg, this skull-sun,
this moi that rhymes too neatly with void.

I say farewell and the word fractures,
fare-well becoming a wound you pay to pass through.
A shattered kaleidoscope –
no, a kaleyed-o-scope, eyes boiling into color –
its fragments misplaced, mislaid, misled
into the democracy of dust.
Once, pattern promised coherence;
now symmetry breaks rank, defects to chaos,
joins the quiet riot of particles rehearsing oblivion.

Time sheds its bright illusions like obsolete skin,
chronos molting into chronique,
a gossip column of moments no longer true.
How lavish the lie was, how convincing –
golden hours posing as eternity,
afternoons flirting with forever.
Irony smiles here, thin-lipped,
knowing how quickly the sublime becomes merely late.

Light fades, but gently –
as if even extinction has learned manners.
It falls soft upon the fields,
upon roofs dreaming of collapse,
upon this lonely world practicing emptiness
the way monks practice silence.
Everything seems contemplative,
even the stones thinking about not thinking.

I walk through the afterimage of color,
through reds that remember being suns,
through yellows fluent in farewell.
Language stumbles – deliciously wrong –
nouns behaving like regrets,
verbs leaning too hard on their pasts.
This is solecism as sacrament,
grammar breaking so meaning might breathe.

What remains?
A residue of wonder, stubborn as rust.
A pun the universe makes at its own expense:
fin pretending to mean both ending and refinement.
A double entendre where death keeps winking at birth,
where dusk and dawn anagram each other in the dark.

So let it go –
this season, this self, this splendid miscalculation.
Let it go says the wind,
tongue-tied yet eloquent,
saying everything by saying nothing at all.
The world empties itself beautifully,
and in the hollow –
ah, in the hollow –
something listens.

 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

****

 

Misfire

The frost had not yet melted
when I stood beneath the birch.
Everything around me held its breath
in a hush of refusal.
Even the birds were absent,
as though they had fled some
prearranged terror.

Then:
a shape among other shapes,
a sliver of motion
coated in fur, in hunger,
in the low arithmetic of survival.
I raised the gun.
I had done this before  –
this ritual,
this pantomime of power.

Grip. Breath. Pull.

But what followed was not thunder.
It was a sound like forgetting,
like a language breaking in the mouth.
The shot broke sideways  –
a failure,
not of aim,
but of essence.

The shape dissolved.
The trees did not.
The hush grew heavy, hostile.
The forest,
which had once seemed passive,
now leaned back
as if in revulsion.

And I  –
I stood,
neither ashamed nor afraid,
but strangely diminished,
as though some part of me
had been tested
and found lacking.

Something had spoken through me  –
but not in my voice.
Not in any voice.
A reply was demanded,
and I had given
an answer
in an extinct dialect.

I left the woods
with hands that stank of burnt metal and error.
And behind me,
in that soil-rich silence,
a question hung  –
a riddle not meant for humans,
no longer waiting
for anyone
to understand.

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

The cover of King Crimson’s Red emerges as a meditation on presence, individuality, and sonic embodiment. Its stark photograph presents the band in a tense yet lucid composition: three figures inhabiting distinct spaces, their forms aligned yet separate, a visual corollary to the intricate interplay of sound within the album. Each pose resonates with personal gravitas, reflecting the singular energy each musician contributes to the unfolding architecture of music. The image exists simultaneously as portrait and symbol, a crystallization of collaboration and autonomy in a single frame.

The black-and-white palette transforms the visual field into a space of clarity and austerity, where light and shadow delineate form and intention. Texture, line, and contrast carry meaning as profoundly as melody or rhythm, evoking honesty, intensity, and the elemental rawness that courses through the music itself. The photograph embodies the tension between individuality and unity: a harmonic field in which discrete forces interact to generate something greater than their sum, where the musicians’ presences illuminate the architecture of creative consciousness.

In this way, the Red cover becomes a threshold into the album’s inner life. It invites reflection on the identities and energies that converge in music, offering the viewer a contemplative portal into the creative process. Each glance at the image opens a dialogue with the spirits of the musicians themselves, and through that encounter, the listener perceives the album not only as sound but as an intricate constellation of being.