brief april update

hola! so the truth is that I haven’t updated this blog in over two weeks, and the reason is not that nothing has been going on, but that TOO MANY THINGS have been happening. More specifically, I’ve moved to Sydney for a few months and I’ve been having all the attendant joys that go with a city-move: job & house hunting, being poor and fighting lizards.

I can almost promise that that’s almost at an end. There is much loveliness re: Boho, Oceans, Thucy and even my own miserable music-ness that I wish to report on and in a few days or so I will. In the meantime, thank you for coming by. You are fine people. Especially the person who entered the term “where does diplodocus sleeps” into google and thereby found this page.

delightful new vocals

More exciting than having new vocals or lyrics is having a new process for generating them. Jeff Noon did the world a greater service by sharing the Cobralingus and Mappalujo writing techniques than with any of his actual works, love them though I do. I have never done the world a service and am not likely to any time soon. I have, however, recorded some new vocals:

blind – praise you.mp3 (thanks to Fatboy Slim and Camille) (and by thanks I mean I used the words which Fatboy Slim sampled in his track Praise You – I’m not really thanking anyone for real)

blind – it doesn’t matter 2.mp3
blind – it doesn’t matter 3.mp3

If you can guess how these were made then you get a prize. A prize!

i just found some old poems

what the hell.

the jailer has a face like a stingray
carries a spear
wears ragged clothes and skin pinched white in the frost of northern forests
but uh
who cares
was hanged once
who cares about that either
right now
oh no

he’s standing slouched outside yr prison
and when you break free
filthy barbarian muscles and olive oil cunning – an excursion into your mind your mind?
carparks drinking beer watching the waves and skateboard surfboard your mind? your mind –

when you shake free
kick through the brambles and twisted roots
over the hills that are graves
and the forests where the pig gods have gone crazy
the jailer will pick up his spear
his face a grey smear ground smooth by the debris of the seafloor, he has no expression
but in his brain he is tired and upset
he begins to follow you he lives in a city that has been empty for nearly sixteen years – he lives in the forest in the dull white fog – he lives in the mouth of the wind that blows always – he vomits blood and small rocks – he follows you –

everyone is afraid of the night
but it is just as afraid of you
with the burning branch in your hand you score and scar it

with your hungry eyes and calculating ears you resolve it
unravel its clever conceits and
force it into sense

the night hates you
that much at least is true
whole months the night spends in its summer retreat – a cabin on the shores of the ocean – cabin belongs to a red-eyed serial killer who knows everything, but he lets the night stay there whenever it needs some time away – they are good friends and once they nearly kissed – and the night thinks about monsters and traps it will populate itself with, to track you and hunt you and grind you up whenever you stray too far from the campfire –

purely and straightforwardly I joined the others on the deathmarch
down the thick jungle to the shore
in the distance across the water the lights and smoke of the burning city
and as we walked they pulled the women out of line, some of them, to drag them into the dark and rape them –

that was the beginning –
thirty four more weeks we walked and when we stopped walking it was
there were
I remember trying to keep track of who we lost
then trying to keep track of who was left alive
and then simply

it’s featureless in the way a flat landscape is featureless – beautiful and intricate but not tall – it’s tape cassettes sitting side by side on the desk and her hands shake as she reaches for them. drugs? no. but secretly yes. but fear as well, a horrifying grey light that swells up in her bedroom between five and six am, the featureless face of dawn staring in her windows

huge blind eyes staring
then calmly and silently entering
over her
surrounding and eclipsing her

there is no pulse in her veins – but don’t let it stress you – she’s clearer and more active than she used to be – though she never attracted any attention before now she’s starting to be recognised

they say ‘murderer’
although she hasn’t killed anyone
because it’s clear to all of us that that’s what she’ll be
she’s only waiting for a victim
they can’t arrest her until
but it’s not polite to say

& the clinking of glass
& soft techno jazz
& waiters with trays
& it’s not polite to say