Apparitions In The Sulfur Seas

For me, a good day involves getting deeply hypnotized by art at least once or twice. Without occasionally allowing your emotions and memories to light up, dance, and explore new territory, we would surely wither and fall like little mosquito hawks. Art makes one experience the flow and the feelings of another dream factory, squeezing them happily or forcefully into your air-tight, vacuum sealed bubble, which is full of hopping and digging memories. To me, it has become of the utmost importance to communicate things right back. I can do this not only with hug or bow. A gurn or a smile. With understanding or without. I can do this, also, by using the magic we as a species have summoned to manipulate the things of this earth to present a world that is large. Tidal waves, rainbows, tornados, explosions, waves of birds or bats, mountains, sailboats, mollusks, kites, ant colonies, food fights. All and more jumping around in your brain as you dance in response to another's moves. I want to create a world, a world to send into open space to be savored or detested (Really. Either satisfies me), and I want to shape it out of my dreams and my meditations. A land I move through as if newly born and discovering all within it again, leaving no time for thoughts to stray or even want to. A love for the absolute surrealism of the moments we've grown used to. These unpredictable images we've disconnected from and only sail through. This fast paced existence that doesn't always hold your hand but should be honored, for it brings even the more mysterious concept of hands and their achievements to you in the first place. I want to show you this world of mine in its most absolutely bizarre. I am going to begin composing (in simple ways) a sound project called "Apparitions In The Sulfur Seas" and I'm going to need all of your help, for you're all very prominent in my hopping and digging thoughts. You guys need to be in the recordings. In a lot of ways it is a dedication to all of you guys. In life I have been, am, and always will be shaping what you've all given me with that which only my mind knows and returning it, perhaps giving you all a little shriek or giggle. Either with faces or with worlds. That's all I need from life. That is all.

Oh Glorious Sound!

Oh, glorious sound
I move through and about you
as if in water

Awake Without Friction

I quickly sweep the shattered bits of glass under the carpet 
as the streetlights flicker on. 


The roar of humanity weakens to a sigh under the dim light of the moon 
textured with time and it's manipulations 
dulled by the great, orange glow of our shining, starless super-world
but a mold upon mold.


The coins are encrusted with rust in the still fountain waters
hiding in a great, windless dark.


The air fucks the sea
in indefinite coitus
as the blankets and sheets enshroud I
and the earthquakes rock me to sleep.


Like lazy seaweed in the children's waves, my mind drifts about 
tangling lethargically in the salty waters
then folding, like origami, into but a single seed
from which the garden of kaleidoscopic dream shall explode 
Like a firework in the summer night skies
as silent
or as violent
as your shining eyes
or as your gored smile. 


This mirage of lucidity
This chimera of will
this sparkling pond of red wine
in a desert dryer than the hell of a sailor's nightmare
evaporates in the calm, cool, winds
and is blown away by time.
I wave goodbye with a dumb little smile
a sincere smile


Single thoughts paint not seconds 
but minutes and hours
which tick by, silently like the scuttling spider
all the while, I ascend.


I ascend to a great, new place
free of fact and fancy
good and evil
worthwhile and futile


I ascend to a great, new place
above the land of envy
where I pass the hours 
wishing I were that which I consumed


When I transcend the stepping stones
the freezing snow
the burning sand
the rain soaked cement
the stage covered in falling rose pedals and wax running candles


it is then, in a great new place
my feet again touch a ground
only this time, a ground
in a world
free of friction


Even when the wine re-liquifies 
and tempts me with it's color in the sun
and I moisten my lips and my throat 
tasting it's savor
under the desert sun


Even when I shout "Lucidity!"
in my drunkenness, seeing the friction in the heat waves
taking on a form of dancing devils and dancing angels
free of science
free of shame
free of consequence


still, I dance on like a marionette floating in outer space
gazing in half-hearted awe at the super-novas 
and the young, blue stars


After the epics all unfold 
after this frictionless world presents it's nightly escapade
my feet return to a now opaque, blue sky
Not too different, but seemingly so, from my world without friction


the sighs turn back to roars 
the fountain now flows restless like a caged animal
the streetlights off, overpowered by the sun


After my feet stand again on the world
full of fact and fancy
good and evil
worthwhile and futile


After my feet stand again on this world
the dancing devils
the dancing angels 
They grow a new layer of reality
that supersedes my ability
to repress the illusion of will
the lure of desire
the parasite of introspection
the foulness of stage fright
and the addiction to calm, bloody monotony


After my feet stand again on this world
tears run
In expecting the smooth surface of my carpet
I am reminded of the shattered bits of glass

Cochlea

Like the vibrations coming in contact with the cochlea hairs and turning to electricity, the wind blew the tall, brown grass ever so gently before your closed eyes. In this dark cellar the air is stale and the rot gasps for water. You tend to the rat bites reddening your malformed feet with eyes still closed, as if to avoid the blinding light of heaven. Skin-and-bone cows grow plump in your hazy, black gaze, and smile with eyes agape and enveloped in wet. They frolic, as if never even touching the ground, as they make operatic crescendos with their mooing. This song and it's amplitude overwhelms your whole body with ticklish euphoria, but your dusty cochlea in your dark cellar remains hardly touched. All but the sounds of still wind, creaking wood, the witch laughing from afar, the dying coughs of the city tramp, and the lightening crackling exists in a realm pushed behind the walls of damp stone. You crawl and collect nothingness under your small, wooden bed, letting time blow out the candles, with eyes still closed and the cows growing hungry. The wind calms and the tall, brown grass stays still. A bowl of bread, broth, and rice is pushed through the doggy door, as is a glass of parasitic, fuzzy water. Your nose is clogged with vomit and the cows begin dropping. The cellar and it's aura rips your eyes open, and you see ahead of you more stone, ever thickening stone. 

Now you jump into the wall and find yourself at the base of a grand waterfall, smashing upon you with fierce conviction. You flop your way over to a nearby mossy stone, decorated in bird shit. You see a mud puddle full of crocodiles straight ahead, their eyes are roses and their teeth are filtered by corks. They lazily sigh, and hide behind the fireflies. The monkeys hop about on the branches, as if scared away by some creature lurking in the bushes. You find a human skull among the riverbed pebbles, as polished as the mirrors of the royal houses. Now claws rip the blood from your flesh and send a concentrated cloud of red down the sandy, transparent, tranquil stream, pushing through the small pebbles like a grand, red, volcanic plume of smoke consuming the himalayas. The hairs of the cochlea shrivel and implode under the incessant roar of the beast, the bringer of your demise, yet your dusty cochlea in the dark cellar remains hardly touched. 

Dirty Fingernails

Dirty fingernails

come, dig deep into my flesh
the marble rolls on

Geysers of Blood

I, the beehive, feel the buzzing and the progress coursing throughout my being. My color stays rich via the rich labor of countless centralized thinkers dying, slaving, and reproducing on their honor. Infinite planets are illuminated by a great, grinding, instinctual fear. A notion that the universe is in constant contact with your bright and silly demise. The jungles are hungry and the towns need rich soil and need it now.

In our labor we perspire mud as gray and brown clouds force upon us acid rain. The valves spin out of control, the sparks fly, and the gasoline begins to leak. Don't light that match now! Gravy pours from the windows of the skyscrapers and hospitals are drowning in mustard. The stop signs grow wings and fly away! Our helicopters take flight and head out to sea. The silver, smooth, flawless corporate structure explodes on its way into the stratosphere and the oceans evaporate, leaving the whales and the cruise liners in free fall to the now shining and gleaming abyss. The trees tear off their branches and the churches dismantle themselves brick by brick. The stars at the war memorials rage war with the tourists and the locusts do away with the golfers. The earth begins spinning towards the sun. The wise-men laughing, the greedy crying, and the children in awe, the end was coming. I, the beehive, fall off my tree and my centralized thinkers all wither and greet their demise.

Hiding in the depths of a deep, dark jungle, warmed by the fire I have by chance given birth to, I gazed at the stars. They spelled out the true nature of my finite state in my infinite travels. I am content with being at the mercy of what lay further than my flame can illuminate, for it is what pulls the strings, making me dance about like an excitable dog in search for the source of the grounded scent. I look towards my mortality, tucked behind the blackened trees and stalking carnivores in this dripping, steaming jungle, and see that it will find its way to me in due time. Even as I write these words, people drop to the ground like brown, furry apples from a dead, mossy tree and others emerge into life and gaze upon the beautiful twilight of infancy and youth like glittering reflections from the dew on the morning grass adding texture to the thin fog. Soon, not just I, but all who hold life within themselves will decay and move beyond awareness. In the jungle I see colonies of ants undergoing disaster and caterpillars turning to butterflies. I see worms convulsing and birds convening. I see leaves descending and vines ascending. I see human comedies and human tragedies. I see a diverse and fruitful journey towards my demise. It's worth it.

Within The House Of Snow

Emerging from the sands of time like forming dunes are the shoes in search for feet  to call their own, and the ferns of all colors emerge from between the laces and allow critters of all walks of the earth to partake.

Crooked old noses leak houses of snow and the sands of time are in motion in they as well. We unscrew the light-bulbs and shove towels under the doors. We light candles and hold them to the ceilings, gazing in awe at the little droplets descending almost as a telling of the chaos of all things, until the ceiling is no more and we are exposed again to the night sky and all of its secrets.

Confetti finds its way out of our ears, our eyes, our pores, our souls, to blow away and form tiny silhouettes in the night sky, only to be seen with it's colors and textures when in quarrel with the fire on your fingers, exposing the bone and it's mortality.

Clouds veil the infinite suns (but spots to we, the lapses of knowledge), and the blizzard from the crooked old noses returns to us what the candle had manipulated.

A judgement life walking about in the gardens of the town, hands in it's pockets, it's face under it's shadowing hat, it's eyes at it's shoes, is the one who paints the skies of the man under the garden bench. A blood red moon gobbles them up like a crazed bear in a rotten pumpkin patch, ripe with the dung beetles and mud toads moving about without comprehension. But there are others who float about in the plasma clouds, and embrace the inevitable riding of the rail, back down to the flaming fly, being consumed by the mold within our being.

The mountains arise at the snap of a finger and grow ears and eyes, for which to hear and see the direction of their progress, and in doing so gaze upon the plasma clouds and see many skulls and many polished feet and melted plastic on glass, thickening the atmosphere.

The dynamite shapes the mountain and the little pyromaniacs gaze out onto their empire, confident that the stars will have it all back to themselves again in due time, but the ticking of the clock that points towards this shining and void return is but a metronome, refining the thickening stench of the sulfur in our hells by tuning it like a pipe organ of some magnificent magnitude.

The ocean sucks up the moon and births from its bosom the sun and the stars are tucked behind our sphere again. The houses of snow melts and the townspeople bathe and gossip in the steaming waters, as if back at the hight of the roman empire. The goblin and his angel smile and begin digging.