Donso! Konya! A dog wearing a shirt, talking about bread.

This song is a dog who keeps circles in a room and trots around them and gets your attention and you find yourself interacting with the dog more than the people somewhat. I guess it’s a kind of small dog. The kind of dog that couldn’t pull off the poker/pipe look, nah rather the kind of dog that would look self-confident sporting a Hawaiian shirt and a long drink and a tight conversation about what kind of bread one should buy. I’m a wholegrain myself, but the small dog, yeah the small dog in the Hawaiian shirt would recommend, stifle a suggestion:

“Yes, no, white bread: totally not a problem”

In a small feverish kind of bark before very quietly rearranging the geography of its dog biscuits in the bowel, its fruit slices in the coke-coloured poison, so feverish, so much rearranging that you’d perhaps think that the dog was just making dumb shit up on the spot. That kind of moment that sticks in the head long after any such encounter with the dog and for some whatever reason recurs in your head as you try to concentrate on, I don’t know, like, just trying to get some shit done?!

Just need to get some shit done I guess.

And I’m somewhere, nowhere, everywhere just feeling like these places that the dog always talks about, makes me think about, are just around the corner, rooting for me. Rooting for me as I root for them, getting into the rhythm.

Just need to get into the rhythm I guess.

Donso! Konya!


Future Memory Jolts . . . Auriént

Everything’s future’s past’s present, everything’s falling -forward’s backward’s downward’s upward around here, still, constant, shaping. One leans into the other and shouts something in the other  once, twice, a loop, a balling: “- ME!” “WHA?!” “HU- ME!”. Theyahuhug, then it’s a game where the rules are revolving, ahuhhahau, refolding around again then unleashed, leashed at last; everything’s future’s past’s present, everything’s falling around here, still, constant, shaping. One leans into the other and looks upon the river and murmurs a blowing sound in the fresh winding air, a creek, capillaries, estuaries swaying of branching out spindling into everywhere white, grey, a pale blue: “!” ?!” “-!”.

The dancers in the clubs then the dancers by the river, always either.

The other worlds


Another World

by Auriént

came to me in an e-mail sent with “big love”
from jeff schofield

a man from TYPE, a PR thing from Brighton

intending to precede this Auriént above that will be “on February 23rd on van Drumpt” [an album in June p.s.]

where van Drumpt is a record label in Stockholm, Sweden: their logo and logo is a cloud above that speaks to me and helped me talk back.

oh god that was a serious ungloop, somewhere real, the introduction, then struck up once more into the slot of a stream of a scroll one-way into the meta-data of a group of people doing similar things, promoted to post-hood, uploaded to the spongey canvas of an idea unraveled, screen-shot, music

toward some point where my right ear slowly nears to nears to some so murmurs -jolt

Trick! Heels hooked onto the same space, as the thoughts delineate … joy …


Cool It

(P) ower (I) s push through blur, when my eyebrows keel upwards
Pain for what pain is: a chemically reactive porblemtaic conceived within a scribbly circling of footsteps in a same-place
Heads belonging toward the skye
And the dilly-dally  (DR) eaming, periodically, paragraphically, routinely – a monologue clung onto with wispy hairs on their dead-ends
Whispered words are the currency of one head falling down upon soft surface
A moment where the vacuum ceases to whir, green man! Run over again; the tyre marks the all-over-the-place
Dispersed disappeared approval, like the shadow of a signal on endless waves
Fingernails carving caution into sacred tarmac whilst greyish melted seeps through banished skin

Right on, got with it

Head straight

The doubts fall down on a cardboard wound
A short-circuit is what the long-lost isn’t

Got the picture
Framed my daily routine dreams on a wall and called them out
The doubts faded in, the fidget of a thought that saw its feed

Now moving, structure of a structure, air-conditioning on, bright signals on the dashboard
Headlights dim through
Circled soles, hitch’d, noses, hair flying, undrafting powers on the interscape

Take it down a notch and organise the indicated organs organising, count the lucky downbeats of a brain contained, controlled
Entangled legs of the own, alonether, this: some ongoingness and becomingness: flourishing cheeks expressed

Driving into the sleeping fields, the ever-terrains, the night’s'oft’ands

nothing “-in-the-stars”

My laptop’s levelling again
My homeostasis, feigning again

Something framed worked and working

All another song, another busied ear, a mind-throb, all thing’d “-in-our-hearts”

To the sound of a chronology cascading into timeless epics, clean-cut-out distorted clarity, intense of -ancholy, molten movements made graspable for the reactive pulses of clicks and submissions – nothing more

good than this there people-artifact called She So Rad, where the vocals are rounded between songs, between different people; an album to be released this 2015-time, and the window above, name your price on Bandcamp – here.

eyelids on it
don’t lose it


Frosted Screen

Bwa, this one riddles the silence,

therapeutic doses,

makes the moon outside make a little more sense, brings it all a bit more together, the concept, the cloud, and the curtains

some recurring theme. a good night . pictured


Once I was told we like bass frequencies, bass drums, because they remind us of heartbeats. One for the road – thud

And I don’t know if it’s subjective, but this oscillation arpeggiation reminds me of winter life, that ol’ winter life, when cold comes upon my forehead so blankly, a thud, the oil-lamp inside jiggles a little and creates helpful patterns for itself: when the days end early and it finds its routine, find its reflection – light’s hazy memory in its proper peaceful place, flickering.

The stop/start towards the cloud end, the anti-outro, that’s how I know


Follow the links and forwards -



This is a musician who recorded music in her hay-day and then to be later released by her son when he discovered it . 2 . 0 . 0 . 6 … a future world of time.
Her album Colour Green has filled the space with steady.

And here’s a cover. Clear sky.


Songs for Drying Off

Linda Perhacs is an American psychedelic folk singer, who released her first album Parallelograms in 1970 to scant notice or sales. The album was rediscovered by record enthusiasts and grew in popularity with the rise of the New Weird America movement and the Internet. It was reissued on CD and 2-LP in 2005, and again in 2008.

Her songs have been featured in soundtracks to many films including – blank page -

- Upright enough for the ebb tide – brittle enough for the service collection – worked up enough for the midnight transaction – cradled enough for the car journey – grey enough for the system dialogue – see-through enough for the foot-notes – ascertained enough for the indoors – embracing enough for the sensitive skin – clear enough for the diary entry – entered

The above slogans printed on old blotchy paper

And Pinned slightly

Above the bed shoulders

Aftermath hyper daze contained

Memorised and mould

Flats of dark

A current to current

Present to present

A towel wrapped around to solve everything

Into the evening lights, with the music.