Underscore 22am



nside out moments, a squared picture of passion, autoregressive population ideas, time as trial and error, post-emptive experience, being born, condensation of love’s litter, heaped forever in an armchair, the consequences of foreheads, memory delusions, dark light to the power of X, x = x, non-conservation footsteps, the contingency of past, creating experience, living soil and living rocks, material trust, awake = asleep, currency of touching, forgotten infinities of distance, ritualism context, three letters interaction like h u g, excited fear, differences indifference, talking as dancing, hands as eyes, keys keeping safe, devolution of doubt, horizontal emotion

Writing the links into the world
Easing songs into the music

rhythm of eye-contact, muscle memory, nothingness of lines, God, revolving constance, there are no individuals even though we are individuals we are only individuals because we are nothing better to do, the oncoming wave, local truth of local intimation

Sharing souls into the soul
Passing songs into the music

(world), (word), (), wake up, open window, known path, convictions, synchronisation, ethereal memory, film projections,  (*),  caves in cliffs, houses on hills, trees behind trails, waves working, rhythm of things and thoughts and themes that rhyme, listening as dancing, fingers fumbling, the lag of a language of slogans and dead-ends, the freedom of finding time to do things even when it’s all tits up, realising the moment as a trial and error of experience, a sudden spontaneous situation like they always will be-

of pressing play
of embracing air

and making haste to improve it, or just to allow it let itself within your lungs and then out again, like dance

this album
this square
this keeping to yourself becomes, now, this ethereal web, keeping to ourselves

we will not buy silence

*We will not be silence

= dig


… all the words we are when we makes ourselves slumber and we’re trying … imagination is more than just image, it’s all one’s anything but _____ , it’s all one’s materials to be going on, the springing (from), the lying down (upon), they don’t leave you lonely even when you let them go, and so the album may end, it’s * tracks, * roads, * years, * lives after all – it’s the music beyond the music above the barcode that we music in the capital offices, letters, exam rooms and studios, it’s music that spells music like a juxtaposition to the decompressed pre-noise boredom that stops you getting to sleep…

It orchestrates the orchestra that assembles and dissembles before you reaffirm the clutch on chronology of all the chaos that we’re trying to try and understand here, stand up on here – it’s songs; see for yourself, enjoy, if that’s what enjoy means, I reckon it does.

This is an album by juxta phona, this is the Facebook page of their label; Home Normal


Mick Squalor has the pillar of a -hesitation- palace that got all disheveled and destroyed and forgotten about 0.1 * 10^5 Brian Lara scores a century years ago and he’s carrying the pillar in his arms like a traffic cone in the early morning and it’s an open kitchen door with his smile around the hinge to say

“hae i got dis pillar and hae … let’s cook egg”, doing an impression of three simpson characters at the same time

Mick starts up and joins the band with a sock on his toe and two teeth for fingers as he yeahhs away at cardboard cut-out pavements, cutting up stripes on the floor before he crosses them

And makes a little haste to get to the thing on time

because his brother Alex and his girlfriend Krista and his friend Ben are waiting singing for him to come so they can do a rehearsal or whatever this SuperGlu band must have to do in order to sound so seamless and sentient in the structure and so fucking fun at the edges

It’s a band to find yourself at the edges edging closer without knowing the girl boys singing that you want to see clearer and to dream with like we do as film extras at the sides of a tangled colour film, watching it all throng, up, beat, as if in the past, the soundtrack could be this, it could be this, the goofy credits, the bit with the kiss, the bit with the newspaper and the huffing sound, the bit with the roundabout and you’ve got goosebumps because you’re feeling something

This guitar song band pop out of the window rock and it’s just when the night’s kneeing nodding off, making a little, YES, haste -again- …to release their thing on time before all the fucks fuck off back to numb-town where knees and nods-on acknowledgements gets you fuck all in the real world

Real-world feeling now though, head beats a radio’s on, tuning, it’s all getting released on time
This release is totally on time.

And you’re on time too (or actually we’re both a month late) – I direct you to Superglu’s first release called Diving Bell and I encourage you to press play again and stop getting all scrolling down with the stuff stuff…

I just listened 20+ or however many times of Diving Bell get scrunched good into an hour of writing and it’s 9.30 in the morning, the song is working better than ever and it’s insane energy, we’re insane energy, this is all insanely good – quick! go go go! Like Superglu on Facebook!

15/5/15 – Flo Morrissey – “Show Me”

“If you can’t love this all goes away”

And that’s the song-title that came to my head when I, for the x’th time since the year I heard it first, tried to fathom this world in which I would have been 21 in 2015, it all seemed so melodramatic and neurotic sometimes and it all seemed so contented and at peace and unconfused sometimes, it was all a paradox-solute in which days were meaningful yet days were meaningless but whatever happened the blood kept pumping for the blood it was, so full of water, so full of words.

And if you can’t love this all goes away is the song I slowly plant upon imagined beds in which sad things sleep and don’t wake up. It’s the phrase I rehearse to my empty room when its light is my only clock clicking inside, like a chime – it doesn’t work, this society, this number, this 15/5/15, it doesn’t work, this other, this state, this system, if its love is lacking and trust is nothing: it all goes away and leaves in its place the apathy of a population of thoughts without homes to home in on, without futures to future on, but something nothing real nonetheless somewhat – it all goes away

It all goes away and yet it continues to frustrate and disturb the cobwebs of a many-legged memory and the multi-eyed imaginary – it all goes away yet it continues to linger like forgotten lights in my head, made by my forgotten pronouns and nicknames and manners of speaking – it’s not just, unjust, just like the humans who travel with music of emotions until the money runs out, until the clocks stop clicking, and find themselves like derelict letters on a futile page of a calendar, a website, a phone, a distraction that doesn’t distract, it’s unfair like the falling sweeping hair of a person without person without comparisons, without computers computing vibes, without a life, without a love to go on.

And so, it’s reassuring and slightly beside the point to confuse a prelude like this to an online entity of the here-and-now that makes it all make sense without failing a fast-paced quiver of a voice contradicting the blood that still pumps motions to these words called 2015.

“Show Me”

Momentarily sublime moments of a human’s voice; protrusive and intimate; this artist has your attention before you read a single word to compromise the peace it leaves you with.

A peace of good and timeless.

O n L o o p s \ Animal Psi

I’m going to pick up on a draft post that got saved a few weeks ago: it started with the following three lines:

“Let music make new moments in life make sense”
– a spontaneous thought that faxed itself for a few split seconds before dissipating into shape spaces, motion durations, electronic communications. The IT department

Let’s continue.

The music attached to this post can watch on with me as the post writes itself in different ways.

The post.

When you look onto the world you see and feel and think many words.

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten

Eight Five Four Nine One Seven Six Ten Three Two

When you were one of these words years old, you were aware of the fairground and the rides: you saw people screaming in little carriages connected to each other, screaming as they hurtle on the rails. At some point, someone told you or showed you the loop-the-loop roller-coaster, and you both stood there eating, gazing transfixed, rooted to the spot, one hand sweating in your pocket, the other clasped onto the fairground food.

And then you traversed

And it’s four years old later: your friend’s talking to you in your bedroom and she’s showing you these loops she’s been listening to. You see them like feel them like

You see them like you, like the daylights like you, like the evening silences like you, like the slowed-up heartbeats like you, like the nothings and the pauses like you

Like the words don’t like you but you’re trying to find them, say them

Until the songs say something for you. And there’s nothing more important to add on, nothing to glean like paint, like picture frames, the wall speaks for itself, the experience speaks for itself, your love speaks for itself.

The songs string something slower, together, like the things you don’t notice when you’re walking at around 100 bpm through the darkness trails and you’re not listening closely to the shadows of your thoughts you’re only capturing one damp cobweb frame in five hundred

And the realisation of indifference hundreds down your face

You wish it would stifle the grey sharp material stalagmites from your stomach -stars building up in low light reflections in some forgotten cave terrain caving in like- night-stuck tiredness conjured from a bleary day

you stop wording, you continue listening -

Bleary, eh?


(the music from this post is all found (in)directly from the website http://animalpsi.com/ that specialises in tape labels and releases -
go over and check it yourself)

Language of Shapes – ThunderKryst EP

Lyrics that make you think that lyrics aren’t quite done yet. A song that makes you think that songs aren’t quite done yet.

Because they give you a determinable place, not just an indeterminate space.

The contours of this place were well-handed a blurb in the e-mail submission:

The lyrics to this song were a stream of consciousness head-vomit. It’s only upon re-reading that they actually seem to tie together to tell a narrative about the absurdity of how human consciousness deals with truth, how we often suppress it in favor of comfortable lies, or alter it to better fit our world view — the quality of the stories we invent to describe ourselves and the world we inhabit are the most mutable truths, and ones we often have difficulty narrating coherently.

This blurb could speak a volume for a person. This is the kind of thing that could conjure the person’s direction, or securitise a person’s direction that was already apparent.

That direction, that truth, that meaning: these words are interchangeable and so are we, so are these songs. That’s an honesty, and an honesty that allows your person a love, an experience, a place to really fall into. Words of music, rhythm, song, art… whatever you call it.  What a thing for a song submission to realise in the heart-shaped minds and evenings of its listener!

Reviews that make you think reviews aren’t quite done yet:

this is an EP released yesterday (!) the song of the blurb is the first track on the EP called Push Hard and Swallow,

download at your own price:

The skull, though. It starts to make a rigorous sense by the time of the third track on the EP, called Now We’ve Seen The Dead. That third song is enough to bring me home. That’s one for the future loops: those reoccurring spirals that one tries, one tries, one tries to analyse so hard, but fails every time: those silences perpetuated by the “nothing worth knowing to say”, sometime: something, I feel silly, but still… Sincere.

So how I see it is that the man singing in these songs has a line of melody that has been moulded by the smooth terra-firma texture of a story he’s heard told to him in whispers perhaps or just a quiet a calm headland for his ear, eyes, and this made him stop. And then it happened again and he stopped again. The objects kept falling around him in cascades, in fragmented light raining, in disorder, in calming patterns of slow falling lights, like time upon the hard-working heaving tops of people’s stomachs. And these waves of colours were the qualities that glued like gravity his head and the others’ heads to the middle bit of the band rehearsing or performing, and that’s the thing that makes this picture, these songs, this post all make some sense.

Or how I see it is that he took that rhythm and took it into the dry translucent galaxy of dust-parties in sunlit front seats of vehicles on roads of ribbons of concrete connections between one chord and the next.

How “Amidst the silent voices roars a word
Free to live
Free to run
An intergalactic experiment
For a God to Flesh become.”


one(?) of those words although I’m not sure which

makes you stop planning your plaining your plateau of your

All (!!!) of those words, because all of those words includes the gaps in between them, filled with a liveliness, a conviction, an instrumentation! A noise of people strumming and beating and looking each other in the supposed eye, behind the complicated lids and lashes and whatnot, singing and creating what comes so crucially to their instants, their moments.

This is /onwards!/ music that brings Earth to the listener washing from outer-space

The band are from South Korea.


Time Capsule ##

What you sometimes realise, is the thing that you wish to discern, the words you use to do that. Those words are flakes of paint on a hill, a winter hill, they’re those friends just beneath your eyes that fall like raindrops off a leaf, from your lashes as your days stroke the night. Those words are like silences are like touches, are like flashes of light from the City dreams, they’re like the pictures behind impoverished faces, they’re like the lines we use to capture continents, countries, decisions, futures.

Those words we used to describe a song, here, there, in person, with your company, the walk together around town, discussing it: those words for that song, that object, duration, life, a thing. Those words.

They’re transient.

They pass through me now as I. they pass through terrains now as I, they hold me now as I listen back.

This is an album that I rolled upon swept up beside me back in 2011, I was born in 1993, I talked about it in front of a class when I was a whole 17 years old and studying Theory of Knowledge.

“It’s an album that makes me feel free, makes me feel like I’m standing before a sea or somewhere, the sea I don’t live near when I’m slightly lost. It makes, it helps me breathe slower. No lyrics, it’s an instrumental truth, a wash, a somewhere to embrace around within, to breeze like garden life, to sway inside, to give that sense of seasick a sense of open-ended belonging”

To open, mouth, arms, wide, and know the one thing you know.

A few weeks ago, these posts thought of something spiritual about Sufjan Steven‘s newly born album, today I grasp something similar.

I grasp it, and I take it to the foundations of castles, a tower, sand, a mountain, a human, and I tell it softly slightly extraordinarily to the do the same dance with me again.

To be transported, as if it were a time capsule, from something “past” to something “future”; Bless This Morning Year, Halving Compass, Dragonfly Across an Ancient Sky, Vargtimme, For Years and Years, Coast off, Paper Tiger, First Dream Called Ocean, The Toy Garden, Sons of Light and Darkness, Emancipation by Helios, from the 2006 album Eingya. It does, it floods back within me as something real, not just remembered. Something energy, not just a memory.

The album plants a hug of plateaus with its every song. It says so much in so little a, so precious a span, an experience. The instrumentals like instruments of soul-sanded fingers, but names on a page, but whole arrangements of windows, of an ambience reflecting slowly in the post-evening walk, work, wake, the skycrapers of blue ocean hand-holding meaning, stroking the sides of settled pre-evening.


The time capsule drops and its skin breaks, revealing a porcelain replica of  biscuit crumbs baking on a canvas deck chair. A layer of italics between light and shadow, top and bottom, past and future.


Time Capsule #