produced by Jondren Hwang https://www.instagram.com/jxndren/?hl=en
cover photo taken by Jakob Soto-Bauwens https://www.instagram.com/jakobsotobauwens/?hl=en
cover photo edited by Rafi https://www.instagram.com/cinematicz/?hl=en

CEO OF MY ASS

Experimental Electronic Techno
Purchase full album @ www.nonra.bandcamp.com

Life In New Babylon

Virtual Lives

Dead Pendulum

In Sectors

Strange Visitors

A Millenium In A Minute

Strange but worth it if you can hang to the end.

Cyberia

Tangent Snares

Every confession they extracted would be used to drive insane.
No longer could you judge the space between the sacred & profane.
They let it out. You let it in.
The flowing night spirits wrest away your sin.

Your body would become a vessel for a never-ending rage.
An anger you mistook for pleasure 'cause at least it gave you age.
You didn't die. You stuck around.
But bellicosity seeks to bring you down.

All your veins and blood vessels 
Inflame with thoughts of violent education.
Crimson waves pervade your field of vision
And ethereate your soul.
Piece by piece, your essence floats away
Because you gave it to revenge 
The fighting made you feel no better
Still the loan destroys the debtor
You will never ever get her out.

The electricity that's flowing from your fingertips will strike.
The blooming cage of purple waves mold into any form you like.
You shape it out. You cut it down.
You turn it solid and bathe it in the ground.

You shriek so loudly that the power goes out in your whole neighbourhood.
You slowly realize you may not use your lightning hands for good.
The madness comes. They must despair.
Annihilation is how I show I care.

The Sacred & Profane

How deep does it go? Make a kind incision.
Draw a sigil with my index finger in division
Of your wings in a gentle attack
From the nape of your neck to the small of your back.
Electricity. The spark inside your spinal column
Make you quiet as the atmosphere has sanctified and sound is solemn.
And I recall em from the time of regret.
You can call me your servant. You can call me your pet.

And you can savour the truest way to love they neighbour.
Succumb Divinity, insinuate you love they labour.
I saw a vision of conspiring fates
In the shapes that make up your beautiful face.
There's no percentage or residential benefits
Or real way to quantify the overwhelming evidence
That the severance from entropy leads to the station
Of pleasant forms of sensory deprivation.

No more relief. Relief's not needed.
Satisfied with the sway of the space.
When you're stroking my hair with your hand on my waist. Love it.
All thoughts and movements are correct.
Many times when I felt misaligned.
I was waiting for you. I was outta my mind.

Little black camisole. Ankle socks. Petticoat.
Medical manacles, cannibal pentacles, honeycomb.
Money gone stockings. Chemical sentinel walking.
No need to talk but a mental will to stop watching.
In the comical, experience the serious.
I want it dominant. I want imperious.
I want authority's hand. I want your governance.
I am the coveted. You're the covetous.

Limited hours. Devour your stimulants now for intimate powers.
Allow your sentiment down. No cynical flowers. 
No cowering. Elegant.
Trace the lines of the dour to the roots of your skeleton.
And now we're dead again. What's the etiquette?
Are we mannequins? Are we feminine?
Doesn't matter 'cause I feel no need for penitence.
Another renaissance. Another specimen
______________
Samples 
1. Dvořák, Symphony No. 9, Conducted by Georg Solti for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. London Records.

Sigil

Irreverent, never could be solemn.
Anger wasn't T. Turns out it was a me problem.
Was an A, tried to put me in the B column.
See the writing on my head? I'm a she-golem.

A single letter makes the Emet, Meth.
The jagged ink lines between truth and death.
If the word's impure, you won't heed the lesson.
Watch your body seek acceptance as a permanent weapon.

I bore witness to infernos raging out on the plain.
And I focused them down to a little blue flame.
And I use the little flame to assign what I feel
To a little blue blade that can cut through steel.

And abominations fall beneath my even temper.
Will you seek redemption or redeem the center
Of esteemed assenters? Will you seek the answer?
Let the little blue blade cut out the cancer.

Sovereignty, commonly assigned to big drama.
Devilish ghosts designed to eat up.
Think the motherfucker metaphysics pause inside the big comma.
Servile silence must be corrupt.

Wanna take em by the jugular, lay em flat
In the six positions on the ugly mat.
Take a baseball bat and with six collisions,
Smug precision, take your vision back.

And I saw the little Gods that reside in the earth.
And I suddenly knew what the focus was worth.
And sympathy's sweat from divine directors
Rendered little ol me these Gods' protector.

And abominations fall beneath my even temper.
Will you seek redemption or redeem the center
Of esteemed assenters? Will you seek the answer?
Let the little blue blade cut out the cancer.

Samples:
1. Glass Onion, The Beatles 
2. Vitamin C, Can
3. 74-75, Sonny Sharrock
4. Enter the Dragon, Bruce Lee
5. Verklärte Nacht, Arnold Schoenberg

Little Blue Blade

I was created. Heart fated to manipulated.
Arc sated with marked hatred and
Stark relations to the dark days of our haven.
A star murdered by the arts statement.

Can't be saved, but you start saving.
What's the name that you aren't naming?
It's a fame where your famous.
Eternal peace that is not painless.
Steel soul but it's not stainless.
What's insane is that

The time I spent in this residence was brief.
Most hours suffered covering for other's relief.
Inside was an exercise made for grief.
Everyday the wolf. Everyday the teeth.
And I could see see beneath
His great unwillingness to injure me.
With all the violence of twenty-first century.
It's sensory but with an eccentricty.
All the pain is just Electricity.

And the angels wouldn't would help you...
I was torn to shreds over a sullen sky
An underneath the eye was the author's dread.
Where he lay his head. Where he dreamt of me
In an empty dream where he saw me dead.
And he wept for me 'cause he knew vice.
His dream necessitated my sacrifice.
Can't be resuscitated or you pay the price
With something drastic. She's dead. Wrapped in plastic.

From my body came a river of blood
Which unburdened the land and formed the basis love.
A small village evolved from the nourishing red.
As my eyes dissolved and melted out of my head.
Upon the flesh that is the altar
I formed the people's agriculture
And criminality in serial adulterers.
Take the salt and sow the land I made with seedy cults or
Solve the problem better yet with calls to fear me as the mother.

My muscle stretched to a horrendous length.
Tried to end its strength like a waifish saint.
What you are, you aint. It's the karmic paint.
Armageddon's date. It's almost at the gate.

And while it snuffs me out, you will watch again.
It's enough to doubt the resolve of man.
Do the best you can but you'll fall in love.
and you'll make me live so you can dress me up.

1. Seas of Cheese, Primus, Sailing the Seas of Cheese (1991)
2. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992)
3. Vocalise-Étude, Olivier Messiaen, Carolina Eyck, theremin
Ievgeniia Iermachkova, piano (2017)
4. Concerto for Double Bass in F-Sharp Minor, Serge Koussevitsky (1904)
5. Casta Diva, Vincenzo Bellini, Norma (1831) Maria Callas (1958)
6. Twin Peaks: The Return (2017)

Meanwhile...

This is a little bit of a different piece this week. This was done in collaboration with a family friend to go along with a written piece. The music is very much intertwined with that writing so I will be putting it here for you to read and interpret however you wish...

Artwork by JadesnapArt on twitter: https://twitter.com/JadesnapArt

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Reigning Again – by Jeff Frymer

Countless years have passed, yet still we are here, bound to a regressive creeping night that fastens us to history. We stand in the dark as disillusioned sentinels looking out at sodium yellow streetlights that illuminate our ghostly gazes; our jaundice pallor reflected back to us in a rain-specked window. Witnessing eyes draw sharply on solitary raindrops as they spatter into focus, joining their peers precariously moored to the glass by a minefield of misguided tenacity. One by one each drop yields its anchor. Gravity overtakes them and they journey carelessly down the windowpane, absorbing the lost, the misguided, and the vulnerable as they shed all sense of individuality. 

Unintentionally artistic, their kinetic palette paints the collisions of cold clear tributaries. A hidden serenity wends its way down the glass, the rendering peacefully scored by the droning white noise of the storm. Rain falls unremittingly, and no one raindrop considers itself the cause of the impending flood as an ozone-scented must fills the air with the dread of life about to be obliterated. Cloudbursts from billowing giants malevolently pour down from the dark skies. Thundering growls goad the cultish mass of hydraulic lemmings to “Go, go, go! Fulfill your destiny.” 

In the lightning punctuated darkness, beyond the safety of the glass, “they” become the mindless torrent, filling every cracked sidewalk, overwhelming every swale, and swelling to saturation every fissure of the earth. Mordantly transformed, they become the mudslide of devastating self-deception eagerly drowning every last bit of detritus in the maw of its metallic-tasting ruddy flow. Tearing violently at the earth, the erosive mass gains size and menacing momentum, preparing to destroy all things living in its path, to leave in its wake a slickly marred landscape running red with the blood of its lifeless victims.  And finally, no longer without purpose, they exclaim with decisive hubris, “We are the flood!”

A growing army of sandbags quickly crowd together and silently pass word, “They’re coming.  They’re “ALL” coming.” Forced through a venturi of outrage and desperation, each bag binds so tightly to the other that their fearful trembling evades perception. Weighing heavily on each other’s shoulders they stand in grainy protest, guardians against the darkness that marches upon them. Dire rumination fevers their thoughts, that their numbers are too few, that their positions are ill placed, that their efforts are far too late. And still they lean into the fray in hopeful solidarity that together they can make a difference.  “This time,” they pray. “This time will be different. This time, we will stem the roiling flow of bloody-handed ignorance.” This is the time we will right the wrongs of reckless governance that threatens to wash away our humanity, covering it in a blood-stained sea of sociopathic fear, hate, and greed. THIS time, WE will win.

Reigning Again

The echo of a distant tide.

My new album is out now!! Right here: https://bustelo.bandcamp.com

Questions and contact: bustello.music@gmail.com

Reigning Again

bustello

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