The Limbrator Manifesto
Fragment III: Clunk Priest (The Sermon of Scrap)

From a tower of stacked cassette corpses,
the Clunk Priest preaches
in kicks, clanks, and tremors.

He wears a crown of bent jack cables.
His robes are mangled aux cords.
His altar — a bass bin, eternally humming.

He remembers nothing.
But his body holds the rite.

Every limb creaks to a pattern.
Every gesture is liturgy.
The junkyard listens, twitching.

They say he once interfaced
with a drum machine so ancient
it spoke in binary tongues and vinyl dust.

Now, he delivers sermons
through glitch-chants and clang-loops,
summoning the Ritual Beat
from scrap.

His gospel is not clean.
It is dented, loud, and sacred.

clunk priest

I am Artur Tokhtash, a composer and sound artist.
My music unfolds at the intersection of classical tradition and sonic art: preludes, improvisations, and electroacoustic structures are not genres, but forms of memory and breath.

For me, sound is ritual. Each piece is not merely a composition but a trace of presence, an echo of vanished spaces, a light from places that may no longer exist.
The piano, in my preludes, becomes a vessel — an instrument that carries not only melody but also the silence between notes.

My works do not function as background. They are spaces for listening, inviting the listener into a state where music becomes both signal and transformation.