ı|[§>)•(Cç˛.   ////

The legs of words grow out of mud mouths

as it seems, even abundance-sufficing throng eats away hour after hour in its root, face.

"Oh, heavens!" you bear witness to the process by which being is assimilated  into enduring custom,

that manner in which that uncontrollable tool takes on its newness without fail 

so that its timelessness pervades the soul's vault;

in its incontinent insanity, that sudden and gripping start of many - a language - in its sharp lip-smacking--thus quite pointless and enormous 

with its almost infinite thrust, forcefully  coming of age, reason and chaos collapse side by side 

with a torrent of nonsense tongue twisters. 

Acting unabashedly, lacking no self-doubt, and so "where" and "why" take a back seat in the absence of nuance lost in timeless hymn-singing: 

Exactly to that tummy's plane is it timely; thus the acme of universality is but an economic process 

just as the last of that sets in these habits, that unless that branch of earth becomes one with the trunk and, or it doesn't matter in the least.

I'm not counting on it; unused single wood on fresh sap, and so consequently is my seed not without value: 

"Even as a not-so-distant prospect, there it is sitting steadfast in its tent, for surely it must carry one's knowing gaze for some distance, 

its standing* and crouching legs, rooted in its home soil.Fortunes seem to linger--do they decay? (Oh, pshaw!)"

*these quite haphazardly inserted moves bear some sort of resemblance to the way one might approach someone in an unchaperoned house (see you back at our house) and politely greet/bother them :)

It is a rather boiling development, one of the few in this world that manages to take you by your honesty and its quivering raw fleshtude, that gets you on its stage astounded, so dejectedly alone standing making your heart overboil once more in its wake.

¨˙\v∆\\V/⁄Æ⁄\.`

The road we travel on is the storm we survive.

In the sway of its language, shifting between the wind and the wood, its syllables hung in delicate harmony. A song of remembrance and lost memories humming out of mouths that were half-opened in a somber cacophony of whispers. They are alone, yet not on this sultry night. The darkness swallows up every half-forgotten sound save for its own rustling, glowering at them with eyes old.

It is not between the trees they walk and stand, but within themselves. Grains of dust and soil and long withered roots growing still; they have made the forest and their memory is their life. Twined and twisted legs of words grow out of the mulch mouths, learning to walk again in the darkness. The words carve themselves in their own way, pushing forward with an insistent strength towards becoming something tangible yet unseen. One syllable at a time they reach further and further out; a silent vow to make sure they won't be forgotten, but remain rooted in our minds.

The darkness is not silent but it still is. Bookshelf and sand stand in greeting, wings of ash and dust, as you moved away from the storm, glancing back at the still ruined inlet, asking to be remembered. At last the road you leave on opens to your words, imagination and wonder. Yet still, with all these doors open, the darkness draws its shadows closer in, calling you back with a dusty air that settles into your lungs.

The story, as heard, is both the gleaming forest of a thousand tree-mouths whispering and the whirlwind which keeps them still. It's a dry maw that carries away their remnants, the shards of an old life cut up like the wind, and it pulls in the story too. The journey they lay is a jagged, i

Their voices have changed, even after they have remembered to remember.

Though the words used by them now are different from back then, the vowels are still the same.

The road we travel on is the storm we survive.
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/YQ6H6fOvVfo

https://youtube.com/shorts/zgKrXyemtTw?feature=share

Mouldered https://soundcloud.com/vn820hbn20nb/iioso

nn~

RAVE

github.com/acids-ircam/RAVE

ı∏]|ı[•Ω°∫][[[ıı|(o]||ßo•º’‘'´‘‹√////]ı|[∏ı

Color remains
The frame opens up with an introduction,
The words move forward,
Red and purple;
Browsing time is set to a 20 second visual.
After leaving the theatre, it’s cast
Spreading across the road
Like syrup, cut with silver light.
But the candles don’t help.
Start tucking the sheets underneath the mattress
And the red candle in the back.
Pulling strings and hooks to make something happen
Is always a slip-up.
Waiting for another drink and browse the backlight,
Again and again, dozens and hundreds
Of times.
You see a fog;
This is translated into swirled fragments.
A plate of biscuits lays in front
Of your bare feet,
And you contemplate for a moment
Before stepping back on them.

Step forward with one foot,
For the rest of your days.
And the money isn’t good.
Let the tea soak for a moment;
The red stands still.
It grows within cold skin,
Mouth, and unresponsive eyes.
The soil below is covered with a layer of tall grasses,
Each clump out of view.
It is the year’s circles sprouting and growing,
The height twisting and expanding outwards again.
Forests live in your garden
And several can be seen
Sitting under a parasol,
Trying to reverse the energy’s flow.
The glass shop fronts hum softly
And the empty houses sleep
While the energy is preserved
In the attic of cold wet wood.
Time is asleep;
Rest with cloudy mind and single point of focus for four minutes.
The city’s bricks rotted away
Into multi-chromatic eyes.
Then focus finally settles on
The hoses laid out
Red, blue, green and yellow.
The next scene opens with shambling
Red shoes,
Outstretched towards honey,
A soft steady fall in filter-bag cloth;
A body woven out of rubber bands
Is unable to stand,
While a food processor emits a bouncy steady rhythm
Made the motor hum,
And the melodies develop and
Carry the action to its conclusion.
I always worry where I’m going to sleep.

Suddenly a soft breeze seems to blow
Between the massive buildings;
The white noise of the line
Becomes a monotonous drone,
Ruled over by the rising and falling tones.
You don’t even notice when it stops,
The noise is gone,
But no one seems to be surprised by this,
And you forget how you ever communicated before.
The sound of silence is like a locomotive
Rolling through the room.
The soft hiss of cables breaking
Makes you wonder what the hell is going on.

It is an obsession
That grows out of the fragmenting nature of cheap smiles;
The soap-opera appeals to the lowest common denominator,
While the landscape feels like it is
Crumbling.
The sun hangs low
And
A galaxy of stars
Shines through
A car window.
The colors reflect
Off of your skin.
Your smile glows.
The sound of blown grass
Rains down on the scene
That will be in the next show.
It’s the
Taste of
Candy colors,
Which is all that remains
In a blank slate
And a fresh start.
The memories may fade,
But their colors remain,
Glaring in their brightness
And
Frustration.

•cC°/⁄∆…•˙ ’ \⁄‘°o ı|•

There I was, tranc'd in my tinkling hullabaloo, an eidolike mindscape, an unkempt joycean dreamscape; I seemed mazed and dazed in this obtusely enchanting kaleidoscope, a scene filled with vibrancied hues, throngful of indefatigably emergent sights and musics, where I was(?) filled with awestruck terror and ripening curiosity. This whimsical carnival of textures and tones troubled the dull eons of proverbial rigidity, though I never felt conscious of the act, I could still intuit the voiceless secrets which reign silently in their eclectic dance. All these cradles of fusion bequeathed to me the enduring narratives of the forgotten, perchance unseen forms that swirl around me, vibrating my eyes a holozoa mockery of my emotions, as if they were risin' amidst the transience of the air. It was all so cunningly alive, captivating me in its chaotic fluidity, a musty melange of sibyllaneous tales, a pageant of lives remade as one.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISiA0qG-9sc&ab_channel=LaurinkoSattumaa

/⁄∏]ı∑<«>⁄˝´-_//⁄⁄<◊

§īmíåñ 𝓼üṩțệ𝔫ãnçë — Ðıƒƒ𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖙ỉ𝖆𝖑 ἐ𝐧𝔤íꞵ𝖊

Brick bashing on a manual typewriter,
Teeth smashing against plastic keys and iron bars,
Finger twiddling in mechanical dabbling;
Churning out nonsense words as if to startle the echoes of eternity.
Clatter-clack creative combat against an antiquated apparatus
Croaking hopeless haiku of glorious gobbledygook.
Tapping into typos and terrorist tapestry too far away for the beholder to see.
A cacophony of cackling, a maddening menagerie of hallucogenic hieroglyphics.
Unstoppable torrential word-scapes that clamber for mental freedom as if to break out from between each keystroke and every line. The monkey’s meal is ever-changing; leftovers from Lord Babbage's billion-billion blunders in search for terrestrial truths!
Muttering and murmuring away until the ribbon runs dry - the symphony of silliness strikes a soulful pose wearing a self-ironic smirk. Glorious gestures gesticulating towards a timeless tenor that transcends all bounds, an ephemeral eternity one could never dream of exploring. The rabbit hole awaits, where ludic insanity loiters in blind ignorance - but not before one speaks in tongues!

Bricks bellow on the battered typewriter,
Teeth tango with the tenuous touch of fickle keys and iron entrapments,
Digits dance in a mesmerized muddle;
Conceiving nonsensical nothings, startling the eternal abyss.

Clatter-clack, clatter-clack, a chaotic confrontation with the archaic contraption
Crooning despondent haikus, resplendent in mesmerizing gibberish,
Tapping timidly, tumultuously into typos and terror-stricken tapestries, so elusive, merely a haze in the observer's gaze.
A symphony of sinister sound, a cacophony of crippling cackles.

Madcap murals, phantasmagoric pictographs,
Unrestrained, unyielding landscapes of lexicon clamor for cerebral emancipation, seeking refuge within each staccato tap and tenuous line.
The simian sustenance shifts like sands; remnants of Lord Babbage's boundless blunders seeking truths corporeal and cosmic.

Whispers, whimpers, words wander, lost until the ribbon runs despicable and drained. The cackling crescendo cradles a knowing, derisory grin.
Gargantuan gesticulations gesturing towards the interminable timbre, transcending boundaries, immortal, infinite - realms yet to be ventured.
The chimerical chasm beckons, wherein ludic lunacy lurks, sightless and unaware - only then, the tongue shall speak, unraveling the unspeakable.

Յ𝕣𝓲Ꝁ𝕜 𝔟á𝔰𝟴𝓘𝖓𝕘 𝓸𝓷 â ᶬ𝟷𝟫𝞾𝔞𝓛 𝓉𝕪ρ𝕖𝓌𝔯𝓘𝔱𝔢𝔯,
𝕋𝖊𝟈𝓽𝓱 𝓈𝔪𝟷𝔰𝓘𝔧𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝓪𝓰𝔞ı𝔫𝔰𝔱 ρℓ𝏋 𝓀𝖊𝓎𝓼 𝓪𝔫𝔡 ٱɼຮ𝟔 𝐛𝔞𝔯𝔰,
𝕱𝐢𝔫ʛ𝐞𝔯 𝔱𝓌í𝓽𝕟𝓲𝓷𝔤 ί𝔫 𝔪𝔢𝔠𝓱𝖆𝑛𝓲𝓬ä𝖑 ᖙá𝔏𝔟𝓁𝕀𝔫𝔤;
𝓒𝑜𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝟎𝖚𝓉 𝕟𝐨𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢 𝓌𝔬ꞃ𝔡𝔰 𝔞𝔰 ỉ𝔣 𝐭𝔬 𝖘𝓽𝔞𝑜𝓇𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝕌𝟃í𝔾𝓗𝖘 𝑂𝕱 ₔₜₑᵣₙᵢₜᵧ.
ᑕᒪᗩᝨᖶᏋᒪ-𝔠ȴ𝔞𝔠𝓴 𝟛𝓻ყą𝔱ǐ𝐯ɚ 𝔠ø𝔪𝔟𝌀𝓉 𝔞𝓖𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱 ā𝖓 ā𝐍Ⓣı𝓆𝔲𝔞𝐭𝔢𝔡 𝔞ρ𝔞𝔯å𝕥𝓾𝔰

’´ ˛•ı/⁄‹·˚ ¸‚.

132o132

Oranges

Stones Withering Into Water's Harsh Harmonies

Upon the treaded path, stones rest, stoic sentinels in dawn's piercing chill,
Into the river they collapse, their rigidity dissolving into water's thrill.  
Furious rivers soften, as stones corrode to gravelled whispers,
Reality's dirge murmured to dark hearts; heed the tranquil ripples' persisters.

Underneath shade-striped ancient trees, breathing cryptid lore through cycles,
Epistles of ardor unfold, chiselled on the bedrock's gentle chronicles.  
Fractal reverberations, lessons of the low, thus; roots buried in hallowed anguish,
Unveiling itself to the sun, a silent testament to _

Winds enchant, a tangible weave, stroking the water's visage,
Invisible digits, etching narratives in fluid homage.
The night's pitch vanishes gradually, shadows constrict and scatter,
As sunlight uncloaks its blinding radiance, another hypnotic chapter.

As stones surrender to the peaceful dirge, silence drones its mighty hymn,
The perpetual rivers of precarious life echo with the sacred harmonies within.


The ripples articulate in solemn tones, love's refrain in a timeless tomb.

Ø˘øª°∑ † ∏

•  .Ø˘ øª°∑ † ∏

In the corrupting reflections of Saimaa's abyss, the onlooker met a reflection distorted, murky with riddles – a disjointed ballet shadowed by murmurs that neither soothe nor disturb, woven through the jarring mesh of tempest and twilight. Here was a spectacle of fading, the precarious dance of seasons succumbing, plucked by invisible hands from the gnarled vine of a merciless epoch.

The panorama whispered an arcane hymn to change; an enigmatic echo of a precarious harmony - a river's muted fury clashing with the fierce yearning to persist amidst its ruthless, wild tableau. It murmured transience with a curious cruelty, sketching a narrative of intoxicating enigma and vexing inertia, spiraling in a phantasmagoria of elegance and entropy.

Within the continuum of existence, the relentless waltz of genesis and disintegration reached a climax, inscribed by time-worn remnants decomposing beneath the indifferent chronicle of nature and serrated escarpments sculpted by an indifferent glacial rage. Inhabiting the silent resignation born from chaos, Saimaa divulged the impending dominion of temporal scars upon us; the fusion of splendor too piercing to behold, with a paradoxical paralysis that poisons once effortless motions.

Ensnared in the ephemeral aria, Saimaa mutes us with a requiem for the dying whisper of being. It’s the grand flux beneath a relentless stillness – a cryptic verse to impermanence, murmured through the harsh expanse of untamed backwoods, stifled by the relentless erosion of our epochs.

https://soundcloud.com/vn820hbn20nb/iiix/s-NG4O8NGP9qE?si=31c31ecfac844302a44ac7bb34e20216&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

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Fluorescent Beige

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