Klasse treibender Rhythmus im Hintergrund!

Erinnert mich sehr an den Sountrdack zum ersten Teil von Diablo. Schön angedüstert und melancholisch!

feat J.M. IMC. https://soundcloud.com/jm_inc

original version here
https://soundcloud.com/jm_inc/precipice

...What was it? Did a meteor fall down?
Was it a visit by citizens of the vast space?
So or otherwise in our little country appeared
the greatest miracle of miracles – the ZONE.
We sent there the troops immediately.
They did not come back.
Then we surrounded the ZONE with police cordons...
And, I suppose, that was the right thing to do...
Actually, I don’t know, I don’t know...

From an interview with Professor Wallace, the receiver of Nobel’s prize.

Stalker

Fears like waves

Taking Chances

MMXXIIIIVXVISHTTRBG

Melm  by WÜST

https://northfieldlenox898138798.wordpress.com/

What Is It Jenny?

A-Amanita Muscaria

all instruments: stonerjazz https://soundcloud.com/user-911083679
remix and narration: sonic structures and silent stretches
image: the same collab
info: there are more versions of this canto to emerge from other collab partners. LOOKING FORWARD!

narration: the thirteen canto poem finds its way into sound, a slice at a time

poem / copyright jo richter

How long he stayed, he could not tell.
He worked ferociously, sounding all
existence that had touched upon him into
being: the smell of meadows, the curl of
ripples, the calm that centers in a storm;
the timbre of voices, the straight lines of buildings,
the aloofness of announcers on the radio.
His desk was cluttered, his mind strove clear.


When he did not write, he‘d read up on
the origins of his ancient art: Vergil and Dante,
Marlow and Shakespeare, Homer and Joyce,
Ovidus, Cervantes, Rabelais and Wieland.
He felt the linguistic seeds, blown from foreign
stems, grow filaments deep in his native soil, he
saw them ripen, flower profusely, yielding
their beauty to ever-changing mentalities.


And as his insight widened and he gained
perspective, the rows of encyclopedias
and dictionaries that lined his shelves
slimmed down, as he gave up consulting
English for French and German, these for
Latin and Greek, those for Persian and Sanskrit,
until he only referred to Indo-European roots.
His desk turned clear, his mind became uncluttered.


Eventually, he also slept and dreamt
whenever the veil sank upon him.
Guarded by the spire‘s safe walls, he would
awaken slowly, remembering outlandish
lore, scribbling notes and poems of bizarre
truthfulness and penning recollections of his
archetypal ties. Some of his realistic verse de-
rived from fragments of prolonged poetic trance.


 His muse meanwhile taught him to cook, the
art of mixing individual ingredients to bring about
a taste all of its own that nourishes both mind and
physicality. The painters tend to fixate on surface
and colour, she said, the musicians on timing
the process, whereas the poets never get anything
done, enchanted by words like ‚ginger‘ or ‚yeast‘.
All of their dishes taste awful.

Melm by WÜST

WÜST

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