Feast 22

Stop. Banana Drop

как же быть и что решать
вот бы не узнать
не зассать и убежать
рот закрыть и в нос дышать
всем наврать, всем насрать
живот лопнуть, кишку врозь
рот закрыт, не дышит нос
папу предал, маме зло
Я ити, уроборОс
трус подонок первый взнос
мне платить еще пятнадцать лет
продакт продукт кроссфит атлет
гнилой виновен смерд

ешь два раза в день
Не забывай про первое
Блюдо
Ложкой
Бей двойное дно
желудок
сердце
кошелек
черпак наполовину полон
но место еще есть
ешь дважды в день
пока он жрет
сытнее
атаман

Кто-то украл черную Волгу,
перепродал её моему отцу
там, в ней - я родился,
изо рта своей матери
выполз выводком из головы
через лобовое стекло
оно было разбито
вокруг было темно.
вырос быстро. Детство помню -
фотороботы на дверях подъезда.
в телевизоре загадочный киллер
убивает политиков и их врагов.
не удержал отца, упустил мать,
умерла моя бабушка.
Что ни день новый маньяк.
мое я пульт в пакете.
красный плед на софе
Перебитого стула сидение
Смотрит в щель, оттуда
дышит дерьмо.

Doorstep Door Step Then Antechamber Then Дверь Шаг Порог

https://refugee.ru/
https://helpingtoleave.org/
https://ovdinfo.org/

простите можно зайти?
мне только спросить и я уйду,
я уйду.

мне не нужен даже ответ —  
я виновен. 
хотя конечно же нет.

они
во всем виноваты они,
они.
во всем виноваты они,
они:

* * * * * *

они
во всем виноваты они
они
бля. ты где?
ты где, бля, ты где?

ебаный червь пялит из земли вверх. 
нет, я просто уехал, дай мне,
дай мне
всё новое мне, мне за бесценок.

Vo Vsem Vinovati Oni

Policeman # Synths 1 wrong cut draft works

Zurkas Tepla's "Violence of Perception trilogy". 
Part one - Bank Robber.

Bank Robber

1. Airport. Street. Bank Robber's Thoughts

Zurkas Tepla's "Violence of Perception trilogy". Part one - Bank Robber. 

2. Club. Crime. Investigator

3. Way to the Bank. Robbery

4. Shooting. Bleeding. Dead bodies

5. Fight. Policeman will kill me tomorrow

6. Investigation closed. Guilt everywhere. Moving to another place. Airport.

я не помню кто я
кем я стал
скольким людям
пришел пиздец
это не травма
травма это ранение
из травмата
это петля
на шее
сидят уебки
сидят судьи
святые люди сидят
скольким людям
пиздец
скольким
считать
считать
и не сбиться
пока цифры
не станут лицами
повешенных тел
измученных током
разрушенных
убитых
под открытым небом
закрытых тел
колотятся двери
жарко, тепло
виновен
гнилой

глыба мертвых

в царстве
нет наций,
нет цвета
нет пола
похуй
и свой и чужой
ты нахуй без имени
еблан и убийца,
ворох веревок
под виселицы.
облегают
белую кожу
костюмы,
воровской ворс
стоит дыбой.
пустой свет
кабинетов
серый и мавзолейной мочи.
горят окна пыточных,
плавят в память дела.
в концертных залах
изнутри и снаружи
нет музыки,
вчера и сегодня нет
есть тела
воскресите всех мертвых
пусть они мстят живым
страха
солдатам
мусорам
судьям
насильникам
и убийцам
нам

In Forehead

trust em

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gyy1b_e5-WM

Black Volga, Torn Into Pieces

Endless Perspective At The Front Of The Passenger Compartment Of A Volvo 760

Waiting In Saab 900

Zurkas Tepla — Permanent Research (FON59)

Buy Tape / Digital

08 Pool Without Water

07 All Cops Are Made In China

05 Wallet (feat. Dima Midborn)

01 Barkling Mouth, Sleeping Tongue, Moaning Cunt

Hello. It is piece called Impregnation. Childbirth. The Bank Robber Opens His Mouth. 
Perfomed live by KYMATIC https://www.facebook.com/kymatic.ensemble and me at New Space Theatre of Nations  06 april 2018.
We will return with Bank Robber 2 soon. Thank you

Impregnation. Childbirth. The Bank Robber Opens His Mouth. (performed by KYMATIC)

1-01 Do not trust man with big scissors

1-08 Policeman'll kill me tomorrow

Burning house, salty river. Take a shit, good bye. 

MISTAKES ARE ALL AROUND: 
It is sad and vulnerable useless ballad about some boy who fall asleep. He taking a nap in a suitcase and he is dreaming. About his home at fire. We don’t know if it is fictional dream, like usual dream we have, for entertainment. This boy — thick skin, brown eyes. Suitcase is floating in the sea, ocean or salty river. It is hard to breathing — fire all around and water is sneaking the suitcase, also. It is deep dream, so it will not be interrupted even by screaming diplomats, while they are fucking each other on another shitty summit.

So, to be clear, sad and useless song about some boy died, maybe drowned, while diplomats were fucking. completely fictional story.


Little dream without air 
in nearly closed 
case without documents 
or any paper. little boy 
brown eyes thick skin 
salt and water, 
lungs and coast without letter A. 
Take a shit. Take shit.

Rotten Smelly Thought

Burning house, salty river. Take a shit, good bye.

furniture patron / повелитель мебели

Wrote some thoughts about music i recently spit out. Music piece is called Furniture Patron.

It seems so odd to communicate this way, actually. First of all — i really don’t know who actually see this mash of mistakenly drafted letters. And (even more important maybe) — in which circumstances.

It is hard to describe but i feel so awkward to share some thoughts with you this way. It seems more like a promo, like a marketing. Proper business shit. Or even worse — public diary, which is sounds like something shit-involved too, isnt it?

I want it or should it? Saddest part — I clearly not forced to.

What should i do to create some sort of conversation from it? Maybe for first will be good to proper learn this beautiful colonial language. Is it even possible to read? will know.

So.
As dead-weight i have several hours of music, was recorded fast and no amount of wish to edit it any. Its distracts me from new one, which i am trying to finish or write, while reasons of distraction should be only events, events of good will, which is so hard to find now days. Is it me depressed or you just happy to see me.

While i was in charge of my childhood, here in Russia — was born internet, slow one. Some computer games, if equipment was in your family. Maybe Doom or Doom 2. Some fiction books from different era of different countries. They was properly licked by soviet translator tongues, till started to shine. As your crazy pink panther diamond named Floyd. 60s science fiction, adventures, Gerald Durrell, etc. On tv was Chechnya, couple of terroristic attacks (of course more of it), Grase on fire, soviet comedies, X files, 90s russian pop music, Money for nothing song, several dead journalists, shoted ones.

Than this beautiful time was gone. And now i am sitting here, incredibly fucked-up in this new era, even new century — mash in my head, it consists of someone else grid, asses, snickers, fiction non fiction. Murders around — should i do something with it or never. Common name become proper name — president.

All this is like caviar in a jar — tight, in the grip of images of another's childhood, someone else’s youth.

What i am trying to say is that i have some feeling that i was raised by fake which was not belong to me in therms of time, generation, class, geography, ideology etc.

This gob of music is just concentrated associations with old Gerald Durrell book called Three Singles To Adventure. Really loved it when was a child. Funny little book about travell to the country then known as British Guiana, to collect some fauna. British man. In the jungles. 1954. I was read it in 90s at my moscow suburbs flat. on my couch, which everyone else had the same. It was some wardrobe too maybe?

Now it is 2019, i am thirty, my pocket full of spattered by fingers fucked-ups, and when i see or hear word JUNGLE — my head splits by intersecting parallels. One is about this book i told you above, the other is voice of Alexander Rastorguev, man i know, which was killed this summer in Africa. And all it mixed by fork on plate sound, plate with flowers.

I mean — what all of this, how i suppose to be here, what should i say or feel? 
I have a little daughter too. Her name is Alice.

So, again. You could listen it. Love you. Zurkas

Zurkas Tepla

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