Tag: field reports

black monoliths over new jerusalem no.2

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spectral torment sketched out along the dark streets, haunting the city with myriad tales of the slow failing… black monoliths looming in the desolation, bleak and oppressive… a sense of expanding peril and doubt rising up from the storm-drains, ascending stairwells… stretching out above the listless districts, swarming with squad cars, taxi cabs; harrowed pedestrians…

chaotic muttering, chattering, whispering; negotiating… swarming thoughts twisting and turning; the endless calling… crawling along the wounded blocks, blood-slaked sidewalks burn with false promise under the street lamps as power-lines choke and restrict… screaming sirens amidst the din, engulfing the whirring drones of the ageing air con ventilation systems…

mapping out the meaningless void while the city writhes and coils, undulating in the darkness and slowly changing its shape… reasoning collapsing in the dissipating, blurring memory manipulation circles… dizzying spiralling dreaming, avenues collapsing hope as the slow devil symmetry calls into focus the vivid understanding…

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spinal landscapes no.4

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gasoline trail wadi immolation sequence… she hears a tortured howl between campfire shadows… lines of fuel leading to the ritual… throat parasites talking in tongues, as the wild dogs prowl beyond the perimeter… across the spinal landscape ash-clouds paint the barren fields…

there is a tape recorder inside the sun… a chink of blinding light luminously glows… soothing raindrops fall from chemical skies… she walks towards the decay and mops the debris of her skin as her feet trace a path between broken bones and shattered glass…

street-corner apparitions crawling along wounded blocks… near the silent factory float the broken choking voices, screaming out their anguish to the nuclear horizon…  sound of the film-reel flickering… drained lake… silhouetted cranes… poisoned reservoir…

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insect void delta no.1

Tracking Station NIP-10

poisoned-lagoon firefight ceremony…  dusk by warpaint camouflage… insect void delta… slit throats bleed out across carved chests as the blood-orange-sun slithers behind the treeline; sliced by jagged foliage… makeshift graves filling with stagnant waters…

a series of polaroids in flames… white noise over the tannoy… narco-gangs roam beyond the check-points, machete men; la migra… black-lung sky burial desert installation… the road extends out into the horizon, shimmering in the already blazing heat of the morning sun…

mandible and head, thorax and abdomen… field hospital vivisection… paranoid hallucinations of external morphology… waking nightmares as the medication begins to run dry… cold sweats, and fever-dreams… congregations talking in tongues as the moon looms over the drained lake…

‘…god’s tentacles of lucid terror, duplicitous ten-tonne multi-error, reaching out to babes in arms, with promise, verse and firearms…’

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spinal landscapes no.2

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darkest shadows creep steadily in the morning light as the dogs howl down dusty alleyways… desert sands and the spinal landscape… sun-baked grains assimilating petrified carcasses of bomber fleets left to decay amidst the eternal radiation fields… street-corner apparitions crawling along wounded blocks…

head of centipede… yellow nails scratch after pale girls… marks of vaccination… sordid papers reek of hate speech and arsenic… wading waist-deep out into the poisonous ichor… throne room agony, stolen land, offerings at the foot of the despot… sound of the film-reel flickering…

drained lake… silhouetted cranes… poisoned reservoir… faint outline of the water tower… gasoline trail wadi immolation sequence… drainage channel campfire ceremony…  bride of the desert, valley of the tombs… there is a tape recorder inside the sun…

black tea, long-wave radio… broken voices crackling over the failing headset… coal plant, steel mill, factory furnace and rail-road… a dust-bowl tomb for a weeping widow slaked with dismal ash-clouds… dissonance fields reflecting… a billboard reads ‘starvation and hopelessness…’

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fear rituals from the 49th parallel no.3

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a chemical sky blankets the city as a blazing sun hangs buried in a discoloured heavens… a campfire flickers, illuminating the treeline as a series of effigies steadily sink betwixt the diseased mangroves… masked incantations in moon-menageries of hell… guard-towers vowing to reach up through the smog…

grain elevators in flames… a ruined pavilion reveals a wind-shattered dream… abandoned train-lines ache, rusted and lost… landscapes alive with burning tyres, burning flowers, burning fields… factory smoke stacks hang dormant above empty lots, project housing, school-yards, gas-stations…

riot shields, blast walls, tear gas… a lone generator moans and reverberates in a sunken outhouse as an oil drum fire flickers and spits… a camera flies high above all the ruined cities of the western lands… pages unbound, and burning… a sentence ignites, enraptured in mid-air… here are litanies of fear from the 49th parallel…

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by the bitter lake we sat down and wept… no.3

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here, outside the demilitarised zone… watch the falling-blistered girls die alone… closed checkpoint birth sequence… frozen eye infinity gaze… vacant broken women… hounded tombs of sodomised sin… temporary male-wreck salvation… intermittent seed-excavation… neon-sexed lipsticked radiation…

fields of fire engulfed in meaningless pillage… spent artillery, rocket fire, undusted mirrors… here little girls are the tomb, womb; ecstasy-pillars… ‘get them!’ shriek the dirty boys… wild boys, idiot boys… they make cold catacombs warm and wet… they won’t let the metal weeds forget…

beyond rotting carcass scattered far… whoring their way out of heaven… watch how the women open and fall… sucking death-licked number ‘six six seven’ against the ivy-coated nuclear wall… advising the householder on protection… battleground, burial ground, self-harm; terror and oppression…

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outpost dissonance feedback no.3

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go live… welcome to the currency of harrowed dissonance… out into the cut-throat bishops’ cattle-grid castration fields… remote outpost quonsets in flames… hog-tied, horizontal, burning; spitting fire… open-twin welding-pit futility… dirty fingernail scrape, flint-lock; navy colt, mason jar…

…worlds of desolation… petal-stained sodden counterfeit notes float out into the blood-soaked delta… onyx leeches farm rocket shells as black molluscs crawl across a faded atlas… priest fingers choking slender milky throats… mutant-progeny of the viral insect-congregation… narco-gang death-penalty…

two-day cloud of fire into the troposphere… kerosene specials, IED’s and the screams at the border control… throat-clutch of the warden… bandana city, vivisection of the insect; the cold slab wins… ‘fuck those pig-bitches raw’ …ideological race to the bottom…

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reindeer now officially part of the anette records family

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…a hissing a buzzing over the valves, switch-boards coming to life, tape machines whirring into activity… it is with much jubilance and gladness that i am today able to announce that, after years in the wilderness and after much behind-the-scenes communications, i am now officially part of the anette records family…

i can scarcely word how much this union means to me, nor can i scarcely contain news of what lies in store from this point on… but how i do want to extend my deepest gratitude to the almighty strizi, for seeing me fit to join the ranks, but also for keeping an eye on me during much darker hours…

…anette records is a wonderful DIY enterprise, which already features a roster of such talented artists, many of whom i am already deeply honoured to be acquainted with… please do be sure to lend your support to the cause, investigate their releases and stay tuned for forthcoming announcements…

all the love

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by the bitter lake we sat down and wept… no.1

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another suicide in the financial district… grim politician masks stare lifeless from the podium… roaring drone of helicopter gunships resonate through the catacombs of the mausoleum… child soldiers bleed to death in field hospitals as the markets expand… wallowing in the economic filth and writhing in the blood and fuel… detestable actions of the few…

a series of blurry images from the field… snapshots within the turmoil of the western lands… meaningless days and nights filled with harrowing images coming in from the still… spectral torment tumbles and sets in a series of numbing waves… artillery and rocket fire. shells pounding the old town as drones glide in insect tones high above the demilitarised zone…

concrete tower blocks cast long shadows over empty lots as flames dance and rise from burning cars amidst the chaotic swarm of rioting… extending patterns of grim intent drawing themselves out into a vast mosaic of guilt and surveillance, distrust, abuse and callous calculation… scratching ‘six six seven’ into grey slates waist deep in the dead river…

poisoned well-water, blighted crops failing in the dead ground… the river winding on through the war-torn lands as bodies litter the ruined villages since abandoned… board members picking at the rotting hollows of broken lands and distant lives… we ride the train-lines and bathe in the radiance… filtering the signals down to nothing, worshipping our ornaments of servitude…

futile lives lived out within a nightmare world of worthless action… bleating in the pit… narrowing our worldview… stripping language of its meaning… seeking calm and escape in mindless soma abandon… falling over ourselves to be free… weeping into the reflecting pool and trying to describe how it feels to a fading reflection staring back from a mirror left undusted…

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outpost dissonance feedback no.1

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…outpost dissonance feedback… quonset in flames… horizontal coleman’s burning, spitting fire… open-twin throne burner, desert futility… do the dirty fingernail scrape, do the flint-lock; the harrowed reprise… hack a two-foot incision into the guts of the giant centipede and crawl inside…

…fields of desolation… cockroaches march down crenshaw… witness sublimation at the foot of the obsidian monolith… priest fingers choking the congregation… santa muerte ghost-riding the whip… maximum death-penalty… bible-belt-fed-armour-piercing rounds…

…go live… two-room column of fire into the heavens… gas station specials, AR-15’s and the scream of the bleeding valves… ‘art don’t give you what you thought it was gonna give you’ …throat-clutch of the warden… bandana city; the jailhouse wins…

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