Heuschrecke (Bert van Beek, sampler, and Rijnder Kamerbeek, modular synthesizer), The Wedding Space, Berlin, 5/28/15

 

poil poil poil poils slicked back upon a'comin' up your sternum following your gaze following following the sun just barely visible you tease.

with life with surface with the depths that cool that soften that amass your helicopter hair in contours smooth we've lost you, h-how could you?

shimmering shining bloated foucauldian layered straying splaying peeling turning learning how to die.

mix my so-called life there with your fingers arms extended tweaked and tended what what what witch apprehended ringing through the bell jar bended to your ear you bend me end me floating falling don't pretend you can extend us--

very far with those niederländisch medusa arms of--

Emilio Gordoa (vibraphone), MIchael Zerang (drums), Bruno Angeloni (sax), Meinrad Kneer (bass), Kühlspot Social Club, Berlin, 15/11/15

the happy birthday michael zerang soundscript!



kittens catch you yes they samba-claw up curtains looooong. the catch, the call, the loss of claws, go scatter scatter ripped from paws. the curtains pawed, the paws dis-scratched, an ur-anthropormorphic animation: now we fucking dance! a-scatter all across the floor, we crazy-up it, bed-time comes and goes. FUR claws, its ominous peter-and-the-wolf imminence holds no hold; how does one en-gauge with claws a-scatter, all a-zombie, all re-animated poly polyphonic-o-poeisis well you know the drill, just don't stop swinging, double double toil, your trouble love the stubble once the curtain fall has flirted, shrieking wounds fall to the floor, and samba echoes glory glory curtains swinging, though they now stand still, but for the drafts of air moved 'bout by transubstantiated claws of dancing christmas last.

puncture, scratch, slip, scream, enjoy the nouveau style polymorphous perverse-ity of

michael's
long-ing
song

(ish).


photo credit: cristina marx

Richard Pinhaus, guitar + ?, Abbey Pub, 5/30/11, Chicago

puncture.
holes.

chords of patterned holes patterns raise to a pitch and we one riding slipping shining down a wave- we gargle involuntary sea water as it begins to strum-sex our vocal chords and we come to breathe that water. slowly paddling, fins begin to function swimming rhythmic attempts to traverse noises inhaled, sonic shit digested pumped into the veins. seaweed tickles our dorsal fins, we become-sea-creature down to the depths . we tribble tremble push across the ocean floor with thrusts of underwater gas entrusting, pushing us toward the surface only followed by a sinking celebration of the ocean floor- pulsing pulling life along in an aporia of crushing crescendos.

in moments of trembling we fish are born and fall away.

Unknown, keyboards + laptop, Abbey Pub, 5.30/11, Chicago

1.
a mechanism with holes poked through-
a handle turned,
a cranked white light white
machine.
strobing spitting
spotting between cycles
we are bathed attacked with white light spat out, surges of neutrality reality
crawling down our throats vibrations-
choke-
and dribble down our chins.
build a house upon the presupposition that it be punctured through. make us a throng that, begging for it, the cement poured down our dampened throats our insides filled, our depths deprived of constitutive meaning, we unfold in beats, pull our disorganized corpses along a surface.

2.
training it- tracking, packing, railing, rolling along- and rock haul concretizing to a- never mind the stop we rubberbands in a box rubbing fucking deafening: have friction rendering deaf to the point of terrifying slowness, concrete almost hardened in our throats.

3.
a grater down my throat nailhammered through my skull cats purring on the landscape through the process they've betrayed me.

Jacques Demierre and Vincent Barras, "Voicing through Saussure," voice, Experimental Sound Studio, Chicago, 4/23/11

hothouse earthquake of the tongue.
tremor tremor simulated
story of how speech destroyed the world.
hot gases emerging steaming in between
consonental
continents-en-procès.
vowels sharpened on the tongue
true taste of the construction of the sibilancial gas that cracked the earth.
team palatal drilling, method-quaking,
breathing space into edge-border to
construct collapse his langue through method-rent parole.

boulders roll between their lips
crushing air liquified body in
what we used to call by the name "pain."

making nauseous love with their turned-gueules,
too much comes out to remain human,
the linguistic community has become
the bulimic community,
vomiting air to make room for impressions of fragmentary signs.
voicing replaces breath, narrates
the incipient earthquake.

[break]

stretching body-skin to certain points of sick exhausted
exhale-tation.
geometric sound concatenations
retching sire abdom-abominations
quaking down the gutters of
heretofore known structuration
to slink, scream, slink along the sputter-surface
they have left us us in their wake.
upheave, uprise, outrun the
state-lines of comprehensibility
pulling their subjects round by each ones uvula, we are herded into rowboats
and cast out upon the sea,
each one rocks, retches, heaves,
the sea itself has lost its rhythm
leaving us no standard of integrity.
bodies half inside-out, yanked from that
center to obliterate that very center,
we hang-over boat-sides,
convulsing in unmeaning.

the quaking of the tideless sea
overturns each rowboat, one by flesh-filled one.
our uvulas commence the task of
marine navigation.
lungs, twitch, sputter,
fill and hence the artists formerly known as
linguistic subjects commence the
task of learning to breathe underwater.
sobbing, shaking, we gasp, hiss,
inhale slips of this tongue-torn ocean.
absorbing it, it absorbs us, our bodies,
along with any remaining sense.

in
out
in
outin
out
inout
a singular
an iterative
an experience of becoming
of de-"terre"-itorialization.

those that can find rhythm in drowning
form the first strains of a new poetry.

Elizabeth Harnik (piano) and Kent Kessler (upright bass), Michael Zerang (percussion), Hideout, Chicago, 8/25/10

1. A drone in bits and starts-- a bee, half-drunk with nectar, struggling to get all feet stuck to a porous surface. One wing, beats again now, its body sighs, it beats the other wing, a flutter, sticky but distinct, it lifts and drops each sharpened leg, a buzzed percussive flight-check coming loose, coming together as we hoist ourselves, tottering, into air. Weaving up and down and past these frequencies of sky, slow distillation without purification-- a fragmented self-mobilization. Terror of the airwaves now its wings percuss whatever sky it moves through, sending pulses every which way as it nomads through the gardens, bumping surfaces, sipping sources as it dips and throws those undulating tremors of travelled-through wind. Its wing-beat pulses skip along, some hitting surface soon, bouncing along, others moving on steady wind until they die of seemingly natural causes, uninfluenced evaporation. These pulses form an ephemeral network with the bee, its legs, the wings, worked into oscillating webs that do it: cross-beyond-acoustic-pollination.

3. Infinitesimal progression-- the smallest wind-up mechanism on earth, sped up past possibility. Alteration so fast it becomes continuity-- only then does something respond to its call. The faintest curtain-- calling pitter-patter accompaniment of harmony almost a parody of past-the-point-of-noise. If automatic-rifle-triggered crickets got accompanied like this, well-- an entomology for a different time. The parody brings itself to its edge and past that, mimics grated wind-up action(in/com)possibility, singing I love you carried through a harsher wind and whispered into willows, plant-like palpitation of the heart a trunk, a drooping trunk of love-drunk weeping hair-lengths, put your hand in me feel the radicles of my infatuation-- not from trunk to roots but rather out through shiver-branches to weeping hair reconcilation, out through spores, through pollen, this love is a strange love my botanical amour.

Elizabeth Harnik (piano) and Ken Vandermark (reeds), Hideout, Chicago, 8/25/10

Dropping one by one, a field of flowers falls asleep. Each petaled member nods, moving from erect exhibition to steep drooping curve. Our botanical twilight: the lullaby a field sings to its flowers starts itself in small strokes, pinches-scatters nerves and hair. The bio-rhythm turns, though, to a sharpening of every line-- vibrations in the petal foldings, foldings-over, soft yet cruel. Put a rose to sleep with shrieking, lay a daisy down by stroking pistils sharp as nodding knives. Scatter ashes through them, blow gunpowder through their stems like fairy sleeping dust; they receive just enough shout-shrill of death to wake them, out of corporeal fear, by start of dawn.