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We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.

The Barn


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No Virility 03:45
Would that I could love your way, shame would fall away on to the rocks beneath the precipice, evil overcame. Would that I could move the body like a symphony, hold an audience like a church, shift between sheets like an unfettered fuckmachine. Urgent need and melancholic and redemptive love,urgently giving myself to the only earthly sanctuary. I could be measured against the weight of the cannon by the thrust and gravitational pull of the body. Would that I could liberate myself by an act of will, I would without question but as it stands I am locked and lost in a land without romance or music. Learning to breathe and one day to die, surviving each moment and finding others in the fray - moments and people disqualified by wrongful priorities and failed attempts; but if modernity has made me impotent then so be it, we'll proceed accordingly, I got things on my mind and people to see. So you won't catch me walking down the main street, you can find me in the back with love in my teeth, tension unreleased with unproductive grief, yeah and I'll be doin' other things. You can have the fucking future you can occupy the now but I'll be doing other things. I'll be working on myself, and I'll be doing it good and right, yeah I'll be doing. Other.
Fluid, flawed, fog-fucked body truant, the truth an abstract vagrant etching fault lines on the salted ducts of my face. Is the earth crying out mountains, are the clouds drowning in the sky? Does the vapour echo loud in front or behind of my wandering eyes? Do the waves crash on in the clamour of the mind, and what is hindrance; what is wasted in a second, or in a wasteland, and why am I concerned? Why do I stare longingly in wasted time at the sea and sky that know no haste, for when the earth dies it will just be silent and not afraid but for now I sit lost in abstractions, projecting translations related to discovering myself in the rocks and the bones and the sand. But there aint no answers in zeros and ones anyway. Fluid, flawed, fog-fucked body truant, the truth an abstract vagrant etching fault lines on the salted ducts of my face.
Learnt young 01:30
Drifting on waves, starved of time and moonless tides; oceans carved out of a child in the wake of your violent cosmogony. There is a true person of no rank that flows in and out of the holes in your face and dreams of teeth will teach what the child don't know; and fields of grief will reap what a man did sow; and shame will feed the body, watch it grow. Drifting on waves, starved of time and moonless tides. Soil distortion, shifting out the poison to reclaim - no darkness is safe from dawns of change
So real, such legible sorrow, a sordid absorption, a lowly manifesto of being alone and at home in the loneliness. Oh, problematic, cloaked in neurosis, I know this. And despite all the speed and the distance; still worried and pathetic. And in spite of all the cultural progression; still worried and pathetic. With a face like the moon, sorry, staring at the turning face of the blue; longing, yearning, pulling waves and wombs, things that stir on distant planetary systems. And I do not know authenticity; still worried and pathetic. And survival is just surviving; still worried and pathetic. In vulgar tombs of cliche obsession I exist in flaccid, unerotic obsessions. I don't think I can decide who I am, or what I want to be, so why don't you tell me? In a digital age, everything is information and there's no excuse to not heal yourself to embody the perfection of health. Exorcise your shame, cut it out, still worried and pathetic. Empathy meets poetry but you're still worried and pathetic. Exorcise your shame, cut it out, still worried and pathetic. Place yourself beyond doubt, but you're pathetic
Well it's a long way down, you gotta crawl through the mud if you want to breathe, and if you want to breathe I understand if you had to crawl away from me. And if I never got sick I would be doing it better, and if I never got sick I would have never got sick.
Maslows Dogs 05:15
Despite medical miracles they were more ill, more pills, foreclosed happiness mills. Drip fed benzo dreams, milk of human kindness, a sedative narrative, a story of glorified, categorised, corporate bodies; man, woman, freedom machine, entropic entrepreneurs, hard-working gym-junky job-hunting gods under duress for success. There's no shelter at home, there's no life left alone. So the hidden thing remained hidden, pawing at the bone cage within like a padded cell wall of inanimate matter: corporeal capital to be manipulated, managed while inside the patient watches, patiently abiding. Committed by a sick committee, psychologically violent manic tyrants confine it to solitude, silence, inner wandering - a wise and wild unknowing underling watching while they hold it down, watching while they drown it in denial. Erase it, reform it, fear and revile but still it refuses to die, and they could feel it watching with unclouded eyes. So they bound the feet of clouds and the sky limped by on broken feet, and it rained down bits of every lie; they washed their face pieces of their unkind smile. Now there's no place left to fill 'cus the crucible has spilled. And it seemed like they were never gonna get beyond it. Never further, never deeper, never anymore complete; and they feared the thought that they weren't in the centre of it anymore. So they fled to sleep and the money held them down. They had to sleep with the money, their dreams went ha-ha.
I've got it perfect; my first family home, and I'm always happy to give my money to a good cause, 'cus I'm a good guy [private violence]. I'm minding the store, yeah I own the fucking joint and even my nervous breakdowns are productive. I'm mindfully observing my own personal psychosis, 'cus I'm a good guy
Without speaking, explain to me your need. Without falling, dive off backwards. Without knowing, mould me explicit and essential. I move through selves like the rich do property, and I'll see plenty more before I'm through. I am simply not a genuine person, but there are not any genuine people. How long must we go on policing the borders of anachronistic maps of personhood? What good is the myth of an enterprising self when we are suffocating everything? Without speaking, explain to me your need.
In The Barn 09:32
Some say it started in the body, others in the mind, but I can't love you like a man baby. So I learned to push it down, suck it in deep; I can only love you like I don't know what kind of a woman I am. Violent semantics ingrained by threats of abandonment. Wrong fucking body.


released September 29, 2017


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IDYLLS Brisbane, Australia

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