Friday, July 17, 2015

Friday, July 10, 2015

Friday, April 3, 2015

Monday, March 2, 2015

Monday, September 15, 2014

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


Git U Uh JangLe WAAnd babies

Thursday, May 1, 2014



in the trenches of tender piss shine

lake of deceit is humming,

the catatonic lepers of time

without grass in teeth, without yearning in mouth

quit basking in fleshy trash

lawd is crying for you

underneath your mother's tomb where we git slightly nauseous

from fucking the stars constantly

slip me your last psychic death wish

but don't breathe a word

i've got several thousand arrows

impaling clouds where there is no wind


Wednesday, April 30, 2014


where the pork empire feasts on our feelings

in the dying light of the day gods

The SmokeWind breathes Us baked bodies

One must be reborn Again into the encapsulated larvae, the corrugated

My response to a filament is a course that is taking me like I’m a
particle of leaking rain on this ball of cotton.

We spent the hypothesis of Soul-Death unconsciously,
                while waiting in lines of corpuscles.

Poisoned extension to ward off the market predators
        whose transient toxicism transpires through Thought-Songs.

We don’t need to drown it out, but drink it in.

The taste of dirt is never spoken here.

        Mother of surfeit collapse at my feet.

I can open the wounds and crawl in to fester.

The curdled smile of a priest cracks the night open.

In the name of Jesi, cursed with airy preference amongst waves,
                allowed to shake catatonically with Maggot.

Breathe deep the hum of Monotony, sweeping the mind matter into piles 

we’ll bury your face in the shavings of them dead trees,
and wrap your veins in their leaves

                                you ancient Aeon o’ Decay.

Here are the seasons we were once aware of.

A mirror was manifested out of my third eye.
It was always a Little big God

Tuesday, April 29, 2014


Different States of Hearing
          A review of Ramble Tamble / Them Natives / Isidro / Ant’Lrd
by Anthony Vacca
Music is transcendental. If this is a statement you don’t believe, then you should have borne witness to the August 5th show at the Forge, featuring Chicago-based act Ant’lrd—Colin Blanton of Birmingham originally—and New Orleans-based Isidro, as they headlined a show that couldn’t have been more aptly wrapped in a neat, thematic bow.
Setting the stage with their very first notes, local act Ramble Tamble, headed by guitarist Turner Williams, embarked the audience on an aural free-form sojourn conducted through the means of a Shahi Baaja—an electrically modified Indian banjo for those who don’t speak Hindi—with a backing of keyboards and drums, the latter manned especially for this particular event by none other than Blanton himself. The steady prog-rock percussion carries the listener through the first experimental jazzesque movement of their set, creating an over-all wavelength of synthesized effects and piercing whines from the Williams’ Shahi Bajaa. While Blanton effortlessly shifts back in forth in speed, never fully bringing the drumbeat to a stop and thus acting as the grounding factor of each section; Williams, on the other hand, transmogrifies his sound into a fuzzy wail à la Jimi Hendrix before making his instrument live up to its namesake by bringing the set to its climax with an eastern warble of strings. The listener is left with the image of some cyberized ceremony heard in passing through the haze of an acid-tinged gale.
Them Natives followed up with their by-a-thread song structures and 1960’s sensibility of the weird. Even though short a regular drummer, this local band played their chilled freak-out tunes, never sweating the loss for a discordant second. Starting off with a straight-ahead off-kilter rock and roll song, the band quickly throws the audience for a loop as they make an ethereal-paced transition into mystical territories by implementing an odds and ends assortment of instruments such as an autoharp, tambourines, maracas, a wooden flute, a nakara, a guiro, and a shruti box. The band weaves a tapestry of unearthly folk-pop songs, each showcasing ghostly sing-a-long harmonies and burial ground grooves. Them Natives seems to be a band concerned with the physical and spiritual procession of life, but don’t let this give you the impression that there is anything solemn about what they do. Them Natives go about their performance not so much as a band at work, but instead more akin to participants in a communal celebration of life, death, and, of course, music.
A ghost in the machine. This is the phrase that comes to mind after experiencing Isidro’s set. Entrenched behind a table strewn with boards and knobs emitting forth a piebald LED glow, Isidro Lanning Robinson harnesses his techno-wizardry to meld an over-all tone of the synthetic versus the organic. His music harkens back to the grit and gnashing teeth of late 1980’s electronic music, replete with motorized whirrs and beeps of industrial machinery. This is not to say that there is anything derivative about Isidro; his songs are uniquely characterized by his vocals, which alternate between low robotic moans to very-much alive echoed howls. It goes like this: Robinson lays down an initial beat on a board that then carries over into a loop throughout the length of each of his songs, lending a driving immediacy in direct opposition to the dissonant effects seeking to overshadow his grooves. It’s the beats that keep Isidro from an easy definition of Industrial music; they are like pulsing organs pressing through a metallic skin, urging the listener to understand that there is something very much alive beneath it all, something that can feel pain. 
It’s worth noting the difference of approach here with Ant’lrd, the headliner of the night, than with his predecessor. Blanton’s equipment is minimal, and he keeps it all close to himself, hunkered down above his boards and keyboard on the concrete floor of the Forge. The audience follows suit by huddling together and sitting with their legs crossed in front of him, as if the night has suddenly reached the moment of reflection through meditation. A soft churning of sounds continuously builds through his music. You hear pieces of songs, glimpses of commercials and television programs, snippets of half-heard conversations, all of this accumulating to an experience not unlike synesthesia. Blanton’s music is the sounds of the mind tirelessly working through a lifetime of auditory input, making associations through an ocean of memory that comes together in the synchronicity of a rhythm full of the foreboding reverb of ambience. It’s as if Blanton is beckoning the listener to cast aside notions of time, slip off the vestments of the self, and into the stream of a collective sound that is in and of itself a kind of beauty.
Earlier, this review spoke of sojourns, and if you wonder whether such a term carries any weight in describing the night, then you need only have seen the audience as they stood up to leave following Ant’lrd’s performance. After such a myriad of stylistic excursions, the audience made its way home that night talking of a particular feeling of calmness and ease. The word they were looking for is catharsis.


Friday, April 25, 2014


Thursday, April 17, 2014

Ancient Mem'ries

We are right now living in an ancient civilization

         our temple is a dilapidated house slowly falling off the side of the mountain
a mysterious ruin once inhabited by forgotten people

all them years just a burning to the ground
    our mem'ries a flowing echo

Time strands unravelling

The part spectral ghost of motion returned Comrade as smoked dog
This corroded curtain of golden curls baking out in noonday thought
Heard     smelt         sure was pleasure down under the hoofed mime’s plane

                It got real quiet within
seeing the unfolding of epochs
Bare         unequal     swollen arms unpreviously known to themselves
The Flowering Flames drug insues                    beyond valley mills drains
We must have slept along the way                  before mulched wine spiral
    is stark stream lover. While still being another.
Them e-mergers, hovering demon swelled will.                Burrows in mind
another converscent hum still.

This day I have left to the wind.

It is not cold yet,
but my blisters are already coming back.
My dormancy must’ve been burnt out.

Now monotony comes to collect all the pieces of the things I’ve collected.
I, the wind, careless, taking

time to discern melodies.
 I watched the genius species

fight the fire while moonlighted thru the leaves.
This was some image I could take away & not ever desire

Someone said that it felt like the end of time & I just wandered around watching them burn it

I chose to find the demons & they were inside me when I looked down.
I tried to find their roots

cut em out
 Only their shadows were reminders, I couldn’t even watch their faces change into insects.

The woods where my seed was planted glowed, I hovered thru them & smelt the process pulling me in

 I won’t abandon the Silent wind,

I will find my children,                 let them breathe the air that I’ll save for them.
    The fever makes me sad afterwards.

Celestial Veil. The twofold life process.

It was unattainable.
Across the river
the desolate afternoon fed on the distant cattle

Who remembered that Witch’s birth on the Crescent of Illusion?
Some ill-tempered fantasy of Sun gods still in remorse,
considering the Silence from which they were born.

This is where Here is.
where the pork empire feasts on our feelings,
“where a sterile environment still feels warm.”
in the dying light of the day gods,         Swarming.
        Those sun speckles that the insect freckles dent.
        The SmokeWind breathes Us baked bodies.
Base or malignant                 that which is reborn.

One must be reborn Again into the encapsulated larvae,
                        the corrugated fever.

My response to a filament is a course that is taking me like I’m a particle of leaking rain on this ball of cotton.
    Those bull feathers wizarding spider blood on son’s graves.
    They were the soft killers,
        preserved as sugar,
they swept the storms.
We spent the hypothesis of Soul-Death unconsciously,
        while waiting patiently in lines of empty corpuscles.

        You medians of culture!
            You swamps!         breathing nitrous foment into the Wind-Ears
                            must have made an illegal decision.
Instead of the blissful elimination of All-Time w/ Heatwaves,
 it will be the slow sink of Icy Sleep
    in which your children will lunge, hop, scotch,
& fulfill all their parent’s dreams.
                you ancient Aeon o’ Decay.

Then we’ll bury your face in the shavings of them dead trees,
and wrap your veins in their leaves.
    Here are the seasons we were once aware of.
A mirror was manifested out of my third eye.
It was always a Little big God.

The wind has closed in on our dream.

those red blinking lights up on the hill, that's where satan sleeps.
all the other lights in the valley are his thoughts.

A Temple was founded by a shadow of remorse that extended from the control tower growing out of the ghost mine.

The shell is composed of wind,
the garbage grows like Kudzu from within.

It has survived thus far due to the support of supernatural symbols and mythical charity.
Thanks to all amongst the decay who have enjoyed this process

Garbage is the underlying theme.
Without which we would not understand our history of the future.

Monday, April 14, 2014