20130508_192555

Recording Eight

Here’s a new track. I rushed through it last night. I’m experimenting with the generative audio equivalent of the literary cut-up technique. Did it by hand though, as I’m not as capable as I want to be with coding music. I developed the logic but couldn’t figure out where to begin with coding it, I gonna look into creating Audio Unit plugins, that’s probably what I need.

In the meantime enjoy Recording Eight, it features 74 seconds of audio from a 21 minute recording I made this summer, probably while drunk. I don’t know why I choose the segments I did, I sped through and choose what sounded cool.

Podcast URL: http://fmonk.quasigentsia.com/archives/6495

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inTheEvening

In the Evening

Here’s a spooky little number I composed over Halloween.

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building

Building

More blood
And more pus
And goo
Red streaks leading to
Bottomless pits
Gushing and pooling
Sickly red in afternoon glare
Garish garish
And the chisel slips
And the hammer
Smashes your thumb
Again
Only this time you don’t scream
You take another blow
The pain, yeah it’s there
But you bear it
The path needs building
And you’re the builder
The bricks need a saving
And your the savior
Finger tips worn smooth
Split and crack and ooze
Hamstrings strained and popping
Arms and knuckles and muscles and joints and skin
Pounded into submission helplessness
It’s all rough and hard and blunt
Sharp and gritty and dusty and muddy
Mosquito clouds your vision
A scorpion numbs your thumb and you carry on
Covered head to toe in poison ivy
Defiant as love
You pound and lift and hack
And strain and twist and pull
Nothing else to do
Path need be built

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freqOut

FreqOut

I haven’t been making these in a while. Here’s one I created…I don’t know when, a while back. Originally known as Frequency Out because it was a mixed down backtrack of a larger project that I never got around to completing. FreqOut made me snigger, so that’s what I went with.

Feel free to use it in your project if it fits, or just listen to it in the background while you paint, or meditate or write, or whatever. It should stay out of your way enough to concentrate, while challenging you enough that you don’t fall asleep.

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Recursion

I quiver blind and deaf
Wind and gravity and light
Define a tumbling body
Blurred rough black against black
A shadow floating over a void
And skeleton bikers crash
Through rifts on flaming hogs,
Spewing flaming daisies
From their tailpipes.
Laughing skeletons riding bitch
Seed fresh ruin with dead
Rabbits drawn from top hats.
A poet tumbles through
A membrane. A puff of smoke
Materializes and dissipates
On a forming horizon
Faintly glowing red
From fires of creation.
No one notices.
The skeleton bikers,
And their bitches miss it.
Surly the rabbits miss it,
And if the daisies noticed,
They kept it to themselves—
Perhaps out of hope
The poet would save them.
But poet gone.
Poet not coming back.
You’re only hope, dear daisies,
Is that you painted a scene
Captivating enough to
Hold a poet.
Make it rubbery elastic,
Gooey and sticky.
Make it flypaper and
Catch a poet.
Make it sharp and deep,
So when I come crashing through,
I capture at least your essence,
A poem for the poet.

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Tis of Thee

The nation needs your compliance,
If you’re willing.
I am, for enough money, sure.
It might be hard
To live with you’ll be doing.
But I may be
Able to eat my guilt away.

He died the next week.
The patten repeated,
A number of times.
Until, eventually,
The program was cut.

It was inefficient
Or too expensive
Or they found a better way.

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Down and Broken

And I still know
Nothing about poetry
Something like mosquitos
I bet
Stalking and sneaking,
Loud and annoying ly
Demanding blood.

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The Chosen

She past out in front
Of the tv slumped over
Hours and hours of religious
Programming glory glory
Halauluah and Jesus wants
Your gold and we are the last
Generation who will have
To toil away on earth.

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Onrush

You came to being
In a burst of white noise
But it’ll be forty years
Before you have the words
To remember how
Form solidified from formless
In a cascade of nervous impulses
Learning to integrate in an instant
And in the next there were things
And a before
The world formed
Around you
Instantly and whole
With past and sudden future

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Because Fuck It

I spit something out
Wonder what it is
And get back to writing
It could be my crumbling teeth,
Or ants, another bee,
Spiders perhaps.
Dirt, could be dirt,
or grounds or leaves.
My mouth feels brown and murky
No telling what’s coming next
What will slither or ooze out
Slip or spit out
But it’ll be dark
And pungent
And hidden.

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Little make-believes in the shape of poems.