It’s a beautiful day.
Take a breather.
Here’s something to listen to while you do.
One of the first articles I read this morning was on the mourning habits of the marmoset. This chunk leapt out at me:
…several months after her death, the male disappeared from the marmoset group, never to be seen again.
And gave chase
Looping over and…
getting tangled-up,
in everything.
Like how every pop and shush
of steam from the coffee maker
is nestled in woven loops of
never to be heard of again
Maybe that’s why I never made that second cup.
I mean, fuck—out pops a clown:
if all I get out of it is grief,
why should I even turn you on,
oh ye coffee pot o’ doom!
That was close wasn’t it.
You can always count on a clown,
though, ride in last minute,
keep you alive another day.
The lone survivor of the ambush and subsequent tortures suffered survivor’s guilt and post traumatic stress disorder for his remaining days. Mostly in bed waiting to hear from an ally.
Solace never came. No trust or hope now. Just ruin. Ruin and decay. And one lone broken poet spreading the story, but leaving off the ending—he will have none think ill of his ally.
Continue reading Call it love.
experimental, ambient, drone
a l0BIT release
The universe came into being in a spontaneous expression of love and very quickly regretted it. http://t.co/bdAfm5GmWz
— Franklyn Monk (@fqmonk) April 12, 2014