lurex

I JUMP ON A HIGH SPEED TRAIN
I'LL NEVER LOOK BACK AGAIN
I FLAIL LIKE THE ANTELOPE.
WHO JUMPED FROM THE BUILDING
High Speed Train - R.E.M.

Expose your face to late afternoon
breath
the wind goes right through you
across your hard envelopes
sees what others can't see
things you're unable to acquire
to give away
to set you free.
So keep going in your prison
enlightened now
by a blow of temporary relief
keep going in a spin-dryer
of highs and depths.
How does it feel
how do you feel
stand besides your fears
with head up
you see miracles
but your life is dump
you-calling
someone to interfere
like this wind
to soothe you
the soot
this breeze
sweeps away
in a blink

Knots and grain

They say untie the knots
and you will fly
guess
What is like
surfing
after unfastening
the moorings
I think I will never know
for the moment
I please myself
with ground immersion
and an underexposed sun
used to
galleries
of an elaborated dweft
where I can hide
where I can lose
where I can lose
What if the biggest ship
could carry the lands
playing the tug-of-war games
which would win then?
I can feel that
feel that excess
weight
bend under it
don't get me wrong
it's more crazy than gloomy
more love than indifference
positive than pessimist
cause it's all in a grain

all in a grain

Tell the darkness what you're thinking
Tell the darkness what you see
You got everything you wanted
In the darkness you are naked
In the darkness you are near
You got everything you wanted

Oh the world will never hear your pain
Oh the world will never hear you cry
Fly, the way you fly
Fly, the way you fly
Fly, the way you fly

Permission - Joseph Arthur -

Di' all'oscurità quello che stai pensando
Di' all'oscurità quello che vedi
hai avuto tutto quello che volevi
nell'oscurità sei nudo
nell'oscurità sei vicino
Hai avuto tutto quello che volevi

Oh il mondo non sentirà mai il tuo dolore
Oh il mondo non ti sentirà mai piangere
Vola, nel modo in cui sai volare
Vola, nel modo in cui sai volare
Vola, nel modo in cui sai volare

The silence
has brought these noises
Noises are turning into
silence
again

I wanna be a stupid and shallow mutherfucker now
I wanna be a tough skinned bitch but I don't know how
I WANNA BE A SHINY NEW BABY WITH A SPONGY BRAIN
I wanna be a horse filled with fire that will never tame

Pig - Sparklehorse

This machine will, will not communicate
These thoughts and the strain I am under
Be a world child, form a circle
Before we all go under
And fade out again and fade out again

Cracked eggs, dead birds
Scream as they fight for life
I can feel death, can see its beady eyes
All these things into position
All these things we'll one day swallow whole
And fade out again and fade out again

Immerse your soul in love
IMMERSE YOUR SOUL IN LOVE
- RADIOHEAD -

from "NON SI MUORE TUTTE LE MATTINE" by VINICIO CAPOSSELA
We need to sprout , become infected, in order to impress the soul on a recording plate. There should be no artificiality, It's the soul that has to irradiate on its own, It's the recording plate that matters. Or else if we are feverish, mobile like dogs on the road, make it impress by itself, on the way.
Be recorded, have the number plate noted on the run. It must be life, that doesn't leave anyone alone, to propagate again, to reproduce.
(...)
Into delirious men of mystery is being put delirium inside, they have no quarter, they must deposit, like salmons deposit eggs, upstream and become monsters, monsters of love.
(...)
It catches us, magic, with no advise and messes up all the cadaster. Nothing bears the big motion, the underground and supreme agitator. It mixes and keep changing what seems invariable from the outside. Life is a drill, the great dill.
Changing faces of things, it turns them like quartzes and forces us to search among, dazed, getting lost and sighting continually. It's the age perhaps, the final age, the one clouded by the quantity. Things overlap. We reach everything, everything is within reach... continents, souls, recordings, everything is communicating, delirious, deviant, we've never held the course less than this... we need some sealed prisons, and again it arrives and reaches them, the tentacular net, the networks of streets, network of waves... the net, the Net!
(...)
Vertigo, Magic, all that makes you reopen your eyes, ears... God! It's perhaps always God this colic of life and imagination, of loneliness and of... more and more, forcing you to stay in the rooms, in the basements, under the level of streets, to hear better. To auscultate everything. (...)
We know and pile up everything, not even dreams leave us alone, they swell up, they form, they sink, they don't give us peace.
It's the flow. The landslip. The landslide! Nothing can stand still, nothing stays the same, and all the things that remain motionless root and decompose by their own
It's life this movement... this landslide.
Life which flows for those who are in the current and wilts in the scabies of close waters. And if it doesn't run over us, however it flows somewhere else.
(...)
Outside the city works on hips, on din. It burns, swears and consumes. The whole land embraced by asphalted tapes, embanked by buildings, overheated, generating, devoured, it explodes in wild nights, in the steaming darkness, in seaquakes, it struggles and shakes as it can. You can hear it persisting from the outside like a primordial crucible, pervaded by some jabbering music recalling each other. Meanwhile I remain here inside, clung like behind a boulder, an exile rock... sheltered from the flood, from the living artery of life.
If It's only on limpid waters you can reflect, then cure me, God of quantity, from the worry and from me!
Give it to me to enjoy the incommensurable quantity, but do not flood me, do not make me lose myself in the nothingness, in noise, in stagnation, do not make me sort my days in those little sweet forms, cause no day is a tube. It's a blowhole...
Give it again to my heart ... my heart! It died a thousand times at least, my heart. It even lived dying, smouldering the death in itself, kept it stuck, well tight, without distinguish it, and died one hundred times a day. It's life... but it's quiet sure, we don't die every mornings, we die only once.

Germogliare bisogna, infettarsi, in modo da imprimere sulla lastra di registrazione l'anima. Non ci devono essere artifici, e' l'anima di suo che deve emanare, la lastra soltanto conta.
Oppure ancora, se si e' febbricitanti, mobili come cani per strada, farla imprimere da sola, al passaggio.
Venire registrati, farsi prendere la targa in corsa.
Dev'essere la vita che non lascia in pace nessuno per propagarsi ancora, per riprodursi.
(...)
Ai farneticanti del mistero e' stata messa dentro la farneticazione, non hanno requie, devono depositare, come i salmoni le uova, controcorrente e diventare mostri, mostri d'amore.
(...)
Ci prende, la magia, senza avvertire, e scompiglia tutto il catasto. Niente regge al grande moto, all'agitatore sotterraneo e supremo. Esso rimescola e cambia di continuo quello che da fuori sembra invariabile. E' una trivella la vita, la grande trivella.
Cambia faccia alle cose, le rigira come quarzi e costringe a cercarci in mezzo, storditi, perdendoci e avvistando di continuo. E' l'epoca forse, l'ultima epoca, quella ottenebrata dalla quantita'. Si accavallano le cose. Tutto si raggiunge, tutto e' raggiungibile... continenti, anime, registrazioni, tutto e' comunicante, farneticante, deviante, mai si e' potuto tenere la rotta meno di cosi'... ci vogliono prigioni sigillate, e ancora le arriva e le raggiunge la rete tentacolare, la rete della strade, la rete delle onde... la rete, la Rete!
(...)
La vertigine, la magia, tutto quello che fa riaprire gli occhi, le orecchie... Dio! E' forse sempre Dio questa colica di vita e di immaginazione, di solitudine e di... ancora e ancora, che costringe a restare nelle stanze, negli scantinati, sotto il livello delle strade, per sentire meglio. Per auscultare tutto quanto.(...)
Tutto si conosce e si ammucchia, nemmeno i sogni lasciano in pace, si gonfiano, si formano, si inabissano, non danno requie.
E' il flusso, la frana, lo smottamento! Niente puo' stare fermo, niente rimane uguale, e tutto quello che resta fermo marcisce e si decompone da solo.
E' la vita questo movimento... questo smottamento.
La vita che scorre per chi e' nella corrente e deperisce nelle scabbie delle acque chiuse. E se anche non ci investe, scorre comunque da un'altra parte.
(...)
Fuori la citta' lavora ai fianchi, a fracasso. Brucia, impreca e consuma. La terra intera abbracciata dai nastri asfaltati, arginata dalle costruzioni, surriscaldata, generante, divorata, esplode nelle notti selvatiche, nell'oscurita' fumigante, nei maremoti, si divincola e scuote come puo'. La si sente da fuori accanirsi come un crogiolo primordiale, pervasa da musiche che cicalano richiamandosi l'un l'altra. Io intanto rimango qui dentro, aggrappato come dietro un masso, uno scoglio d'esilio... al riparo della piena, dell'arteria viva della vita.
Se e' solo nell'acqua limpida che ti puoi specchiare, allora guariscimi, Dio della quantita', dall'affanno e da me!
Dammene da godere della quantita' incommensurabile, ma non ingolfarmi, non farmi perdere nel niente, nel frastuono, nel ristagno, non farmi incasellare i giorni in quelle formette da dolci, giacche' nessun giorno e' una vaschetta. E' uno sfiato...
Danne ancora al mio cuore... il mio cuore! E' morto mille volte almeno, il mio cuore. Ha vissuto addirittura morendo, covando la morte in se', se l'e' tenuta attaccata, ben stretta, senza distinguerla, ed e' morto cento volte al giorno. E' la vita... ma e' certo, non si muore tutte le mattine, si muore una volta sola.

Alice

stump

Stucky*
Paul
Melissa

M