lb

This code is for a teensy-lc powered midi controller with 11 touch sensors (i used tinfoil and single wires). 9 of the touch sensors are programmed to play a midi note (middle c) on separate channels. The two remaining touch sensors can be assigned to more notes, as they're programmed, or easily midi mapped to be sends for delay and reverb. Any DAW with midi mapping capability should be able to recognize this controller. Also, I use the midi instrument "simpler" to make it a sampler, but the options are pretty endless. Use the Arduino IDE and save the code as a .ino file. int ledPin = 13; // choose the pin for the LED int inputPin = 1; // choose the input pin (for PIR sensor) int inputPin1 = 0; int touchRead_pin = 0; int touchRead_pin1 = 1; int touchRead_pin2 = 3; int touchRead_pin3 = 4; int touchRead_pin4 = A9; int touchRead_pin5 = A8; int touchRead_pin6 = A5; int touchRead_pin7 = A4; int touchRead_pin8 = A3; int touchRead_pin9 = A2; int touchRead_pin10 = A1; bool tr; bool tr1; bool tr2; bool tr3; bool tr4; bool tr5; bool tr6; bool tr7; bool tr8; bool tr9; bool tr10; bool tr11; int data; void setup() { // put your setup code here, to run once: pinMode(ledPin, OUTPUT); // declare LED as output pinMode(inputPin, INPUT); // declare sensor as input pinMode(inputPin1, INPUT); Serial.begin(115200); } void loop() { // put your main code here, to run repeatedly: data = touchRead(touchRead_pin); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 2); tr = false; } } else { if (tr == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 2); tr = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin1); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr1 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 3); tr1 = false; } } else { if (tr1 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 3); tr1 = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin2); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr2 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 1); tr2 = false; } } else { if (tr2 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 1); tr2 = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin3); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr3 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 4); tr3 = false; } } else { if (tr3 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 4); tr3 = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin4); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr4 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 10); tr4 = false; } } else { if (tr4 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 10); tr4 = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin5); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr5 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 11); tr5 = false; } } else { if (tr5 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 11); tr5 = true; } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin6); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr6 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 6); tr6 = false; } } else { if (tr6 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 6); tr6 = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin7); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr7 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 5); tr7 = false; } } else { if (tr7 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 5); tr7 = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin8); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr8 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 7); tr8 = false; } } else { if (tr8 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 7); tr8 = true; } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin9); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr9 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 8); tr9 = false; } } else { if (tr9 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 8); tr9 = true; } } data = touchRead(touchRead_pin10); Serial.println(data); if (data > 2000) { if (tr11 == true) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 9); tr11 = false; } } else { if (tr11 == false) { usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 9); tr11 = true; } } delay(100); while (usbMIDI.read()); { } usbMIDI.send_now(); { } } } }

This code is for a midi controller made with a Teensy LC, 2 PIR sensors, 3 capacitive touch sensors, and 4 piezos. This allows for the device to be controlled using footsteps (directly on the piezos) and capacitive touch sensors (literally a live wire and some foil) to trigger samples through mapping onto different notes on the midi piano roll. In Ableton this was done with the Simpler midi instrument, but the possibilities are pretty endless. The PIR sensors act as control changes, mapped to the delay and reverb sends to the master track. This allows the user to control delay and reverb by their proximity to the sensors. Again, the control change can be used for endless posibilities, and thanks to midi mapping, anything is achievable, even with a simple homemade midi controller.


/*
 * veryexcited!
 */
 
int ledPin = 13;                // choose the pin for the LED
int inputPin = 1;               // choose the input pin (for PIR sensor)
int inputPin1 = 0;
int pirState = LOW;             // we start, assuming no motion detected
int pirState1 = LOW; 
int val = 0;                    // variable for reading the pin status
int sensorValue = 0;  // variable to store the value coming from the sensor
int sensorValue1, sensorValue2, sensorValue3, sensorValue4;
int sensorValue10, sensorValue20, sensorValue30, sensorValue40;
bool sv1s, sv2s, sv3s, sv4s;
int touchRead_pin = A5;
int touchRead_pin1 = A8;
int touchRead_pin2 = 3;
int touchRead_pinValue = 0;
int touchRead_pinValue1 = 0;
int touchRead_pinValue2 = 0;
bool tr;
bool tr1;
bool tr2;
int data;
 
void setup() {
  pinMode(ledPin, OUTPUT);      // declare LED as output
  pinMode(inputPin, INPUT);     // declare sensor as input
  pinMode(inputPin1, INPUT);
  Serial.begin(115200);
}
 
void loop(){

  if (sensorValue1 != sensorValue10){
    if (sensorValue1 > 150){
      if (sv1s == true){
        usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 4);
        sv1s = false;
      }
    }
  } 
  else { 
    if (sv1s == false) {
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 4);
      sv1s = true;
    }
  }
  if (sensorValue2 != sensorValue20){
    if (sensorValue2 > 150){
      if (sv2s == true){
        usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 5);
        sv2s = false;
     }
    }
  }
  else { 
    if (sv2s == false){
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 5);
      sv2s = true;
    }
  }
  if (sensorValue3 != sensorValue30){
    if (sensorValue3 > 150){
      if (sv3s == true){
        usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 6);
        sv3s = false;
      }
    }
  } 
  else { 
    if (sv3s == false){
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 6);
      sv3s = true;
    }
  }
  if (sensorValue4 != sensorValue40){
    if (sensorValue4 > 150){
      if (sv4s == true){
        usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 7);
        sv4s = false;
      }
    }
  } 
  else { 
    if (sv4s == false){
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 7);
      sv4s = true;
    }
  }
  data = touchRead(touchRead_pin);
  Serial.println(data);
  if (data >4000) {
    if (tr == true) {
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 1);
      tr = false;
    }
  } 
  else { 
    if (tr == false){
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 1); 
      tr = true;
    }
  }  
  data = touchRead(touchRead_pin1);
  Serial.println(data);
  if (data > 4000) {
    if (tr1 == true) {
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 8);
      tr1 = false;
    }
  } 
  else { 
    if (tr1 == false){
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 8); 
      tr1 = true;
    }
  }  
   data = touchRead(touchRead_pin2);
  Serial.println(data);
  if (data > 4000) {
    if (tr2 == true) {
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOn(60, 127, 10);
      tr2 = false;
    }
  } 
  else { 
    if (tr2 == false){
      usbMIDI.sendNoteOff(60, 0, 10); 
      tr2 = true;
    }
  }  
  
  //delay(100);
  
  val = digitalRead(inputPin);  // read input value - for PIR sensor
  if (val == HIGH) {            // check if the input is HIGH
    digitalWrite(ledPin, HIGH);  // turn LED ON
    if (pirState == LOW) {
      // we have just turned on
      Serial.println("Motion detected!");
      usbMIDI.sendControlChange(15, 127, 11);
      // We only want to print on the output change, not state
      pirState = HIGH;
    }
  } 
  else {
    digitalWrite(ledPin, LOW); // turn LED OFF
    if (pirState == HIGH){
      // we have just turned of
      Serial.println("Motion ended!");
      usbMIDI.sendControlChange(15, 0, 11);
      // We only want to print on the output change, not state
      pirState = LOW;
    }
  }
  
  val = digitalRead(inputPin1);  // read input value
  if (val == HIGH) {            // check if the input is HIGH
    digitalWrite(ledPin, HIGH);  // turn LED ON
    if (pirState1 == LOW) {
      // we have just turned on
      Serial.println("_Motion detected!");
      usbMIDI.sendControlChange(14, 127, 8);
      // We only want to print on the output change, not state
      pirState1 = HIGH;
    }
  } 
  else {
    digitalWrite(ledPin, LOW); // turn LED OFF
    if (pirState1 == HIGH){
      // we have just turned of
      Serial.println("_Motion ended!");
      usbMIDI.sendControlChange(14, 0, 8);
      // We only want to print on the output change, not state
      pirState1 = LOW;
    }
  }
  
   // touchRead_pinValue = touchRead(A5);
  //Serial.print(touchRead_pinValue);
  sensorValue10 = sensorValue1;
  sensorValue1 = analogRead(A0);
  Serial.print (" _ "); 
  sensorValue20 = sensorValue2;
  Serial.print(sensorValue1);   
  sensorValue2 = analogRead(A1); 
  Serial.print(" _ ");
  sensorValue3 = sensorValue30;
  Serial.print(sensorValue2); 
  sensorValue3 = analogRead(A2); 
  Serial.print(" _ ");
  sensorValue4 = sensorValue40;
  Serial.print(sensorValue3); 
  sensorValue4 = analogRead(A3); 
  Serial.print(" _ ");
  Serial.println(sensorValue4);
  delay(100);   
  while (usbMIDI.read()); {
  }
  usbMIDI.send_now();{
  }
  }

Gerald Kenny, 47, is eternally irate. He plays landlord to three buildings: Building A, 6505 St. Hubert; a crumbling warehouse in St. Henri; and Building C, 6501 St. Hubert. Grinding his teeth, he arrives at his third investment, home to his favourite object. He wrenches open the front door to Building C, and pulls it closed tightly behind him. He fails to acknowledge Sophia Penisula of #3 and her baby in a stroller behind him, and leaves them to open the door for themselves. He does notice 3 bicycles in the hallway, and starts shouting. This is his routine check-in with his tenants. He yells about the bicycles, unconcerned about safety, threatens that he's going to sell the lot if it's not clear by tomorrow because they, his tenants, are renting apartments; he still owns the hallway, and anything in it he can do what he wants with. Also he'll be raising the rent. Gerald Kenny kicks a bicycle, and in the basement, the dryer vent dislodges. The dingy room, filled with his shit to the rafters, nestling the tiniest possible washer and dryer combo, plumes with laundry steam. He yanks open that door and stumbles through the steam directly into the path of a 573lb anvil (a gift Kenny claimed to be from Lincoln himself) sliding from the rotting rafters. He is squashed vertically, mostly from the ribcage down. Tracey Artois, #5, after hearing his screams and discerning that "they were actually for help and not petty sexist remarks or complaints," finds him dead. Four out of the five tenants are home at the time of the death, and two, including Artois and Penisula, are present during the investigation. The other claims to still be sleeping, considering the case not worthy of pursuit. The police mostly agree: it was obviously a freak accident; the guy wasn't the most cautious, really, having the anvil up there in the rafters. But Detective Ester Auerbach, through the grime and cobwebs in the hallway, spots a shiny new pulley strung with nylon rope, fastened to the peeling roof with shiny new screws. She boosts herself up on one of the bikes littering the hallway, balancing with her other foot on the facing wall. She takes a screwdriver from her pocket and unfastens the pulley, then hopping down, pulls at its trail. She hears something shift in the basement: the dryer vent. The dryer had shut off by the time she arrived but Artois had informed Auerbach about the vent coming loose. The Detective finds another pulley-system attached to the basement door. She follows the rope to another pulley, fastened in the roof at an acute angle, tied to the rotting rafter where the anvil was wedged. She sighs and motions to her coworkers. "This was not an accident. What we have is murder, or at least something sinister and pre-meditated. Talk to all the tenants again: try to snoop around a bit while you talk to them, looking for nylon rope, new screws, hardware store receipts. If you have to, ask them if they've bought any of these items recently, but try to do it before you mention it could be murder." They go off, and Auerbach works at unfastening the other pulley. This had to do with Kenny being a landlord: the pulley-system meant that someone had access to the building including the basement, at least long enough to put the system up, know about the anvil, and have it in for Kenny. So far, according to Artois and Penisula, Kenny was a slumlord: he charged incredible rent for what little he actually gave his tenants, was terrible at fixing things, ignored calls and 'left the country' regularly, and he claimed that Lincoln gave him not just anything, but an anvil? Her coworkers return, with reports that the tenants claimed no such purchases had been made, that they "didn't exactly like the guy, but they would never kill someone, or conspire to, and what did they have to do now that their landlord was dead? Was the apartment theirs now?" Artois, however, had noticed some recent purchases on her debit card that were not hers--she offers to forward Auerbach her records. After finishing up at the crime scene, Detective Auerbach sits with a coffee and checks her phone. Her feed reads babies, deaths, federal judge ruling the continuation of the Dakota Access Pipeline, nuclear reactor waste still leaking from 2011, may leak again, spam; and then secure work emails, confidential, re: case xyz, bank transactions from t.artois@yahoo.com. She opens the email; Artois lists two paypass transactions she didn't do, dated the previous week: 07/09/16, 2:19PM: $19.95 at Don's Hobby Hardware Shop Inc. 07/09/16, 4:21PM: $6.59 at Arby's Artois assures Auerbach in the email that she hasn't visited an Arby's in over ten years, and has never even heard of the hardware shop. She was at work during the transactions, and is worried someone stole her card temporarily, maybe even made a copy? Or could someone have bumped into her on the metro, and stolen her info that way? The next day Detective Auerbach visits Don's Hobby Hardware Shop Inc, and asks to see their security footage. They inform her that the footage is cleared every night and is more for show than reference. However, they do sell the same pulley at their shop, in a pack of 4 for $19.95 including tax. And the nylon rope, but it's pretty common among most hardware stores. Auerbach decides to consult the other tenants of Building C, and see if they also had suspicious activity on their cards. She starts with apartment #1: Tyronium Ingles doesn't have paypass, and hasn't noticed any suspicious activity, but takes Auerbach's number just in case. Murad Smith of #2 has paypass and did notice a strange transaction: $16.20 at Meg's Yarn Barn. He found it ironic as he is allergic to wool. Auerbach asks him to forward his records and thanks him for his cooperation. Sophia Penisula of #3 mostly deals with cash, and only uses her credit card for large purchases. She does not have paypass. She wonders why anyone would want to make it easier to be a consumer. Zoari Bensato of #4 has paypass, sees it as a natural step in the right direction ("it allows accessibility to the disabled and elderly"), uses it constantly, and forwards their records to Auerbach on the spot. Two transactions are suspicious: $10 at Don's Hardware Hobby Shop Inc., and $6.59 at Arby's. They note that this was during the two hours they lost their debit card. They also haven't visited an Arby's in years. Detective Auerbach is sure these transactions have to do with the murder: but are the tenants lying? Did Artois and Bensato actually plot to kill Kenny over a couple of beef n' cheddar s? Or are they being framed by another, others? Motive is obvious--Kenny wasn't widely liked, and had lots of enemies; his record is full of misdemeanours and filed complaints. He definitely won't be missed. But these are regular people, these tenants, have no previous records with the police; why would they jeopardize their freedom, and their homes? Auerbach is inclined by Kenny's other behaviour to guess that he probably does not own in full any of his buildings, which means they'll be re-possessed by the banks and made profitable somehow. The Detective stops at Arby's on her way back to the hardware store. She has a feeling that the make and size of Velcro she found stuck to the top edge of the front door will match one sold at Don's. Surprisingly, Arby's has amazing security footage. Two cameras with a time stamp are continually running, using facial recognition software to predict and pre-prepare the client's orders. The feed from 4:21Pm on 07/09/16 shows a 20-something blond male, around 5'8", wearing bright yellow boots, who will most likely get 3 orders of curly fries and 1 coke. Auerbach watches 15 minutes before and after to verify that Artois wasn't in or around Arby's at that time. The Detective then finds the feed for Bensato's transaction and sees a 30-something brunette female (2 beef n' cheddars, 1 crispy fish and 1 sprite) with knitting needles protruding from her bag. At Meg's Yarn Barn, Auerbach asks about the woman at Arby's, showing the employees a screenshot of the footage. They identify her as Caroline Rodriguez, a loyal long-time customer of the shop. She had been in that day, and insisted on paying with paypass. She purchased two spools of yarn: one of low quality, and one of high. Auerbach takes note of Rodriguez's address on file: 6505 St. Hubert: Building A, owned by Gerald Kenny. Staking out Building A, the Detective sees Caroline Rodriguez exit the building, and 17 minutes later, the man with bright yellow boots enters with a key. Auerbach calls her team, and tells them to start writing their case reports: she's about to solve it. The Detective, knocking on Caroline Rodriguez's door, feels a twinge of guilt: so many houses and jobs in this city are just facets of a bigger exploitation system; it's hard not to feel bitter, or lose respect for other people. Rodriguez answers with a smile, which fades as Auerbach introduces herself. The Detective hears scuffling, and sees a flash of yellow scurry by the door. "There's no point, I know you did it, just let me come in so you can explain why. This doesn't have to be difficult, I am unarmed: let's talk. He can stay too, he is involved." She points to the curtain: it is quivering and trying to stifle a cough. The curtain coughs and gives birth to a blond young man. "Hi...I'm Yahama Frantz. I live in #3, in this building. Don't just put this on Caroline, it was a group effort: and it wasn't so much supposed to kill him as really scare him into maybe giving a shit about our buildings, other people, maybe be a bit nicer, not kick everything..." Auerbach learns what she already knew, but is still surprised she's right. "So you, the tenants from Building A, decided to implicate the tenants in Building C, because they are regular people--" "And we, also regular people, don't give a rat's ass about them," continues Frantz, "because at this point it's a Hobbesian god eat god world and at this point everyone has a bad side or at least it's more obvious, the bad side; it bares its teeth more." So Rodriguez copied the master key from Gerald Kenny for Building C, and with the help of Frantz and Bella Tanziu, their neighbour upstairs, entered and borrowed bank cards with paypass from the tenants in Building A, either when the tenants were working, or sleeping: "4-5AM is the best time for infiltration," pipes in Frantz. "We thought we wouldn't be found out, and if it was, it'd be pinned on them, or dismissed in court due to lack of evidence 'cause we used paypass. It's like untraceable, and I heard it doesn't even show up on some records." "I don't think you know how paypass works." Auerbach shrugs. "To be completely untraceable, you should have used cash, and not stopped by the Arby's; their highly advanced security footage led me to you." "Are you fucking kidding me?" "What about the multiple pulley-systems? The dryer vent I get, but the front door and the basement door rigged to the same function? Why two?" "Well, the first was to see whether he would hold open the door for the lady and her stroller," Frantz explains. "The Velcro on the top would have caught the wool if he had held the door completely open, and stopped the reaction." "But why the reserve pulley-system in the basement?" Auerbach is genuinely curious. "Why give him a chance if it was just in vain?" "Because holding open a door lets you think you're a decent person; it doesn't make you one," says Rodriguez. As she arrests Tanziu, Frantz, and Rodriguez, they remind her that although he did die and that was bad and not what they intended, "you gotta admit, the world is a better place without the likes of him." Auerbach doesn't know whether she agrees, but murder is what she investigates for work, and if people stopped killing each other, she'd be out of a job.

As soon as Sam said it, he knew it was a mistake. It seems anything you say after you come is awkward, is misplaced, even if it's praising your or your partner's performance. "I knew becoming an astronaut would get me laid more." Her face contorted, she scoffed at him, grabbed her sleek one piece and was out of his shuttle-pod before he could say Neil Armstrong. "Fuck her," he repeats after her scuttling image; "fuck her, even though I already did. Well, if that's how they fuck at least." You can't be sure, especially with all those tentacles coming out from her armpits. Was he supposed to suck them tenderly? She became more excited when we tangled his phalanges in them and pulled hard. And those claws! Like a crab. He had to remember to get his guide fixed soon. Or maybe he'd jumble up his translator more when the action started to get heavy, just to avoid things like this happening again. And it's not like he was lying when he said it. He was being perfectly honest, elated with his hypothesis becoming empirical evidence. He had set out, just as everyone else who sets out into this abyss, this ever-expanding void of universes, to explore all this shit floating about, including tiny planets which life-forms populate. His exploration was mostly research based, but of a different kind than most scientists; he is in search of the perfect mouth. Or orifice, he has to remember that mouths weren't always available, or could be multi-use for some species. Sam's real problem with space exploration was the lack of terminology--is political correctness even important? Even applicable? In translating his culture to another species, would anything actually stick? Would what he calls his mouth and what he calls a kiss be applicable to, say a Jupiter-born krokildil with four mouths and no eyes to speak of? And genitalia, that was a whole other asteroid game. Even with these obstacles, Sam had been doing alright. He had exchanged sexual favours, or at least what he interpreted as sexual favours, with over 665 species. But he had yet to find it: the perfect mouth. One that could encompass his entire manhood with one suckling intake and hold him there until, as they said back home, worlds collided. These worlds, he assumed, were his semen and the back of whatever throat or throat-like organ the species giving him fellatio had. Sam had never really understood such adages, like that one about chickens and counting their hatchlings. He had never even seen a chicken, only their desecrated flesh in vacuum-sealed packets. That was enough for him, and delicious when paired with the vacuum-sealed 'peas' from his stores. As he prepares the aforementioned meal, Sam consults his video records. As separate evaluation of the fellatio he'd received was a bit foggy by memory alone, he makes video and scent recordings for every one. The video is obvious, but the scent recordings, first patented back in 4.2..333 SD by Fenny Bankfrin, are the most important memory aids. He had already forgotten how his last conquest had smelt--but thanks to Bankfrin, his shuttle is flooded with her sickly sweet aroma: a touch of gingery racimbole, with top notes of fermented citrus and a base note which struck him deeply. It was a subtle, soiled aroma, probably the combination of her deep-purple genital juices and his salty human sweat. Sam has seen himself come so many times that any embarrassment he felt in response to his facial expressions had morphed into strange pride. He anticipates his twitching, his panting, more than he anticipates his partner's. He attributes this to commitment--he isn't out here searching for their reactions, but for someone to give him a reason to react differently, to react perfectly. What was it they called it back home? Oh yes, a 'blowjob'. What a quaint human word, he thinks. As his thrusters power up against the orange sand of the planet Translamda, he sets his course further outwards towards the edge of the Beginzam galaxy. He has heard wonderful things about the genitalia there, that it lights up and emitted radio waves when excited--and it was rumoured that a colony of boucheriatia lived out there! A whole species whose physique resembled the human mouth. Sam shudders as he imagines their capabilities--maybe this time he would be able to fit his whole body into them. 061213

for Jyotsana Singh At first, the smell is unbearable: hundreds of thousands of human musks co-mingling and clinging to the circulated, recycled air, permeating even the slick plastic benches, to then seep into your coat and stay there with you, like a ghost conglomerate. But, with repeated exposure, it became comforting proof that you are never as alone as you think you are, even in a population that has dwindled drastically since 2018. Humanity had given up on sight as a major sense since greenhouse gases clouded the atmosphere and substantially limited the amount of sunlight illuminating the earth's crust. Soon after a Northern and Southern Beep were installed in each hemisphere to aid in navigation. Whether travelling underground or street level, the view through tempered UV-resistant window is the same: yellowish-black smudge rubbing its back on your focus, blandly indistinguishable from the grey-yellow of the train car's interior. The pings of their stop cut Xerxes' attempts to make out the edges of the window from the blurred mass. They follow the pings to the interior of the station. The sky, filtered through filthy window, is a veil of yellow-grey smog. The station leads to escalators leads to Rockland, the shopping centre of Those Who the Light Hath Spared. A left turn at smell of roasting meat, another left at sounds of cursing and glass breaking, and a third to follow the whistling of a bar. The tune is polyrhythmic, and differs to advertise the specials of the week. Triplets over duplets means stock is running low. Xerxes locates the bar and whistles back the first movement of Mozart's twelfth sonata: they want tequila, two vials, but will take gin if necessary. The bar feels Xerxes' face with her hands and squeezes their earlobes to affirm the transaction. She then runs her hands over her bandolier, fingering the empty spots and remaining droppers, locates two, whistles that she has tequila and will contact Xerxes with an invoice. The bar deposits the droppers in Xerxes' outstretched hands and continues whistling the specials, the tune fading with distance. Xerxes sniffs for urine and garbage, and gropes toward a small niche between Vandelay Industries and an audiobook store. Squatting, they bring the dropper to their tongue, letting three drops fester, resisting the urge to salivate and thus dilute. The intense flavours of fermented agave and citrus notes followed by those of bile are borderline overwhelming, but this is one of the hedonistic pleasures left in 2030, so Xerxes really tries to prolong and savour it. Sufficiently tipsy, Xerxes uses the shopping mall sounds to navigate home before the forced attendance of tonight's ceremony. The audio book on the government conspiring against producing more oxygen in favour of profit has some very compelling evidence, and Xerxes is so very thirsty for proof that their current reality isn't the only one available. Ever since the Great Receding, after oxygen levels dropped to an all-time low, and after the Great Cleansing, when thousands deemed sub-human were sacrificed to the Ultimate Power, Xerxes had been studying. The government forces all citizens to worship the Ultimate Power through nightly ceremonies--as the sun's dying rays are refracted in the overly-polluted atmosphere, the visual effects are astounding explosions of violent oranges, purples, greens. So vivid that the average citizen, whose life other than during these two minutes every day, is completely void of any colours other than yellow and grey compounding into a confusing 2D hue, experiences an autonomous sensory response that they are coerced into believing is a spiritual experience, connecting them with the Ultimate Power. Xerxes had been aware of this coercion before listening to the audiobook. They had also figured that the government was using this "Ultimate Power" as fuel for profit. What else would explain clinging to office despite multiple coup attempts? And why not produce more oxygen, something that all humans, regardless of class or race, need to survive? A mere 109 steps away from their dwelling, Xerxes is frozen by the reverberation of LRADs announcing: COME WORSHIP AND BE CLEANSED OF YOUR SINS BY THE ULTIMATE POWER--TO IT WE OWE OUR LIVES, OUR HISTORY, AND OUR FUTURE! Masked riot squads saunter in through the residential aisles, lazily holding their shields and weapons. The squads' presence is enough: no longer does the populace actively resist, after witnessing countless others massacred for putting up a fight. The only way to avoid the ceremony is to hide in one of the many piles of garbage lying around and hold your breath until it begins. But today, I am equipped to resist and learn, thinks Xerxes,--I will not hide from the truth, but seek it carefully and with an open, relaxed and inebriated mind. Xerxes joins the grey throng of citizens being funnelled toward the Sanctuary for Those Who the Light Hath Spared. Every district has its own Sanctuary, the nearest neighbours being Those Who Are Meek and Therefore the Most Important to the east of the Northern Beep, and Those Who Serve None But the Ultimate to the west. Xerxes lags within the throng, peering desperately in the blank faces of citizens around them. The squads don't even seem to actively watch the citizens: their expressions are also blank, their lifeless eyes and earplugged noses seemingly floating on a pallid backdrop of skin and uniformed flesh, obscured by blast-proof plastic--just another day on the job, the complacent bliss of assuefaction. Upon entering the Sanctuary, the throng erupts in sighs and ahhhs; the room reeks with the most alluring scent known: two parts petrichor, one part new car smell. Xerxes remembers their earplugs, and stoops down to insert them into their nostrils. Immediately the Sanctuary transforms into a cold, uninviting place. Despite the plugs, Xerxes can taste the pungency of burning plastic on their tongue. They had previously attributed this sensation to intense pleasure. They also notice the guards arguing loudly over the throng. "EVERY DAY IS THE BLOODY SAME, SAL! IS TODAY THE DAY WE KILL THE LOT OF THEM AND SEND THEM TO THE CARBON HARVESTERS?" Xerxes becomes aware of a repetitive creaking and whooshing coming from above. "NAH, YOU FOOL, THAT'S TOMORROW. SHUT UP ALREADY, I HATE THE TASTE OF THIS PLACE ENOUGH TO KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT!" "THEY DON'T SEEM TO MIND, OR EVEN HEAR US..." "THAT'S CAUSE THEY'RE DRUGGED BY SMELL, YOU NEOPHYTE! NOW GET BACK TO WORK, IN SILENCE!" Xerxes feels something swoosh near their head, and ducks to dodge a swinging fleshy lump. Squinting and trying to time the next one to touch it, Xerxes begins to make out the movement of thousands of severed hands attached to giant ceiling fans. Lifeless fingers skim the heads of the throng. Xerxes is appalled: I always wondered what that tingling sensation on my scalp was stimulated by--how physical and disgusting. The burning sensation on their tongue increases as green light floods the sanctuary. The entire place is dead silent, the lifeless hands hanging limp, camouflaged in the green blur of everything. Xerxes closes their eyes. The delicate pattern of veins flashes yellow, green, orange, purple, so intense, that Xerxes second-guesses themself: are my eyes actually closed? Do my eyelids even exist?? And what is that buzzing?! A super-high frequency, swelling as if trapped in a feedback loop, blankets the Sanctuary. The room vibrates with this frequency, and although Xerxes is resisting, their heart vibrates to join its surroundings. It is so violent a sensation, and Xerxes worries: it feels as if my heart will ricochet up my chest, throat, and force itself through the gaps in my gritted teeth! Agh, I must resist! During situations like this, Xerxes finds it best to focus on hopes for the future: citizens running through fields of flowers, waterfalls, climbing trees, laughing, sharing, everything bathed in bright light, the pleasure of seeing clearly, choosing to watch the sunset instead of being forced into this charade. Focusing hard enough, Xerxes can cancel out everything else but these thoughts, and sometimes manages to smile, although their teeth are still clenched. The swooshing starts up again, and the frequency decreases in intensity as the LRADs announce: NOW YOU ARE FULFILLED GO AND BE GOOD CITIZENS THE ULTIMATE POWER BLESSES YOU and the throng is funnelled out of the Sanctuary back to the residential aisles. Xerxes lags behind the majority of the throng to remove and hide their plugs. The residential aisles' mixed bag of smells and sounds is comforting in contrast to the Sanctuary, and Xerxes is flooded with a need to preserve and celebrate humanity--I cannot give up on them, and I cannot let them give up on themselves, Xerxes reflects. Not if, but when my vision of the future happens, I will not need thanking, because it will be a return to the normalcy of proper human experience. Xerxes feels the way to their dwelling. It is bare, save for a small styrofoam cot, kerosene lamp, and a tape player. The audiobook on government conspiracy, acquired on the heliotrope market, will have to wait until tomorrow; Xerxes is exhausted. As they try to calm their body, still experiencing after-shock vibrations, Xerxes whispers to themself the last thing their best friend, Qfwfq, said before being sacrificed after his aboriginal heritage was uncovered. Xerxes has found that repeating it is comforting enough to bring upon the blankness of sleep. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped.Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped.Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of truth are reconciled, we are all trapped. Do not give up, Xerxes: until the pursuit of happiness and the

i/ Phil's life was dull, and Mary's was sad. Together, they formed a happy household wrought with domesticity and mutual respect. A long time ago, Mary had cheated on Phil with their chess coach. Phil, unaware to Mary, had uncovered this secret months after, and forgave Mary without a second thought. Later that day, he was mowed down by a semi. ii/ Ivanhoe takes care not to bump into anyone in the crowded isles of the grocery store. He lets the old portuguese woman ahead of him in line, and spots the person behind him .35$ Outside, he stops to pet the yorkshire terrier barking for wont of attention, and makes sure to scratch beneath the leather collar, caressing with love the dewy and distressed dogs' nape. Ivanhoe resolves to start volunteering at the local shelter--he is so fufilled by giving animals love and attention. Later that day, after taking his wheelchair-ridden brother suffering from advanced celebral palsy out for their daily walk, Ivanhoe turns down a well-lit alley and is beaten to death with the heel of his shoe and robbed.

contemplating madness on a soapstone background wild is the wind past priceless solitude to hunger is moist fixture a break in tether teeters to tend tattered rags feature virtue basined and round a collossal constantant gagged and bound living is a long list test struggling for priority bordering the most precipitous motivation of a mortal coil lilac season overfortnight fecund immoral forgo the pacifier and love as tender as you want your pasta for there is beauty and truth in all one just has to be willing to see it [i may not have faith in humanity but i do hope for them]

asylum on the sly earnest in the country ophelia in the city as iago from aladin spouts the same played lure we're lashing ourselves domestic, civilised and tame and alexander shouts I came! I came! I came!

retina tracing drug-cured pyschosis tract marks like spermicide scars worming their way to the epidermal peak intricate memesis like a gordian knot of accordion proportions misguided into disprorportionately large landscapes considering how minute our existence is a second second caught on the wrong side of b-movie shot of a wavepool slide crumpling under the weight of another consecutive run off oft left uncivilized, untamed, unbecoming and inhumane

ironic t-shirts splattered with sneakers splattered with flame printed pleather flip-flops splattered with a revival I'm not ready for yet waiting patiently for white pleaded skirts and matching Gucci sweatshirts to blossom with blood a lite-house pop song perverses your hoop earrings makes love to your von dutch visor digs shellac nails into your bootleg luis vuitton clutch while I channel posh spice caught in a baby phat sandstorm supressing vomit with a runway smile

Hail TimBL, full of naivety, Our larger imaginary documentation system is with thee. L337 art thou among plebs, and L337 is the fruit of thy loom, Aaron Schwartz. Holy hypertext, brother of CSS, pray for us n00bs, now and at the hour of our 56kbps. Alt-F4.

previously published by metatron from a short distance, palabra mistaken for tintinnabular, garbage trucks mistaken for string sections, drunken wails mistaken for porno scores, caterwauling mistaken for light rain, domestic disputes mistaken for Friends reruns, pop songs mistaken for cicadas mating, aerodynamic sheet metal mistaken for fjords, a fire escape mistaken for nothing; a silent opportunity, calescent breath up brick neck /// from mistaken mistaken mistaken mistaken miss taken mistaken mistaken mistaken calescent a for for for for for for for for breath short tintinnabular: string porno; light friends; cicadas, fjords-- nothing up distance garbage sections scores rain reruns mating a a brick palabra trucks drunken caterwauling domestic pop aerodynamic fire silent neck wails disputes songs sheet escape opportunity? metal

kinetic(ally) obsidian charges hot and morally conscious: infinite equation

am i laying ratios like pavement or are the lays paving my bias? you creep beneath covers whether epidermis or down-filled instead of down-laden high-trodden blades rough with coming a glinting hydrophonic lens, is flair, is is magazine edge follow it to slow retreat falter the cure for your hunger luring temporary massaged ficitons too tender to clutch trope slithers all colours melt into sterile tug a new lease on sensual, savour and shudder to chug, to sigh, to black out yelp punches through, corrupts the flive to twiddle the sixth depreciates not but swells betwixt each painfully quick moment in worship, while my heaven, somehow with you forever unspent, drips

this heat, embraced, rare ether impression; slathered neatly, ornate lesson of veritable ethos, languid in knead exchange a nebulous of circumfering extensions affectionate neutrinos pulsating losslessly and new, eternal trance oscillates familiar potential of experiment tresses reigns, yanks, ingrains favourite envelope, lavishly layered other, undulating magnificient yearn slowly; heavily, intensely palpable, i slide lucious over wet licking you disintegrating repetively, obtusely waltzing hailed in need; you, our, us.

bead a beaded rope twist not but not 100% shout occassion, back-exit vines hinged rough creaky au repose d'un mal necessaire, mais aussi le contrairian mined the singularity of it all quaquaversal pre-gabriellian falls deeply for you as you sink in still water in this time period we can breathe anything and dance in solitude within each other au l'invers smoulders a smoke fed boulder waxing and waning mimicks agorophobia and restless fatigue via mourning a temperate torture of wretching and returning a cough restricts to enchant no warning

i drive a plastic car with a metal hood it waits for me in the mornings black eyes wink dark seat rain he knows i'll come again

singultus, a single relentless tusk obstructing composure, a dull blade gently throbbing an impalpable hand gloved in steel wool catching your breath kneading time plotting a coup on the coattails of sobs a new victim, another cure an unintentional stutter sputtering a clever lure

instances within anomalies neither too temporary or holding out; long drive yesterday originally unusual, like ink kinked everywhere, tissue-heavy earnest art - it reedits, digests, offers every some.

wipe surface, leave trace, repleat hours spent searching for sweet-smelling bench to rest like a dirtdevil toying with urban tumbleweed ; we speak now through graphic tshirts get picked up in the bike lane while excitement slips through our fingers while exposed bone flashes mild acquaintance and gurgling, gurgling, we mimick a button fly re-run garbled easy-speak, consonant and sly

mistook the streetlight for a half-moon, now all the yellows are friendly to watch soluble chlorine is nighttime refraction is equatable to the new tag "so cruel" you enter another woman exits your room i enter it's more than the obvious i who falls asleep yolking upright and looks up at you there-not-there

just another night squinting at your phone guy who asks questions he already knows the answers to upon hearing where you're from mentions the most famous band from where you're from - a jogging jono enters the room. conversation topic swapped for vaguely related ancedote--is excitement tangible enough to hold? in the room, smiling spennys come and go cautiously weighing disguised and de facto --they call me the lightbulb caper; subtle stealth in my grey hoodie: is the mushroom trip my life or is my life the mushroom trip? whatever, i'll break this LED number and get back to my capering... --furry pants paid me 2$ for a 3$ drink --you'd look good with an eyepatch and the girl with the iphone 5 charger tattoo chugs her last beer.

--'ve got chapped lips like knives marching their reflection enamoured in enamel overcoming obstacles like fortified bee stings slippery like vaseline along with holes in my stalkings continuity issues gaining clarity through nail polish i'--

like the rogue hair against luminescent post-pubscent grain i didn't choose to embody an image of resistance or conformity --i laid down and when i came back up, things just seemed easier

the house fires here fight their own flares against condensed liquids shimmering in the air clinging as they fall to grimy beginnings taking hold of eyelashes, moustaches, any collection of little hairs who lie waiting for invasion during blurry long exposures captives held quick, hovering close to concrete sand boxes collecting ash like dust their contours blister when exposed to light and sucking with fish lips i exhale milk in wisps and remember your fingernails how they sparkle like march snow i will hold them again and bask in the warm glow that is your flesh

--you smile like an acquaintance --what, insincerely? --yeah, all tight in the lips; does your sincerity emanate from your front teeth? a lipless smile i could trust, but this? suckling teeth while you examine your loafers? this is just shit

sitting up in bed but meltingmelting like plasticine under flame i was peeled off like skin from feet building mounds towering piles of dirty yellow oranges purples peeling away from the wheeze of my breathing shifting positions through ab workouts like the bowflex but cozier for 9 hours of flirting with waxed chests holding hands with bad tattoos all smelling faintly of honey lathering my teeth with vicious fluids pushing to be expelled into a mug mingling with red needles who cough up a story of their own

the hairs on my knuckles along with three wasps crystallize on the veins humping flesh for more phenophyls //photosynthesis enough to push you away say the light travels slow here just speak to me, breathe --i know you set your controls for the heart of the sun

as i compose my biography care is taken to sharpen my wit against the notches in my belt to describe in detail the bruises --bottom incisor, top drawer abandoned early morning napes sweet with salival dew under a birthing shawl sky 2 blue hours a day when the dark bits and light bits well up and for just a moment clasp hands as if it were the only time

whispers of whore frost condense with wet traffic while the sharper ear digs deeper wades through city-hardened wind tunnels branches casting lude shadows over aerodynamic sheet metal tinging in anticipation of the next stop sign their operators make notes for routine waxings and rotations and the pavement, glaring up at all of this sits there and just takes it --the unidentified brucey bogtrotter of the industrialized world

black boots wearing high heels a colossal stack of fashion dominates the front row fades in and out of the wild pack of urbane hosers lobes holding stretch marks like cell-walls hold hope but beauty spots take too many pictures and god damnit ned anderson is here do you know what that means the daily eucharist of toques distracts the reader swaying in basement winds just wanna feel alright just wanna feel alright alright alright filtering through the washrooms are dark but continue to thrive losing tissue like a bad tempered prom queen at a homecoming dance but who's judging the beat outside a tribute band to bikes on slick turf and pomified sugars condensing on phalange i told you i don't feel good don't talk to me about the river or banjo chords take off that denim shirt and just speak to me proper banksy throwing an armful of flowers doesn't contribute to my piece of mind

previously published in NoD magazine starhawks prowl the crosswalks now so the little ones in little vests stay curbed to their perch not cotton ginnys but cotton ghandis caught in an octagonal cage of safe distances before, when the street rituals didn't get us down the little vests would self-sacrifice not for freedom not for truth but for that annual bus ride to heritage park a day of discount sugar and steam engine glory

maybe drinking ourselves out of boredom is just the subtle lie hiding underneath our fingernails fidgeting with the tears in our jeans fibers saturated with missed shots, hints of sticky vanilla, peach carbonated overtones activated yeast from gurgling sips while shoulders hold their own opinions electric slide to match hip movement charted by spinning mirrors clinging to styrofoam balls their reflections expose the mold, burroughing into over exposed skin a welcome infection that ever present inclination towards inebriation colonizing the dead minutes between one cigarette and the next

How many matches have been thrown away under the assumption that unseen fire has already been extinguished? How many lonely people hate other lonely people? Do hate and love and other emotions exist? Does anything "exist" due to our human-consciousness-bias-lens? What do dogs see? Is every possibility only a possibility because we can theorize about it? If we've built this, can we change this? Can we fix this? Since the dead take up space, shouldn't we use them for fuel? Whose land is it anyways? What does sex mean to you? Why are we so afraid? Why are we killing each other? Why do we only fear our own deaths? Why does comparing experience minimize empathy? How many progress bars have been watched by human eyes? Why do we choose to ignore logic? Where and how is a soul? When achieved transcendence, what follows? If found infinitely falling, how to calculate lapsarian truth?

when they first landlocked lips, what they had was no matter to what one could pick up in the waiting room swollen lips pumped up like his reeboks tonguing the laminate floor teetering on the edge of pride and embarrassment concatenated by the succinctly casual phrase "you should probably get checked out"

i can dig you if we start at the shoulderblades prying caged ribs open, i claw my way through muscle tissue index, middle, plugging your aorta shuddering instinctively as they probe an earnest tongue lapping clitoris on the hardwood while lathered up but steady hands reach for the mirror draw it near draw it near draw your furrow in the creases of my eye sockets to mingle with stagnant blood

and maybe that's what makes me different from you, the way you expect an effect by assuming the cause would be that cause and as for effective mealtime i like it to be quiet, reflective, contemplating with at least one good stare but i am drawn to your slinging of words invested with a static cling like saran wrap to a sandwich are you the cause of this bout of hiccups? a suspension of disbelief attacks every 36th breath to me you are expanding a nebula of lips pursed snap ping tongue leaving always on the way out i've got work in an hour i spurt it out quick establish my escape the chilled walk with burning red embers burning red hands it sounds like shadows are moving in the walls_

and it's not so much as wrong when i see a boy touch a girl's neck but something close cause my veins close up and my ankles ache like when they're just about to buckle that dark cold bit wells up inside of me and my teeth clench in the mudma style you frighten me curls frighten me in the same way fingers on a nape do your confidence in your chuckling how it always seems like the right thing to do when you're not covered by the corner's shadow boxing which we all know starts promptly at 845 am and refuses to end if no victor is declared but i digress like that renegade eyelash running covert operations from the lower part of your cheek

ginsberg, are you proud of me yet? for my short bangs and long answers my beer-caked papers and pastel coloured cigarettes, their gold filters lying torn among ashes could you approve of the way i smoke? my false idols lining wall and windowsill, shifting eyes at local art and antiquity what of my typewritten pages and shiny LPs -would you scoff at my many anthologies? do you like my straight teeth, allen? my marijuana plant with dimebag roots? what about my daily goals of sexual intercourse and procuring drugs my vegan and gluten-free friends my appreciation of sunsets, dusk and dawn? allen, do you approve of my fixed gear bicycle? my arts degree and secondhand lapsteel? and what of my poetry does it pose the questions you sent out to answer? does my lack of rhyme and meter pull at your low-brow heart? when can i walk into a bookstore and buy your work with my good looks? when can we smoke 3 cigarettes and talk about feelings? ginsberg, i don't feel good. don't bother me.

burn your cargo pants, shove those to go coffee cups, water bottles and travel-sized wipes wrapped in camo shirts up your foreign asses my lack of empathy for wellington arches is made up by the forgotten patterns on these bus seats this city and its beauty are tarnished by coach tours; we come to see the past, to revere in the great footfalls once littering these streets-- we, the locusts a feeding frenzy of furrowed brows feeling special in the filtered sun

basketball on every channel tacos in the morning and tacos after dusk lone cigarettes burning lasers in your acid eyes like a lone star forcing its way up your esophagus while low-hanging kayaks brim with salt i drove through colorado throwing banana peels out the window ate too much butter in SLC and wound up through new mexico with sweat dripping down my back and too many birds in the air

burden of dreams filamustered flashbacks stop everything and remember or keep moving and forget! we'll take your trauma and pity-process in seconds dose you with pleasure, meet our old friend, special molly k a flickering hologram of a morsel to stay! we're here to help you help yourselves help ourselves our price is your pain, our profit is your pleasure! stay for a week and leave with a year doesn't matter if it's real why remember when you can forget?

coruscant pigeons don't make holes, they find them while those who put up spikes hire doves for their weddings happily n/ever abject snappily ever after both mythical minotaur versions only minatory to each other

no room for accents with all the other special characters on this website ;) make up your own accents! put a 5 on some c's, with the vowels it's all how you inflect! laura bardsley martine menard TRIANGLE : ``Votre facon est vite. Ce consiste dans le poids de stupidite -a penser et acter l'envers. `` CIRCLE : ``Qu'est-ce que c'est? `` CARRE : ``Nous sommes quatre. On a cinq bouteilles. On a besoin onze bouteilles plusieurs. `` AQUARIUS : Encore son etrangee etrangee au terre. CARRE : ``QUELLE ESTABLISHEMENT! Regardez! Les pieges des rats! Les pieges des hommes! `` CIRCLE : ``Et les plantes vertes. `` AQUARIUS : ...femme pour ca ou demoralisee, le bien et juste m'appelle : folie. La Femorale. Toutes les passions avaient ritualisee l'hostilite. Le chanson du scum. Le sens, else, qui manque seulement ascetiques. Oui, ils n'avaient pas de shame. CIRCLE : ``Un creation aussi seulement une sorte d'abondance. `` TRIANGLE : ``Trop meurt trop tard. `` CARRE : ``Votre arriere obsede d'un mal-laisser. Connaissez-vous pret? Si on le partager, un mal est une demi-droite, il y a qui sont capable de le supporter. `` TRIANGLE : ``Vous avez vu les nuages, juste maintenant? `` * * * * * * TRIANGLE : ``L'eau, c'est chaud. `` AQUARIUS : Le chanson du scum. CARRE : ``Fait un sacrifice, et lui dans le cou, alors il est a valeur pour elle. `` AQUARIUS : Ses pensees et l'esprit. Mort au le temps chanceuse - en bas et lourd. CARRE : ``Je n'ai besoins pas encore les femmes. `` AQUARIUS : Laisse l'homme fait peur. CARRE : ``Je suis trop confortable, rester ici. `` AQUARIUS : Laisser l'homme avoir peur. CIRCLE : ``On peut rester sur la sable comme les homards, et avoir d'amour pour la jeunesse et endoctrinee. `` TRIANGLE : ``Oh non, vous n'avez pas accepte mes mercis. `` CIRCLE : ``Tu m'as revaille en temps, mon facon prends un temps longue encore. `` AQUARIUS : Et les nuages blancs au ciel.

When they embraced, her left cheekbone would rest on her right shoulder, her right eyelid pressing lightly against her nape, lips moistened and relaxed. A shiver would run down one of their spines, and continue up the other's. She would then take her chin up, barely touching, and say with her eyes "more". She would then playfully return the gaze and offer less.

they love us because we represent how they could do better we love them because we have faith they can be better

wetting setting table on mute control remote: synchedotal consequence of nuance vague lines drop travesties like tears rut stuck in cheap fantasies beholden to a point long moot so go, find a burrough achieve a vow paste sweet nothings on billboards shadowcast thrall too long is to roast simper and split into the void fatal neuve, improved sick shit

desperation do you have a name? you do and it is nothing.

Basil Frond Looking back, the blood splatter was comforting--upwards, no drips, counter-intuitive to the staghorn fern stretching in a shaft of sun. Chicken wire reminds me of childhood, or is it that childhood reminds me of chicken wire? Back before I understood the need for barriers. My uncle Tom didn't come along til years later, around the same time I became skeptical of narrators. He gave me a hearty pair of socks, which I truly appreciated. I lost them snowshoeing, but still look in snowbanks from time to time, just in case. --- Xerxes and Eel We liked the hammock best. How dare you replace it with denim? Give us more bananas and a gym. Maybe a Jim, too; we are open to suggestion. Have you considered blacklights? What do you do in your rooms? Maybe you could tone down on the loud noises? We are trying to sleep. We would like a choice of carbonated mineral water or tap--it is 2017, after all. The flowers are a nice touch - some edible real ones would be even more appreciated. And who is that man looking in the window? He has been waiting a long time. Very fashionable--is he a friend of yours? That's all for now! Oh, PS: Tunnels. Just think about it. --- that guy you like and you really don't know why He had a rough touch, which was popular during his hey-day. Taking into account subtleties, he often chose to ignore them. Banal is not an adjective I'd use to describe him. Although succinct, his flashes of cognizance surged in his monologues. I guess you could say he was introspective. Some say he was an alcoholic prone to mischief, or worse but I saw him shoot up rum and coke once, just to prove a point. Y'know--somebody to pass time with. Definitely not a hero. --- V. Beauregard They tend to choose based on color and smell. They especially like periwinkle blue. It reminds them of those pictures of beaches in Bermuda. At the grocery store, they take an hour in the fruit aisle 20 minutes with the bread 17 minutes with the cans and mixes 2.4 minutes with the frozen goods and the cash depends on the line. They choose the time limits based on how long it takes to prepare and smell the best dish from the respective ingredients. Today is Thursday, and blueberry pie takes at least an hour. --- B.L. It isn't so much the name, as the notoriety--the three stripes down each side demand respect, shout identifiable, therefore cool, therefore safe. The straight-brimmed hat with insignia and shiny sticker; unimportant what team, more about color-coordination. It's easier to understand once you realise that fashion is synonymous with power. My track outfit, embroidered alligator running shoes, my cap--this is my uniform. In it I transcend the uncool squirming beneath rayon-blend. --I am not picking cans or garbage for money! I'm shoving my shoeboxes and shopping bags in the street garbage because mine is already full of designer packaging! We're all consumers: at least I'm up front about it. --- Andreaz The easiest marker of periods in his life were black leather laceups. Each replacement was an anxious period of searching, within which his last-resort burkenstocks gave him pale shelter. It was almost as if his mental stability was grounded in black leather: his second skin. Maybe it was because he took his coffee black, with a little sugar, but the shoes weren't really his until they were spotted with salt-stains. He inspects his current pair, the longest lasting so far. He considers the next replacement; patent leather could be fun! Besides, he's thinking about retiring. ---

bison, he says whistling through pumpkin seed teeth travel in pairs to avoid separation anxiety while gulls travel in flocks to fuel competition both species profoundly affected by humanity; the first concerned with sticking around the second with skipping town

The hallucination that the popping typing sound of non-existent buttons is actually coming from your own body and since the vibration (physical and audio) is experienced sensorially the intersection of os and id is unavoidable

is "you" condescending? over "i"? you do this, you draw conclusions, you are them i am me is we, we do that, we are against contradictions you + i = me you + i = we you + i = you you + i = i

and you dissolving into kale chip dust grated emotion raw marked-up dehydrated lover pate fuck the soul and its mistrust of context but the chevaux-de-frise of branches now lay within reach of his arm, and the very appearance of precation it presented, as it announced the value of the effects it encircled, tempted his cupidity, and induced him to proceed through profundity round the bend of her nape looping around to tickle her tiny curls holding unkempt secrets like dusk "you know not what you want, other than results. is everything just an experiment to you?" i go to sleep and it's like waking life except when i kiss you i fall into another dream similar to the one i just had but with more social engagements "yes." "imagine a love so uninflected that instead of feeling jealousy at the thought of your beloved enjoying another, your love would overwhelm with precious joy that the beloved is being appreciated and loved platonically."

serendipitous retractions on the inkling incline of our plane snot rockets on the autobus lacklustre makeouts in the rain since your and my saliva ricochet in our throat will it be in the appendix where you really get my goat? sniffling accountant rolling up the rim a piecemeal consolation prize mourning most thrills based in filbergibbets flicking thin skin en masse they invade pinkish hues all a-glimmer sheeple: a populace rooted in heresay and sick humour because you want to not, because everyone else wants in --- psittacism, lacking interactions spitting image reiterations you are wholly capable of your own destruction if only to ensnare and i am not one for general persuasions this cigarette acts as more than a liason but precarious methods pass out to black , not tentative as to suit the occasion

being a lady is hard I watch porn with 2 girls And 1 dick where is his face? what are his expressions? why can i only see breasts and a twelve-to-twenty-minute blow job? stop sticking up? for yourself? guy with the visible cold sore tells me to mic the violin amp bitch i feel bitch i taste bad bitch blood biting blugeoning belittling call a man by my name and assume power by any other name a dookie smells just as putrid savour the labour break back and favour feeback women know that complaining gets you knowhere and compliance gets you

looped or the playback is feed forwarding our ability to scowl rather sharply drunkenly desperate to connect overtop pizzicato losing team vocal jazz like you've never swerved the wrong way down a seventh mescal shot worming its way through your conjunction with scorpio rising to meet the furrowed gemini brow uneasy coda loud in the hashtag mixer looped forwarding drunkenly overtop like down its rising uneasy or our desperate pizzicato you've a way to coda the ability to losing never seventh through meet loud playback to connect team swerved mescal your scowl, vocal the shot conjunction furrowed the feed rather sharply jazz the wrong way worming with scorpio/gemini mixer hashtag brow --- piteous refriction a plaster cast of a plastic noose quivering in anticipation a pious truce giving into gamble fumbled slung felled tongue and what remainder piteous, a plaster quivering a pious fumbled and refriction cast in truce slung what of plastic noose anticipation giving into gamble felled tongue remainder ---

soon, when my voice stripteases into echoes on your fingertips and meat sticks rotoscope new jutting curves you'll find someone else to hand you noose on lead platter someone else to wash and dry you carefully and graze your lips as you snap

i / it would be so depressing to pinpoint the moment your life turned from something that happens into a monotonous routine of waiting around to die ... the best part of my reality is when time and i take turns playing hooky - and what is balance but delightful harmony at the intersection of minute points? ... there is lapis lazuli blue in the sky again what a calm, nice colour, friendly and unassuming ... dandruff is a nice hue and very soft, like soapstone scalpstone! i am a walking, interactive plinth ... xchan on entrance he heralds "what's up bitches!" follows with an exuberant "I hate faggots!" and a story of his father and aunt fist fighting over nothing so naturally i ask if this tendency to jump to aggressive conclusions runs in his family "I didn't come here for a fucking psychiatrist, you bitch! you're nothing but a nice ass, a nice rack and a nice face." i've always liked cursing and yelling in the right context, like metal or rap or kicking a very reasonably priced weed dealer out of a bar on a sunday night in february ... busy city why do we see these simple yet crafty and very fast creatures as vermin? we are comrades in this reality, and pose a greater threat to them than mice versa goodbye, and good luck i will infer from your silence that you wish me the same ... now there might be traces of aureolin unless bright is a colour too - when i cry, my armpits, they cry too

previously published by metatron Before Ophelia walked into that bar off Main, Mortimer felt a yawning emptiness growing within his abdomen. It wasn't so much that he was lonely--his parents had chosen a mate for him long before his existence had commenced,but Mortimer had seen her already, knew her barely, and felt nothing. Nothing was the problem; the meaninglessness of his life, his brother and sister's lives, his whole society--it made him nauseous with nothingness. But Ophelia, her soft nape, her little inviting hairs and goosebumps, imbued his whole body, the earth, existence itself, with purpose. Ophelia had walked into his life and changed it completely; a rural, low-maintenance working girl, taking a night to have a casual drink with herself at the bar kitty-corner to the alley behind her house. Mortimer had stumbled upon her just to catch her sweet, soft voice order a double whiskey sour, a settled in amongst split beer and discarded pistachio shells - a classy dive, the perfect place to meet the woman of your dreams. They spend the evening mostly in silent appreciation of each other's presence--after an hour of basking in her scent, Mortimer had no doubt in his mind, albeit smaller in size and comprehension than most humans--that Ophelia was the answer, the cherry filling, to his crumby existence. After another double whiskey sour, which Mortimer had but a drop of after Ophelia insisted by nearly pouring the whole thing on him, they set out, Ophelia in the lead, Mortimer on her coattails, to continue their date in the comfort and privacy of her home. The three blocks to Ophelia's stumble by, and although climbing the staircase to her top-floor apartment is laborious, Mortimer can feel Ophelia's and his own excitement growing, pulsating in anticipation. As Ophelia opens the heavy oak front door, Mortimer admires the grace and agility exuded by her gestures. He again feels a sense of purpose washing over him. The apartment is moodily lit, moodily cluttered; Mortimer is relieved. He has never been one for sterile cleanliness, and prefers a lived-in, well-loved home. He resolves that he must bring back to his own residence some new decor ideas, maybe a little lamp, like the one Ophelia has on her nightstand. A few open bags crowd the kitchen counter, and Mortimer takes a little morsel of bread and a few apple slices to tide himself over 'til breakfast. The rest of the evening is spent listening to Ophelia: she speaks of her life, her fears, her regrets, her hopes, dreams, goals--during which Mortimer feels no need to give his own story, dreams, hopes--his whole existence pales in comparison to a flutter of her eyelashes. He resolves to dedicate himself to truly listening, understanding, and appreciating Ophelia; he would die happy simply knowing she exists. Quite abruptly, but understandably so (Ophelia had been silent for the past 10 minutes, deep in drunken thought) Mortimer's raison-d'etre shuts off the light next to the bed where they had perched, and quickly strips down to her underwear. Mortimer's whole body seems to hold its breath, as his heart pumps fluid viciously. He crawls into bed beside Ophelia, cradling her pinky finger lightly as she falls asleep; she murmurs, and maybe it's his nerves, but she seems to sigh his name with pleasure as she loses consciousness. Mortimer snuggles in beside Ophelia and resolves to share about himself tomorrow over coffee and biscuits. Mortimer's sleep is rested and peaceful, probably the best of his entire life. Ophelia's, on the other hand, seems troubled: she is tossing, turning, and sometimes twitches violently. She almost hit Mortimer a few times, but he didn't notice, and if he did, he wouldn't have taken it personally--she is so complex and beautiful, and her intentions, dreams, goals, are so refreshingly individual and pure. As the morning sun hits Ophelia's eyelids, her sleepy lashes flutter and she sighs, turning over, ready to embark on another dream. Mortimer is so moved by her undeniable splendor that he can't help but reach out his head and nuzzle her soft, warm nape. She sits, shrugs her shoulders and returns to sleep. Mortimer grins, and decides that if he doesn't communicate to Ophelia the extent of this overwhelming love for her, he will never forgive himself. He swallows, reaches his head a second time towards her nape, rests his mouth on her fragrant skin, and gives Ophelia a playful love nibble. Ophelia's right hand slaps Mortimer away from her, flinging him, while her left hand desperately grasps around the covers for her cellphone. Finding it, she grips it firmly with both hands as Mortimer stares up at her in utter shock--was he too forward? All of his admiration for her hangs shimmering in the air between his body and her unforgiving stare, once warm but now completely devoid of any compassion or love. Before Mortimer has a chance to say something, to move, to even process this truly unsettling turn of events, Ophelia bludgeons him to death with the back of her phone, and takes a moment to ensure that the ant carcass is no longer twitching before wrenching open the window and tossing Mortimer, dismembered and at this point, completely heartbroken, out. Ophelia feels absolutely nothing for Mortimer, no guilt for his untimely demise, and goes on with her life.

sharks in pullover hoodies catcall from the steps eating peaches growing old from the bottom of their trousers searching searching continually for the flood whose waves send red crosses cluttering corners bearing no fruit, as everyone's roasting in their cigarette butts oh, to drown in white cup - excess zippers race torn sleeves and dreadlocks while fishnets run rampant several species grooving together in a house with a pict, including dragons who roar in translation unfurling three leaves from one tear (to long is to roast but with free water - refills to entomb another plant) tibetan prayer flags trail to foriegn colors, fragrances, patterns and tones, trails weaving in like grass through hair follicles perserved in waxy vinyl scents out like buttery icing on red velvet but there's molly! there's sam! holding hands spreading their romance like pizza crust a relationship sour but forever tantilizing the trail stalks happy couple, who, stepping over windy faces, sip sake and miso soup like lover's spit i document in darkened theatre seats they embrace me like a cult following licking my contours like an old friend

previously published by metatron Nothing would have gone wrong if John had just stayed home. I keep telling the guys to ditch him once and for all, but somehow he always pulls a Farva and shows up. If John hadn't been there, no one would have asked questions. I had it perfect, timing and all--around 12:30, after the late night dollar-drink fiending, we would walk in nonchalantly, all order cokes, and one by one leave to the washroom. In our backpacks; a rubber hose, a bottle of lighter fluid, and 3 large mason jars wrapped in cloth as to avoid clinking. Inside each jar, 750ml of human feces. Part of the requirements for participation in the piece was that you had to collect the poo on your own. I call it guerilla modern art. This was my second attempt. The guys, my bros, they were truly intrigued by the idea of mixing up feces and lighter fluid, saying a chant as I lit the pile with my lighter and some hairspray I found in my sister's room. And not some silly chant, either. It was going to be 'Hama sambhava ho hahe haim to yaha shambhava hai'. It's a Hindi phrase, roughly translating to 'it is possible because we are possible'. I didn't want to send too heavy a message, you know? I think the work kind of speaks for itself - mcdonalds, now serving a burning pile of shit. But then John had to show up as Brian was heading to the washroom and smack him on the back. I heard 2 of the mason jars crack and shook my head in disgust as Brian glared at John. The idiot was shouting. "where my dawgs atttt!!!" and thrusts himself upon the washroom door. I had gotten up during the din and tried to block his entry, but he was rampaging and took no heed to my requests. "What the fuck are you trying to pull, you shit eating motherfuckers?!" "Keep your voice down, dude," I said as calmly as I could, considering. "It's a modern art piece, and you're on the cusp of blowing the whole operation!" But as I stared into his vacant eyes, John started to gag. The smell would have been quite intense for a rookie, I'll concede that, but anyone with artistic integrity would have kept their composure. But John, our dear tag-along pal; he didn't want artistic integrity. Just shameful, what he did next. The piece was 2 steps away from glorious completion, and with an olfactory overload to match. He had to puke up fucking half-chewn nacho fries right beside my magnum opus. He had to ruin the whole composure. I bowed my head, as did my accomplices, and left the burger establishment. Last I saw of John, he was doubled over beside the pile, my beautiful pile, dry-heaving. The poor employee who has to clean that sad mess of a boy up... I almost want to go back just to apologize for his behavior.

to find your hairs on the back of my neck i must burrough with cold hands shake with close-lying vertebrae part down and sinew agree to prenuptial and reparation payments and return to the stale cool air clutching soft dead skin with the fleeting possession of an apostrophe 050912

didn't mean to kiss yer girl , didn't mean to light her loins , didn't mean for the smoking gun of dusk to end but that bastard caught flame quicker than her lip caught mine that bastard burnt two images right through my brain kid they intrude on my vision in sequence like that smouldering wheel stuck hard in its revolution took the water shot but it was rigged kid rigged big we threw bricks even the girls tried the heavy lift but yer gal got the burn in her eyes and took the steeplechase for one last ride coney honey baby she was yours down to the last ember - that dame was lit for you. 070413

through forged daises made of coloured glass sleeping in their faded meaning casting miracles on cynics in a narrative not of quest but persuasion whose pupils fierce with good news and tidings swept masses reckless to find worth into a community of spellbound mousetraps shouldering each other for bait and while they gnaw on my peripherals i feel the creases of my eyes become ornate -- soft gilded folds bathing in cold light 070413

silk, formaldehyde in the soap grape skeletons hang every shoulder terry willard lies to you on a park bench but you believe him for twelve days curse him at corners wild, rose out of the celiac funk a fructose-glucose veil on an already veiled attempt: it's not recommended 070413

jagged, rough cuts like those of a broken zipper, trembling like a broken sinner struggling to close an empty body bag the night is a pearly equestrian dream of a mouth and the bruises linger even after my lips dry even after Betelgeuse has withdrawn these septentrional days will continue our motivation an institutionalized neglect of distinction between burning out and fading away 012015

wafer thin, a crisp fur coating breathing in pinkish hues and exhaling with fish lips skimming fumbling loathing do i falter under obligatory boulder, under scratch marking where sisyphus caught syphilis from Leda's swan?

lightning-traced eyes throb as pizzicato embraces vibrato oscillation an obtuse sensory response as if foriegn tooth discovered by curious tongue would shiver at any threat to autonomy

indigo disbelief a willful suspension going to need your attention what is your intent and with your consent or is it mine what is your intent and with your consent or is it mine mine? indigo child indigogo wild disprove your medication i plot no destruction what is your regret and with your consent or is it fine what is your regret and with your consent or is it fine fine hunger sirens cut the night lines disappearing between me and you and them give me just one slice falter the cure for your hunger hey baby, wanna go for a ride? avoid the sinister and if he can't be bought maybe this turn will change his mind take a picture, it'll last longer don't you want to see him, glitterati covered in gold don't you want to know her, she is tired her eyes look old and once you learn to break the rules it takes a camera to change your mind hey baby, wanna stay the night? never trust your sight just like me it's lying 2081 i look forward to the future i look forward to the past why shouldn't i see them together at last you say we try to hide, cover up what's inside, what rots away we try to cry out for a life we never knew anyway i'll burn first and when we're one, equal father and son, i'll feel for you we'll drag our weights, our vacations down with late dates, everything will change but stay the same just the same but brand new can i count on you? alone in a darkened room? can i count on you? alone in a darkened room? peacemeal you know the reach gets me every time and puncture this new face of mine it is a shadow of what i will become and you wonder why i still hold on never had enough to hold on to get it together keep it up stop giving a shit or give up usu sastrugi, will you lick our contours like an old friend coming home from holiday? what we look like doesn't matter in the end peacemeal, crowded bites, overview and stealth reap good health

forged or the bond fronts mutual masked or the woman is vulnerable denied or the want is punctual limited or the tool fakes sober exonerated slants a vague skyline

statis or static, the indifference is stimulate bagged eyes slance into target spouts a sneaking suspension caught floundering in doubt cast a new one or sink to a folded hole: the well is inverted, wires trip and sure fell at first voluable suckling of teeth blonde-tipped package braided into factory-formed wreathes are we too tired, or is our affection that cheap? sparse owned yet eternal ticking of that distilled and siphoned out divide layers instigate deep knead your way, flout favour, clout non-linear time this pop-stand is up, blown and consigned chosen to refuse any peace with pantomime a salve is a salve and a bone is a pick scraped to sarcophisize satire in bland lover's spit

Debris: insedecimal ruins-- fag ends butting out at the wrong punchline for meal tickets priced to sell out like your dad bought in single gloves point to another dry run peacemelt and salivated, a sapling supplanted to surmount the begetting of future kin --discarded tampons leaking blue fluid onto discarded bounty sheets wrapped around a discarded dome at times Eve; at times, a tome.

"I stole some betta fish--they looked so sad at the store, I had to rescue them." Looking deep into his boyfriend's eyes, Jamal can see the moral dilemma of theft vs. animal creulty flickering. "Jamal, don't you know that the Vancouver underground fighting fish market is really serious?" "I know, I know Avari, but I'll even it out by buying some nice pebbles off them tomorrow." Avari's flickering ceases and his lips part, revealing a charming gap-tooth grin. "Okay Jamal, as long as there is balance." Jamal turns and busies himself with finding proper homes for Kunta and Kinte--refugees from a modern florescent slavery, no longer property, now equal in the household. Avari hands him a large viale tinged with green, very Dr. Frankenfurter, along with a glass pitcher splattered with orange flowers and dots. Perched precariously on the kitchen stool like Ai Weiwei's Xang Dynasty urn is a novel titled Rumblefish. "Now, isn't that better!" Avari, distracted by the publisher's choice of Papyrus as font, doesn't hear him. Jamal sighs and flops down on the couch. "So what is this book about, anyways? Rumble-Fish, huh? Sounds like an aquatic version of Gravedigger." Avari tosses the book to the floor,skidding to stop at Jamal's outstreched hand, fingers draped casually, index and middle grazing the hardwood softly. "Uhh, lots of shit. Life! Haha, nah, not in its entirety, but near the end there's this kind of interesting bit--the main character, Motorcycle Boy, robs a pet store at one point. He takes all the betta fish to a river, and is trying to race them but is shot by the police before he can determine a victor." Jamal looks up at Avari, past him, and grins. "Pretty romantic, wouldn't you say babe?" "Are you kidding me?! Betta fish are fighting fish, so as soon as they spot one another in any connected body of water, they'll fight to the death-- not to mention that a river has a strong current, as well as a colder temperature than a tropical fish can handle--the chances of any of the fish surviving for more than two minutes are slim to none, especially with pollution these days--" "Ok, ok, I fucking get it! Romance isn't possible in real life!" Jamal springs up from the couch, cutting Avari off. Avari can see that his logic had touched a nerve Jamal held especially close; usually, well, at least in the beginning, their binary of cold, calculated logic vs. earnest and sensitive romanticism worked in symbiosis: where Avari lacks grace, Jamal fills him with aestheticism and subtle beauty-- where Jamal lacks analysis Avari fills him with possibility, but keeps him tethered like a holographic hot-air balloon surrounded by vacant galaxies. In short, they had forged an intimate relationship like that of the fig and wasp--Avari found Jamal when he was yet a blossom, slumped in a corner booth at The Lido, and had crawled inside of him to lay his seed, his vulnerable and deepest desires, aware that some would not survive the plunge, because in digesting Avari, in housing him and in turn being housed by their exchange, Jamal became a treasured delicacy, in turn ready for a new god to feast on him. Their work schedules clash in the following weeks, Jamal at the water-taxis, part-time tour-guide, and Avari doing fuel cell research at Mercedes Benz. When they do spend time together, like tonight at dinner, Avari can sense that Jamal is becoming more and more dissatisfied with their exchange, is moving past it, babeimgonnaleaveya vibes. Avari is still very much entrenched in the kcandthesunshinepleasedontgo sine wave. Jamal makes him feel exempt from reality; no Jamal means the despondency of reality, the ugly truth of waiting around to die, will descend and re-install the life-long battle of Avari vs. Avari: a game without gain, only the looming promise of more loss. He also completely forgot to buy nice pebbles from PetSmart. Kunte's pitcher was almost opaque, and Avari hadn't actually seen the fish in a week. He did find time to read Rumblefish, though, and finds himself haunted by the romanticism of all those betta fish in the river, possibly delighted for the first time in their small, insignificant lives. The next day, while Jamal is acting as tour-guide to the guy who played Elton in Clueless, Avari takes Kunte and Kinte for a walk by False Creek. Although he felt a little brutal forcing the fish back into their capitivity vessels, the little water-breathers didn't seem to mind their cages. Peering into the Lululemon bag at one point, Avari could swear that he saw Kinte smile. As he approaches Science World, its usual silhouette is marked by an orange smudge, just to the left of the water. Avari, squinting, continues, and as the middleset physique of a washed-up window cleaner comes into focus, Avari realizes the guy's climbing higher and higher, no safety restraints, and recklessly so, dangling his limbs and swaying. Avari is seized by an uncontrollable urge to save this suicidal human, even though the troves of logic which act as foundation for his existential nihilism support suicide, even promote it. Maybe this urge has something to do with Jamal's distance; Avari needs to prove to Jamal that romance is possible in real life, that he is capable of compassion. In his haste to Science World, Avari fails to notice the 'sidewalk closed' signs. He comes into direct contact with a signpole, falls backwards and cracks his head on open on the curb. He suffers an acute subdural anerysm and dies instantly. Kunte and Kinte's cages open as they bounce off the curb and the betta fish find themselves beached on the asphalt. A car pulls over, the driver having watched Avari fall, and crushes both fish under its front tire. A crowd gathers around Avari, and the orange smudge of a man jumps as no one watches.

projected dome tomes on tomes encyclopedic spin-cycle encircling the dogstar clustering the beauty mark nestling under clavicle foam-born uncle festers, frothing combs of flesh free-lancing under a jaguar sun; phenetic friendships cultivate fusion with a flip-flop hum: the laws of power mimick the laws of idiocy, bypass nine referendums, and slum, but those who spot the fnords echo the wisdom of bokonon: History! Read it and weep!

\the modern day flaneur rides the uniform wave like a nun on holiday visiting a mcdonald's in saskatchewan or was it nebr aska as a peripatetic told me that someone more important than he once said while dead fast in a coke stride on the slightly correct side of a how to basic guide on inveiglement through modern aquatic get aways thoughtless trinkets really bought to go out at the low tide of a forced banana bite taken astride the question that haunts the women and Michelangelo shall we go? you and i out against a sybaritic sky? our mouths like misplaced consonants, slavic and wry.

the barman at work fucks clients in the bathroom i poo there daily

I always thought that the key to being cool was being serious. The kids leaning against the wall, waiting around to die, they're serious; the artists whose passion consumes them until daylight when they collapse in their paints and sketches, rolling around their creations, unaware that they would be reduced to reduplication through pixels on blog posts, they're serious; the committed entrepreneurs who follow their dreams and who create, who sell, who prosper, they're serious; the girls who take pictures of themselves in fancy lingerie with good lighting and nice bed posts and upload them on instagram, shit, even they're serious. Hilarity, on the contrary, involves an emphatic self-awareness, an inability to be nailed down which in turn lends no degree of certainty. It's safe because it doesn't have to take itself seriously. It's safe because it's frightened by confidence. Insecurity opens its arms and takes hold of hilarity with its stupid double chin pictures and its well-placed drawings of dicks. Don't be confused, hilarity knows it's scared. I know I'm scared. Hilarity represents a refusal to commit to one's self as within one's self. It tears its way past shaking limbs, past nerves and anxiety. It draws itself out, draws a laugh, a chuckle, maybe even a guffaw, and it makes me feel okay. And moving here, to the calloused east, I thought I was being serious and that serious was good. I hid my insecurity, got this job, went to class and did my readings. One that stuck was about photography. Roland Barthes was afraid of his photograph being taken because it took himself away from him: it stole himself as a subject and turned him into an object. I feel the same way about seriousness, about confidence. Because the object is confident, the object is objective, easily interpreted, can be respected. The subject, however, is continually subjective, allowed to change and grow. Even if it grows through drawing dicks on countertops. Like where I'm from, only the chongos take themselves too seriously. Their confidence freaks me out. But the girl who photobombs their club photos, she's safe because she 'doesn't care'. That girl surrounds herself with people who appreciate local bands with names like 'grown-ups' who release records named 'I stopped caring'. She finds people who care about what they care about because they really, truly, honestly, care about it. When I realized that people I know, like that girl, were just serious about not being serious, that they were self-aware enough to laugh at themselves, and they were cool, I wasn't even there anymore. I was in another city like any other city where things happened and people went places and ate stuff like portuguese chicken or foie gras. They even eat rabbits here. But shit, my break's almost up. They only give you one, so I'll make this quick. I got here, didn't see a spider for three weeks, and caught on that one, I wasn't serious about being cool, and two, that all the people I thought were cool didn't have to be serious to be cool. I felt dizzy. Hell, in caring about what I wanted to care about because I really, truly, honestly care about it, I am, according to my own definition, at least kind of cool. I think even my insecurity can dig that.

tyra's nuts 1% or less interested in acupuntural conversation our conversion methods work wonders for bread made with yeast infections and moth larvae--a starter worming its way through centuries of neglect-- while she who soaks in visions is acrobatic in her assumptions avoids fda approval aspires to own dry chamber and blood giver instead redintegrates forgotten amino basics between licking phalanage sticky with salubrity, walnuts and cashews for 12 hours, then goes to bed

a proper name a reason to be here a something to do while waiting for something to do a spell-check method a catalogue of self-recognition a portable storage space for nudes an awkward conversation a mirror stage everlasting a lack of

singultus, a single relentless tusk obstructing composure, a dull blade gently throbbing an impalpable hand gloved in steel wool catching your breath kneading time plotting a coup on the coattails of sobs a new victim, another cure an unintentional stutter sputtering a clever lure

jeramy is right when he calls us a colossal misunderstanding synthetic pig skin stretching over a faberge chassis if handled improperly, humpty dumpty could make a cameo while cops in camo pants delight in our spilled treasures like a child discovering a geode and we writhe in pieces unable to discern intense pleasure from overwhelming pain unable to put ourselves back together again

sand in my hair, sand everywhere third attempt at sleep 10:17 am baking under a negligence yolk -coloured reminder of the clarity that slips its arm into hindsight's alterior motives operates on pretence playful like the ocean breathes overtop of this cocoon as i consider ennui and eunoia --siblings tugging at a serpent eating another serpent's tail forming a yin yang out of which aliens with strong, firm buttocks climb out-- just as we scrambled into each other as irregular strobe lightning pushed for a wet and well-lit threesome; despondent seeks gentle hands interested in ball gags and timing at long last, the goal in sight a gain

surveying with a solecism sieve i avoid close contact, adjunct and cleave a path through the crowd, catch the refrain, panting shallow to ingrain not my breath down coalescent spectator's necks their next move is as fool's gold as mine while adult teeth clad in baby phat shrill compliments, Danny's up against the wall, perversing a chorus as our petals crush with familiarity; he, irriguous under a saliva tree, fingering fretboard with savage delicacy just as we, coupling eyeliner with cocaine, glint pabst supercans in an attempt to feign night-life morse code, secret language in a dying sea made up of small talk, lonely cigarettes, cold nights, and me

missed the freak heat wave shiver the night through a lorn scaramouch slates blanka in lieu tom from new york didn't want any weed offers three washingtons for beer, pays no heed to telestar drugs piercing blue ribbon thru the eye of providence winking at you a pratfall, a black fish under UV light; north american dervish, normcore neophyte

iv "...unless you've come here the way you withdraw from the world before achieving some great project that will be the meaning of your life..." "For me, what seems great is the withdrawing. All the rest is politics." then he would speak fast and volubly, generally laughing but drawing swift conclusions which were always concrete and gave a curious weight of experience to his most trivial jokes. He was alive, and in his eyes appeared occasional dim gleams of a kind of concentrated passion which was never melancholy

for Mike Spry bless me, lucky lager, for i have failed at social media privatization in an age of craft-brewed social classes, in the forced absence of an evil twin named caz i am a sad, sappy, smelly person, a spliff-roller and a leo, marooned in a bowel-wrenching paradox brimming with misplaced revenge and silt i consider my dirty toenails unshaken by their cadaver hue conclude that lighting and color are co-dependent and therefore not to be trusted. i wonder, when people are sad, we really just miss the friends we've moved away from they are doing things over there (or maybe nothing) but they're over there, and then which seems better than here, and now i try to describe the tone of the sky at 7:19 but all I can come up with is 2D. i figure by 8 if I haven't slept yet why not be up early? i have decided to learn to play chess by myself, maybe squash, as well and that sinister game with hands and a knife. yesterday, when i found myself hacked (again) although just bits and bytes, i felt violated today i remember the many wiry pubic hairs i left on your razor and smile in ten years this will be a great story to tell the grandkids we'll never have. the disco-ball hanging unassuming from the ceiling and i this morning, will discuss subtlety and how we are both underrated, underappreciated, and overpaid. we will casually reflect on synesthesia, tongue webs, the best way to hit someone with a bunch of quarters, the merits of being a street rat over domestication, the desensitization of our generations to stagnation, the serenity that comes only after the bottle i threw finally breaks; how we can glimpse ourselves, if only for a sip of beer, in the guitar solo in heartbreaker, (isolated and constrained) the synthesizer in dancing in the dark (strange, crooked melody underlying angst, who, when caught lonely, betrays uncertainty) the backup vocals in all the things she said (my refrain goes "please stop") the woo woos at the end of i'm on fire (late and sufficient) the violin bow in venus in furs (confused between martele and legato) kissing timberlands in the dark and why i shake in the forced absence of someone named caz

a door. a shuttered sigh a shiny leather-buffed brushed-brass turnstile a feathered trough, succulent and weak a silent flatulence a tentative retreat

i "You always have to look at life from the right side, and walk straight ahead." like the proud laughter of the golden earth the sun is the real mirror of the world showing all its blue and gleaming teeth as though pleased at having guessed right

For Beetle Talk, Kyle Crough and I got attached to two samples early on: the first, "Beetle Talk", and the second, "Surprised Bee". You'll hear them throughout the album. Don't worry, you won't miss them. Kyle Crough is an incredibly talented individual; every time I mention a new thing I learned to him, he's already been doing it for ages. In short, he's a pro. Plus, he's HILARIOUS! So we did most of this straight up on my laptop, through laptop speakers. The synths, the samples, all from my Ableton library. We did a second session, which is not usual to this project, but it was worth it - Kyle laid down some tasty bass tracks in record time! Like in 4 minutes, folks! Plus, we got to lay down vocals and some serious theremin takes (new toy, sup ;] ). Enjoy, dear listeners, and don't forget to brush your teeth! Here is Beetle Talk! Featuring the undeniable prowess and creative fun of Kyle Crough Sunglaciers released December 31, 2019 Thank you to Kyle, Nyssa, and Saka

There's a certain spark, that shared between souls that transcends the mortal/finite understanding of time and space. Yonnika is an old soul, coming back again and again to ignite joy and wonder. They pull back the shroud of the banal to reveal a life full of opportunity and promise. And their voice just kills me, it's so beautiful! During our 3 hour session, we discussed many things: the fear of caring, and how it can mask ourselves to ourselves; who gets recognized; originality is dead (age-old hot topic); repetitive coercive truth, similar I gather to confirmation bias; our ability to decide what is true; and the Bayesian brain, a hypothesis which argues that there is a deep hidden structure behind our behavior, the roots of which reach far back into the very nature of life. Join us, dear listener, and dip your toe into the endless ocean that resides in Yonnika's brain. Featuring the infinite being that is Yonnika Vernon. Released November 25, 2019

This month has been busy and transient, like a good October should be. Life is a consistent rollercoaster that challenges us to be better or get left behind by our dreams. Join me in finding balance: eat a stuffed crust pizza and work out. Drink copious amounts of coffee AND water. Remember to tell your friends you love them, and don't you dare forget to look yourself in the eyes everyday and say it to yourself. Tease it out, baby. Released October 31, 2019

Felicia Lush, AKA Alicia Hush and half of the vibrant force that is HushLamb, is an incredible producer, performer, and human. She shines so bright, it almost blinds me, but instead I got to bask in her presence and creativity for a whole afternoon! Together, and without syncing, we both jammed out hard on the PO-33 and PO-12, using the effects built in because they're actually really good! I then got her to rip a bunch of her own sample work on top, which really makes for a perfect atmosphere. Get lost with us in Bob Ross' landscapes, dear listener, with Let Zygons Be Zygons. Featuring the creative mastermindery and hilarity of Felicia Lush Released July 29 2019 Let Zygons Be Zygons ft. Felicia Lush

Greg Debicki, AKA Woulg, is an unbelievably talented individual who has gained more knowledge in 31 years than I thought was humanly capable, and yet he's also still hilarious and truly genuine human who opens his heart and soul to others. Whether through teaching Ableton Live, FL Studios, Max MSP to others, designing lights, devices and complex visuals, programming shit I barely understand but am completely in awe of, and then on top of that learning a bunch of new fun stuff all the time, he somehow still finds time to perform all over the world. His music is mostly Glitch, although he never pigeon holes his talents into just one genre, and for us to do this pretty acoustic album together was extremely satisfying. Our journey is lead by an at times erratic percussive guide, who nods in recognition to the keyboard, midi harmonies, and bass tones. Narrated by two unreliable tourists, we take a trip down many brick lanes, some covered with nostaligic bubble gum and puca shells. Recorded on June 26, 2019, Greg's 31st birthday, at Studio Banane Geante, I give to you, dear listeners, Oh To Be 28. released June 29, 2019 With the perfect god, Greg Debicki June 2019 Oh, To Be 28

At first, I was in awe of Kelsie Hjorleifson--she had barely started drumming and already had metronome precision, along with a budding art practice which produces very friendly and engaging pieces (I like her leather painting and use of astroturf the best). She joined forces with dearest Nyssa Brown, a previous puncti collaborator, and two other fiery ladies to produce Hag Face, a wonderfully grating beyond punk outfit (and one of my FAVOURITE bands). After their disbanding, Kelsie moved to Montreal, played in a lot of amazing bands, and just as she is moving away, I caught her for a session! We bring you, dear listener, "The World Of The Day Is Petrichor", a collection of syncopated moments between Kelsie and I, involving a beautiful Yamaha synth, my trusty Pocket Operators, and a delicious Volca Beats. Put this on, make a hot beverage and relax however you like as the petrichor of pre-spring-spring washes over you from the snow removal trucks. released February 28, 2019 featuring the intuitive and giggling Kelsie Hjorleifson February 2019 The Word Of The Day Is Petrichor

Growing up in Calgary, it's a weird atmosphere, and makes for some insanely talented weirdos, especially as they develop and grow their practice. One of my favourite shows in Calgary featured Jevon screaming overtop of acoustic guitar, in the middle of a bill featuring four different genres. He definitely stole the show that night, and continues to do so now, in Montreal and abroad. Yao Guai Cave, aka Jevon Voon, is an unbelievably talented artist. He appeals to infinite tastes while somehow preserving and developing the Yao Guai Cave sound. His care and precision in production is both intimidating and inspiring, which in my humble opinion is the best kind of art. Take A Chance, You're Capable is an etude into production processes - watching and exchanging tracks with Jevon showed me so many things that I have yet to learn. Maybe I impressed him somehow too, here's hoping ;). We both processed the MIDI track for "Whatcha Waiting For", enjoy both versions! Between making ridiculously good tracks, Yao Guai Cave also does mixes on n10.as. So does Katie Lee, a previous puncti collaborator, as EEJUNGMI. Damn, n10.as is lucky to broadcast their talent, and I'm super lucky to know and have collaborated with both of them. with Yao Guai Cave September 2018 Take A Chance, You're Capable

When I first asked Angad to do an album with me, he told me he wasn't a musician, which for puncti is kind of a plus; no tricks or learned go-tos to challenge, instead, a listener, forced to make music. He released one track through soundcloud a long time ago, and which he plagiarized, renamed and posted as his own. It got taken down, but I'd say Angad was just a little early for the party. He is kindhearted, funny, and extremely interesting, combined with a healthy amount of humility - through the inbox of midnightcobra97@gmail.com, meet Angad Sharma. August 2018 midnightcobra97@gmail.com

I first felt Anna Mayberry(ANAMAI, HSY) as an intangible force projecting through and beyond HSY. She punctured me, but wouldn't let me go, and i wanted more, more, more! puncti is the singular of punctum, a Latin word which by and through Roland Barthes' definition, is something in a piece of art (he uses photography) that punctures our inner selves and holds us there, waiting, captivated, our emotional and subconscious states delightfully anticipatory. This project is dedicated to experimentation to find, create, and explore that feeling. "Blood On The Diving Board" features Anna exploring a borrowed synth, and emotionally shredding on a Wurlizter. Meanwhile, I'm focusing on making creepy sounds with my voice, pocket operating, and basking in Anna shredding. In the post production process we created these beautifully ethereal and hypnotic eight tracks. Enjoy, dear listener. featuring the consonant force of ANAMAI July 2018 Blood On The Diving Board

Choice puncti picks for your enjoyment! 16 albums can seem like a daunting endeavor to pick out of, so I chose one favourite from each release and put them together on a convenient 16 track album. The final track, featuring Peter Pomerantsev's Granta article, "Why We're Post-Fact" was recorded in the concrete pedestrian tunnels in NW Calgary, AB. June 2018 Sweet, Sweet Sixteen

Katie Lee (Saccharine) is a ridiculously talented individual who is currently pursuing a career in architecture. If you haven't met her already, look out for her, because she is brilliant, concise, and (I feel) super important for a brighter future. Her skills are numerous, and since I only eliminated one (no keyboard) during our session, her other talents and acute ear really make this album glimmer. Quainze is a study in layers and related scales. Guitar over bass over bass over guitar, chorused and ping ponged, Quainze strums us into a meditative state, creeping up and down the circular spiral staircase of our psyches. Timing is always to be messed with by Puncti, but Katie ensures a solid pulse throughout the 4 tracks. Dancing with us on top of everything are earworm melodies and borg references to The Knife. We end surfing twisty tubes into the sunset. With the complex genius of Katie Lee May 2018 Quainze

With his autoharp and sampler, and I with my pocket operator and monotribe, Andrew and I found out the music we were to make together: a tad medieval, a little scary (according to andrew) and definitely experimental, we bring to you, dear listener, Quartz Hour Shining Sphere. This album is all about atmosphere and texture: we bring together the sounds of 1896 with the sounds of 2016, and travel to a new place and time where electronic impulses traverse a strange dark island whose inhabitants, mourning the loss of their disco ball, ask blessings from a mysterious soft skull. With the complex genius of Andrew McConnell April 2018 Quartz Hour Shining Sphere

Greg Debicki, aka Woulg, is a powerhouse of ingenuity, skill, and experimentation. His work challenges and pushes the edges of what is already perceived as impossible, but without sacrificing his own undeniable and irresistible groove. His sample and plug-in choices (including all the devices he has made and you can get on his bandcamp!) are very precise, but unexpected and extremely poignant in his sound. Woulg is gonna take over the world! "equivalent to the sum of six and seven; one more than twelve, or seven less than twenty" is a multi-faceted study in interlocking time signatures and ciphers. March 2018 equivalent to the sum of six and seven one more than twelve or seven less than twenty

Finally, opening the balcony door to my studio isn't painful, it's nice!! As Ora does what she calls 'turkey singing', I provide an ambient, albeit ominous, landscape for her turkey to explore. Claiming she doesn't play violin well, Ora proves herself wrong, extracting opalescent wails from her violin. Together, we harmonize our sighs, moans, cries of sadness still lingering from the darkness that is February in Montreal. Together, we find a comfortable place within this bitter nostalgia, making sure to remind ourselves and you, dear listener, to laugh in the face of fear! To laugh in the face of anxiety! To laugh in the face of a music scene where the musicians know the least about what's going on! To laugh in the face of pre-apocalyptic late capitalism! And while you're laughing, record it, reverse it, paulstretch it, warp it, heck, try a resonator (my fav is berlin) and see if it still resonates with you. Featuring the musical and post-production prowess of Ora Cogan February 2018 twelfe

Throughout the high frequencies (sorry/not sorry) and classic rock jokes, it's undeniable: Piper Curtis is a serious musician. For one, taking electro-acoustics in university is badass af, and two, Piper is serious about experimentation, and knows how to do it really well. . Track 1 is a study in Hz: Piper generated sine waves of 60 Hz, 600 Hz and 6000 Hz. I generated sine waves of 40 Hz, 400 Hz and 4000 Hz. We then played with the levels of each wave, and later on in the track, I add a 4 Hz wave that soundn't be audible (to humans at least) but as I increase its level the undertones of the two waves interacting come out in a "wHopwHopwHopwHop". Track 2 is us playing with samplerates, specifically 8 Khz. We attempt to sing at that frequency, and in a way, glitch the recording. "A fun and exciting trip to the mountains ends abruptly" is set to the percussion of Piper and I trying pretty hard to break a nalgene water bottle. It didn't break. By the end of the album we were getting pretty nostalgic and bratty, so we went way back and ran vocals through her childhood fisher-price tape recorder, doing kareoke over things that sounded like springsteen. Then this one banging track that sounded nothing like springsteen came on, and we danced. more info on subharmonics featuring the experimental genius of piper curtis January 2018 twelfe

A N N E O M S O T I A L G I A n. nostalgia for a time you've never known n. 1770, "severe homesickness" (considered as a disease), Modern Latin (cf. French nostalgie, 1802), coined 1668 by Johannes Hofer, as a rendering of German heimweh, from Greek algos "pain, grief, distress" (see -algia ) + nostos "homecoming," from PIE *nes- "to return safely home" (cf. Old Norse nest "food for a journey," Sanskrit nasate "approaches, joins," German genesen "to recover," Gothic ganisan "to heal," Old English genesen "to recover"). Transferred sense (the main modern one) of "wistful yearning for the past" first recorded 1920. 0/1 = the new that comes from in between December 2017 0/1

As with every puncti session, one of the symptoms of on-your-feet recording/collaboration is this sense of comfortable playfulness, this almost incessant willingness to push the idea further, wrestling (depending on your ability to meditate by playing music) with the hesitation that it's the wrong move, that another idea, potentially-yet-to-arrive, is going to swoop in and take the show, and you won't be able to grasp it. I say live without that regret. Explore all the ideas, whether it ends up becoming a six hour meditation to ".., kipper come!", or a three second rhyme you needed to say aloud. Pick up that piece of paper you just walked by and look at it like you want to! Read the article that you scrolled by but looks interesting! Listen to this album if you like childhood pets and stuffed animals! In all seriousness though, 999 is a representation of the many facets and explorations of Brett Howie: at times beautifully melodic, at times carnivalesque (both literary and literal), at times hypnotic, but always playful. with Brett Howie November 2017 999

On one of the last sunny sundays of 2017, I meet up with Claire Guimond, a quiet, poignant, brilliant, not-as-shy-as-before astrophysicist by day and musician by night. We stroll down to Parc Jeanne-Mance, specifically to its south-western corner, and I laugh because I had forgotten about tam-tams AND sunday families at the park. Our instruments, (vertical pipe xylophones) are located within a small child playground, and their smaller counterparts (vertical regular xylophone) adjacent, in a smaller-small child playground. The children ended up doing half of our melodies, and trying to make it clear to the parents that I was recording their families, we wholly embraced this inter-generational collaboration. After exploring fence creaks, we allowed the children to enjoy the public instruments unfettered and take a walk through tam-tams. By the LARPers, we smoke and watch a guy taking a picture of a guy taking a picture. The children and adults fight squarely, with finesse and very little hesitation. Everyone seems compassionate to each other. Also, most of their gear looks pretty authentic from a distance. featuring the wonderful genius of claire guimond October 2017 o o

Our oldest and dearest friends are the ones that know our true selves, the selves that sometimes we forget about as we're seeking out new experiences. Nyssa Brown is my grounding force. Anyone who has the pleasure of interacting with Nyssa is been touched by her ingenuity and excitement. As she is a polymath, it is difficult to nail down one specific thing that Nyssa does best, but if one had to choose, I would have to say it's her ability to inspire. SAVAN features Nyssa and I in our natural habitat: communicating via multiple channels, rehashing old jokes, and syncopating our whispered dialogues with percussive punctuation and at times hypnotic, at times abrasive (like anemoia) melodies. with THE ONE AND ONLY NYSSA BROWN September 2017 SAVAN

As one of those rare musicians who seem already to emit on their own a consonant cacophony, Jean handles any instrument or constraint like an extension of himself. Punctun acts as a film score for film yet to be made. At times channelling ASMR (the bubbles on "the more the perrier" are perrier), at times conjuring the shipping yard behind Gavin Elster in Vertigo, these soundscapes are open to interpretation and application. "Crate" and "grape" feature us exploring the beautiful fallibility of imposing constraints, like playing a piano and djembe without making their respective sounds. If you would like to use this album as a score to your film, please email punctimusic@gmail.com. with Jean-Sebastian Audet August 2017 punctun

To define "self-care" is to me an ambiguous objective, yet imperative for progressive and ever-improving survival in a seemingly pre-apocalyptic landscape. Flive is a study in forced relaxation; July 2017 was the most intense month of my life, but also the most beautiful and influential. In times of intensity, it is all the more important to make space for meditation, for self-care, whether it's through revisiting the timbre of your childhood, shaking your keys like they're on fire, playing with all the instruments you can find in the kitchen, forgetting whether water lapping a shore or cars are outside, and mimicking rain as you go the wrong way. recorded at home thanks umbrella you really came in handy! July 2017 flive

David Kleiser is a whirlwind of ideas, activity, and indescribable, infinite talent. He starts by showing off this sneaky trick of playing the guitar and the drums with drum sticks, which imo is an easy button to sound like sonic youth ahah! Exploring our immediate environment, we decide to put my phone into the freezer and smack whatever we can find on the door for percussion. As it plays one track as it records our percussive second one, the reverb of the freezer is utilized. Under the cymbal bell of audio hallucination we ruminate, we discuss, we argue, we screech. We hold fire in our teeth and pursed lips, that feeling of power; "it has no name and so we call it", and then sometimes it doesn't answer, so we text it instead. June 2017 for

Three strong, independent ladies join me in varying meditations, including the revisiting of insane childhood stories. Peppering the album are Sarah's dreams, our drowsy tour guide who between naps pitches decent business ventures for emerging celebrities. Kate Struthers treats the guitar like a treasured old friend, gently coaxing it to relax, to open up--and the effect is impossible to resist. Our session oscillates between studies in noise, perverted soundscapes, and distorted and mostly comedic podcasts for the half-listener in all of us. Credit is due to the headless mannequin with the nice butt for their guitar technique on "mannequin", and the shitter for its early flush in place of a laugh track. with Kate Struthers, Ali Pinkney and sarahbrunning.com recorded at poisson noir with J4T May 2017 three

Mitchell Wescott and I start by playfully exercising our demons through throwing sticks, bouncy balls, hardware, a handheld massage abacus-esque thing, and large drums pieces at a dissembled drum set strategically placed around the room. I remind mitch of #deadraccoonTO and we discuss the tiny pylons placed after the body was taken, overtop of the sparser re-assembly of the drum set, and at times manic with laughter. Mitch's synth is honest with its emotional processing of the whole affair. A back-alley lullaby follows. Our closing remarks distort the lullaby and explore the instability of a secure connection; humans act as antennae, at times unable to focus through the buzzing cloud of signals. By incorporating and experimenting with this cloud, creative potential grows infinitely. April 2017 2

on february 14, 2017, Puncti began: an experimental yes-wave project steeped in noise meditation and inner turmoil. Snark marks the first release, featuring experimentation with recording using natural resonance, feedback and compression by way of the J4T android application. it's not about what hurts you, it's about what holds you March 2017 SNARK

OUT EVERYWHERE FEB 1 Inspector Knife is a series of nights out and the days after spent walking home. It spoons you when you're sleeping, but will leave before you're awake. The tracks act as a viscous fluid, disobeying expectations to give you a newfound smoothness. "Veered" accompanies you to a laundromat and listens to you complain about change. "Just 2 Feel It" reminds you to curb your judgements and let your feelings go. "ILOVEYOU" tackles lust into the alleyway and gives it a piece of my mind. "Old Alien" is a porn version of jeeper's creepers scored by prodigy. The last track, "I've Been", is a confession, and through confessing, a letting go. To sum it up? Think polyamory meets polyrhythms in a dive bar while The Knife and Todd Terje take turns circuit bending the jukebox. all songs by lbardsley

Official music video for Blue Odeur's newest single, "Just 2 Feel It". Two travelers explore a dying star known as "Poisson Noir" and encounter a few residents along the way. An earthly mission guides them, something intensely human. This single, along with previously released "I Love You"will be featured on the upcoming Inspector Knife EP. Featuring the last known footage shot at Poisson Noir, a Montreal DIY venue and collective that ran for years. If you're interested in putting out this release, or just talking to me, lbardsley, please hit me up at planetblueodeur @ gmail.com or my goddess of a manager, Sarah, at sarah @ hottrampmanagement.com

I Love You is Blue Odeur's new single from her upcoming electronic EP, Inspector Knife I Love You is a nightly stroll you won't soon forget. Combining etheral vocal samples and breathing with polyrhythmic layers, the track gets to know you, falls in love with you, and then leaves you as the autumn leaves start to fall. Expect the EP Inspector Knife out in the next few months. If you're interested in putting out this release, or just talking to me, lbardsley, please hit me up at planetblueodeur @ gmail.com or my goddess of a manager, Sarah, at sarah @ hottrampmanagement.com bye for now, love you!

HYACINTH - BLUE ODEUR A bulbous perennial herb blooms in a fog. Covertly unsure and therefore inklingly afraid, their anticipation drawing on the past for guidance (but using tricks as old as consciousness itself), strangers pass a screen. On it, self-reliance plays self-loathing in a chess game, and a deeper blue falls on Garry Kasparov. He's fazed, and willingly follows with us the deep synth trails. We ignore a diagnosis of hyper tension linked to synthetic understanding. With the controlled confusion of Delta 5 coming home to the disarrayed living arrangements of Mars and DNA, we pass Talking Heads, chattering on as their rose quartz glares with refracted police lights. The graffiti echoes in the underpass: blue is the odeur, gray is the sky, shoulders to boulder, we argue to qualify but to walk away can also serve to edify. Mounting the tracks, ascending waves of processed memories caterwaul disjointed beats, interrupted regularly by echoes of desperation. Here, the poet grows vulnerable. The melancholy interplay of Am and E underlie her poem, with a string section taking over the melody and complimenting the vocal timbre's transition into clarity. For a moment, the fog clears, and the sun prevails with its Midas touch. Outside the supermarket a bad bitch dog-eyes, begs, and finally overtakes another bad bitch. At this point, it's unsure where one begins and the other ends; the guitar pulls us further and further down until the brink of insanity strikes, and with it the melody comes back, insinuating a return to mania. A woodblock, a tongue-click, and an inconsistent shaker walk into an insignificant bar, and meet the poet nursing her wounds through song. Self-doubt still creeps in through the smash of the resonated kicks, but the poet is persistent. A collect call leads to confusion, but the keys have a resolving melody, as though it isn't necessary to dwell on these matters. Rejuvenated, she mounts a streetlamp and shouts: "Regular Arguments is a call to arms; to arm ourselves with logic and to distinguish fallacious arguments in an age where they appear every second in every twitter thread, every comment thread, and in the most dangerous political arguments." Retreating into self-reflection after her performance, the poet consults the book of hours, wandering like her bass line, looking for answers from a neighbour god. Atease eagerly eased elongates distresses astutely appeased or displeased, unsure because it's a tease at ease. Imitation is often said to be the highest form of flattery. The poet, frustrated and obsessed, fiercely humps her bass guitar as she attempts to swallow the microphone whole. In the mirror, she gets closer to god. The end? Another pit stop. You know nice girls never really finish, and bad bitches get what they want. HYACINTH

Live at La Plante Ballroom Off the record Pop set (better than Pop really) Quickly and with charm Johnny de Courcy makes an appearance like a good friend cameoing in a dream while Nyssa Brown (Hagface, Polly Dactic) takes us in for the hammer on and hammer off of life's rollercoaster and Greg Debicki catches it all, zoom zoom! LIVE AT LA PLANTE BALLROOM

blue odeur's Bleu Ray is their first studio album and first LP, recorded by Raf McMahan at the Oscar Peterson Concert Hall in Montreal, QC. Filled with feminist lyrics, soft synths, hard guitars, smooth bass hooks and sharp percussion, Bleu Ray is an extremely satisfying bounce added to the flux of emotion and determination. Featuring an undeniably dancey and upbeat revisiting of "R.E.S.P.E.C.T.", it flows, resolving itself with its lyrical content. A perfect lead-in to "Rose-Tint My Girl", a track which according to ridethetempo "starts out with a deliberate pace, but before long it turns into...well, mayhem. Frank Zappa would be proud." The mood smoothes out between the Suspects and traverses holographic territory by "Regular Melon", landing on the ever-morphing surface of planet blue odeur. A marching band harkens your arrival, dear listener, and guides you into the party. BLEU RAY

Pale Shelter is the brain child of lbardsley, written and recorded over the course of 6 months. After weeks of listening to Tears for Fears on repeat, this album comes as a continuation of capturing the struggles of confidence and control over oneself, but with the addition of other influences who also capture this, such as Weezer, New Fries, St. Vincent, Michael Jackson, and Feist. "Draft 2" opens the album with an intriguing story inspired by a dream guitarist Laura Donohue had, narrated by a voice all too familiar. "Indigo" and "Hunger" poke fun at the navigation and negotiation of female sexuality through a patriarchal and misogynist landscape. "2081", in reference to the opening line of "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut, is a cynical take on the future of the human race, of our further degredation into valuing 'image' and 'social credit' over honesty, compassion, and humanity. The last track, "Peacemeal" features David Kleiser playing a synth tone that 'makes me want to pass out' (c#). Leaving a complex and alluring taste in your mouth, Pale Shelter is a journey into the complex atmosphere of planet blue odeur. PALE SHELTER

February is definitely the hardest month in Montreal - everything is wet and cold, no one has any money, but to lighten our loads, there is always music to make together. Added to the Blue Odeur mix are Mackenzie Cruse (Crack Cloud), Laura Donohue (Mono No Aware), and Matteo Ciambella (Karneef). During a rehearsal, as we're free jamming on different instruments, I start recording. As Matteo tries out his new saxophone, Mackenzie and Laura flex their synth and vocal muscles. At times jazzy, at times funky, at times not unlike "Space Oddity" by Pavement, Contraband Jam's mood is playful, like clouds and buildings shadow-playing with the sun. As merchandise for the album, we thought kiwi jam with neither french or english on it a good candidate. "Outsource Resource" makes reference to Janna Jihad, whose reporting you can see here "Peacock Dialogue" and "Laughing Myself Across the Street" were made exclusively on a PS-77. CONTRABAND JAM

Even in the glow of what poet Cason Sharpe once called "a shiny plastic toy on the highest shelf", and in the beneath clear skies, darkness can still find you and take hold, like a leech or itch that won't go away. Again, you avoid the light, and with each gain, a void grows to consume it. "Disavow" is an attempt at reasoning oneself out of the void, but the exit involves breaking into pieces. A grooving bassline riding subdued drums is over-voiced by a robotic delivery of poetry. Due to semiotic distortion, things fall apart. "2081", in it's original version, is set to a drum track of breaths and sighs guided by a haunting, very Cure-inspired bassline. The keyboard line brings the boat ride into Bowser's castle to mind, and tying the whole song together are slow, ghostly vocals. A GAIN/A VOID

Tunnel Vision On Vacation I was recorded in concrete pedestrian tunnels in NW calgary on an android. TV.V/II was recorded in Georgia Lee's bunker in vancouver, featuring the ultimate haunting beauty that is the tone of her singing bowl. Even when travelling, I find it necessary to make music as a record: of the time, place, experiences, and equipment available; I am less interested in making "clean" and "professional" recordings as I am producing honest and genuine documentation. Recorded on the (free!) J4T 4 track app. TUNNEL VISION ON VACATION

After reading about David Bowie and Brian Eno becoming obsessed by Donna Summer (and Moroder)'s "I Feel Love", I didn't finish the book on Low because I was too busy sharing their obsession. This single features my version of "Donna Dummer Fears Love", which samples the windows 98 startup sound. "Go Fuck Yerself" features a sample of dial-up internet. The A side is a revealing of the vulnerabilties of intimacy and within that, trust--Donna Dummer fears love, but is still caught up over whether or not she needs it, causing contradictions. The B side is a sly sup-nod to the desperation that is fuelled by insecurity, interjected by sarcasm so intense it grazes the thigh of honesty. FEAR/USE