Lost Shadows

A journey begins with its own disappearance:
time plays out its imperceptible decay,
shrinking and shaping a narrative.

I was middle-aged and jaded,
had no evolutionary theory,
might be another version of myself,

caught in the extreme of difference,
connections that reproduce themselves
in a metaphysical world.

Confronted by agents of change,
I feel the swarming complexity of sound.
Everything is apparition now,

a negotiable map of many dimensions
and things that are going to happen,
bad dreams of the future.

Rupert M Loydell, 2018

Remixed work:

CD booklet for Lost Shadows, by David Toop

The Stages of Death

Obviously, surprises aren’t always good. / There are so many areas / where someone can get lost / and not even realize it until they’re lost. / You did find hints along the way / – memories, but no nostalgia. / There’s in you some of the stuff / that you don’t want to be there. / It’s like a gray alien woke you / from a normal night’s sleep / and showed you the moons of Saturn, / leaving rocks in your heart. / And then it’s not like that at all, / and then it is again, and then it’s not, / and everything is blurred / and a million times nicer.

Howie Good, 2018

Remixed works:

Tragically Lost in Joshua Tree’s Wild Interior, by Geoff Manaugh
An Interview with Lynne Tillman, by Nicole Miller

 

Without Meaning

No one across
these tongues
Seeks to be known

The intention
Behind the reason
The heart breaks
Without meaning

To stop learning
I internalized
An acute appetite for
Open geography

I moved the country
It took ten days

I learned the anxiety
Which disappeared
When we finally reached
A physical relief

In periodic states of
More practical moments
Bound for employment
In some way,
I would prove to be useful.

Milton Callow, 2018

Remixed Work:

The Walls at Yogpar, from Resistance, by Barry Lopez

ICE

You are sitting on the dead ice of men and passing through the fog as an actor.
Inspiration is born on stage.
I’m tired of these inept senses and of a soulless species. I wrote only of pain and abortion with constant regulation. I am full of seedless delusions. My autocratic suffering is filled with a strong desire to reveal my unnecessary illnesses (from the conflict of mighty and infernal powers), and my eyes are strange, jealous, internalized, giving more life to those who think on the stage before we must fall than to this ghastly voice – and those struggling in sordid
darkness weep at the sight of these – my eyes.

– He is lost in the shadow of a strangled people. In the throat, the length of the nerve-leg is long. It extends exponentially. And my psychic antenna dream of unconventional changes. Thus, the pressure decreases, and absurdity rests on my finger as an unburdened paradise. It must understand, or I will erase forever these pupils staring into molten glass.

AG Davis, 2018

Remixed work:

The Nerve Meter, by Antonin Artaud

Cento IX

Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf
to the little gallery over the gate,
between the towers, making a double

arch, not a patch, not a lost shimmer
of sunlight. They never speak to each
other; for 180 years almost nothing.

Then came the seen, thus the palpable.
Hot wind came from the marshes
in scaled invention or true artistry.

The prefaces, cut clear and hard in
some Wordsworthian, false-pastoral
manner. The limbo of chopped ice &

sawdust rusteth the craft & the crafts-
man, being divided, set out from color.

 

Mark Young, 2018

Remixed work:

The Cantos, by Ezra Pound

Cento I

I slept in Circe’s ingle. Unburied, unwept,
unwrapped in sepulchre. These many
crowded about me, with shouting. & in

the water, the almond-white swimmers.
Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green
cool light. The sunlight glitters, glitters

atop forked branch-tips, flaming as if
with lotus, the bride awaiting the god’s
touch. & beneath the jazz a cortex, a

stiffness or stillness. The angle almost
imperceptible, the calm field, the
grass quiet. The house a shade too solid,

a dryness calling for death, knocking at
empty rooms, seeking for buried beauty.

 

Mark Young, 2018

Remixed work:

The Cantos, by Ezra Pound

Lack of Color

Colorlessness.

Seriously?

The word colorlessness?

In America?

In white tyrant states?

Whence this passion
towards woven strands
of colorlessness?

Whence this conformity
to the many parts
of being invisible?

Color is.

Diversity is.

Think of what
would happen,

to end by
not a color
but the
lessness.

Mike Ferguson, 2018

Remixed work:

The Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison

Desolate Angels

Everything crackled from fire. We knew it was dangerous, but people wouldn’t listen to us. I often see them in dreams now. A black heap of them. Birds have pecked their faces, their hands. It’s better not to look at the faces. I think this might be the future, with lice and filth and the smell of blood. The sky throbs, the ground throbs. Even the trees are crippled. Horses, the clayey colors of earth, fall down dead. Wind stirs their manes.

&

Doctors in white coats attached electrodes to our heads and told us to sleep, but I couldn’t go back, I just couldn’t. I saw Orion the Hunter shivering above a mutilated landscape of abandoned shopping malls. Out-of- office messages appeared from cracks in the asphalt. Assault rifles, too. I went to the funerals. I went to the homes where they were sitting shiva. I went to the vigils. The scariest part was the silence. Then the silence erupted, and angels were flying about, and even the angels didn’t know what to do.

&

I had lost two fingers. They were completely gone. The crunching noise, I guess, was teeth scraping against my skull. Painkillers didn’t help. We were getting older, and it was hard work. People had stopped leaving their homes. Many were just skeletons. Floors overflowed with injured and blood. I couldn’t come up with an innocent explanation for this. Although still early, shopkeepers were pulling down the shutters of their shops. I stood there, trying to see in. A scruffy brown dog, come from who knows where, lay down on the sidewalk, just to feel the warmth from the sun.

Howie Good, 2018

Remixed work:

The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich