In the Air

Cracking the air, from the direction of the stage, the sound of the alto sax is sneaking…wrapping the legs of the table with a c-trhu, dark blue veil of oblivion. Slightly above that cunningly moving veteran of smoke-free music shrines is floating the finest layer of the flute ornamentation. Its swaying amplitude briefly touches the odd chimes cloud, then dives back into the bass chasm, holding a gigantic medieval drinking vessel, collecting the debris of the crunching petrified cell phones. First a harp-like tapestry spreading the strings around the dilated frequencies, preventing their stepping outside the aural arena…into the  scary infratonic depths…Then a momentary razorcut harmonic shift, a vacuum-style inhale, picking up all the sounds and centering them around the focus on the deviant scale.

MAY YE VOICE OF YE GROOVIOLOGIST  REIGN, FOR FUCK SAKE!

So speaks Purple (H)ortak.

Yo! May this irresistible sonic cushion carry away the piled garbage…May it fly mightily…Down the avenues…through densely populated parking lots…colossal  tin graves…highways lined with ghost apartment blocks… alliance of hollowness and desperation…unpopulated inhabited spaces…expressways of the wild wind’s dream. May its vehement blow sweep the spellbound settlement…carry away the cold breath of rotting digital candle light…free the eyes fixated on an inexhaustible  logorrheic stream of unconsciousness (“4 C options…don’t fucking press anything”)…

Into the crevices of the cliff leaks the catapulted archival material from the ancient factory walls. Slides down the rocky interior. Is being pushed by the compressed gaseous concoction…a foamy volcanic embryo is being formed to boomerang-style resurface…through the wide open mouth of the processor.

If my motherfuckin self presumes that there is nothing but nothingness, then the wonder of the assumption is that it is stated in the form of non-existing words, nicely articulated within a sentencoid utterance of a highest cosmic order of the ap(p)ROXYmately fall-o-ing con-tent: G-do-lo-ma-da-to-why-not-zen-K!

Needle-sharp guitar sound slashing the air.

:I couldn’t sleep. Because I was haunted by a dead smile. Once it made me smile, too. Now it doesn’t make me happy. Because it’s dead. I don’t invoke that ghost very frequently. But it sometimes comes uninvited. Then it almost makes me cry. I don’t know why I reminisce such trivia now.

Needle-sharp guitar sound slashing the air.

If the wonder of nothing being nothing but nothingness of the nothingamus supreme is nothing but, then the void is all mine!

Needle-sharp guitar sound slashing the air.

:When I wake up in the morning, I don’t know what past or future ghost is going to visit my mind in the afternoon. That’s the bliss of being actively ignorant. That’s why I sometimes cannot sleep. Then I imagine the life of my smile as if it were not extinguished by the gluttonous catatonic stare of the shanty town.

So spoke Entreprenevr Emperor. Everything dissolving in the evaporating milk droplet of the alto sax fade out…

:And then I don’t know whether a rare sparkle in my eye is so hesitant because the hollowness of perpetual grey evenings eats up the soil in the graveyard of my heart. Or, it is so because it’s just dead. I wonder if the fact that it doesn’t make me happy makes the dead smile sad.