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1. |
AM
02:01
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A.M.
Newspapers make their way
from the industry of night.
A car clears its throat
of predawn dew.
The house on the hill
overlooking the river:
its single light
burning like a tragedy.
Mirrors slowly avail themselves
of the appearance of things.
Wakefulness moves its incremental
way through bedrooms.
The morning broadcasts
on short wave to birds,
the bright receivers
of their predetermined souls.
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2. |
Another Dream
02:09
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Another Dream
Outside, trees
roar at the wind,
which paws at
the windows.
An ancient rain
makes its long
applause upon
the cat-slide roof.
Inside, where
shadow is housed,
a gas heater gives its
free translation
of a record at the
end of its groove.
The night kitchen
is silent with
possibility, its
knives orderly
and grave. From
a hallway comes
the epileptic sound
of someone asleep.
In the cupboard
of dreams there
is a witch and
a goose. They have
devised weather,
the stillness of houses,
and those hours
where light roams,
giant and rational.
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3. |
Darkness Speaks
03:59
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Darkness Speaks
None of it is true: I am
neither malevolent nor
mystical. You have nothing
to fear; I am the one who makes
things terribly bright and
dramatic when they need to be.
Like when I spill myself a
little at sunset. Night after
night you dream of me. One day
you will wake up properly,
and there I will be, at last.
Your new and endless climate.
Don’t look at me; I don’t compose
any kindertotenlieder.
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4. |
Heaven
03:04
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Heaven
In heaven, everyone speaks
the same language.
In heaven, everyone thinks in
the numerology of music, and
can apprehend each drop
of water in a rain cloud.
In heaven, everyone has
lost their names, and
pronouns scatter from angels’
heels, like light in a
dusty hallway. Heaven is
the loneliest place,
like a sea or cyan-blue sky.
There are no mirrors,
books, or diaries.
There is no hunger,
no spit, or tears of laughter.
In heaven, memory is
forgotten, like every
reason that anyone
might have had
for wanting to be there.
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5. |
Evening
02:34
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Evening
Blue twilight
is the heir of colour.
Godless, this suburban night
is almost heavenly.
We are justified by love;
each day a room we home to.
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6. |
Collective Hypnosis
01:39
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Collective Hypnosis (Found South American Poem)
The well-known hypnotist
presents a surprising show with
the concept “when you want to,
you can”. He promises to meet up
again with his father on a stage
after 8 years. Spectator will be
able to “test” different exercises
in person: organic domination
with high voltage current, animal
fascination, heart-lung
domination (the pool of death),
bed of nails and collective
hypnosis are some of the
situations of this show.
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7. |
Illness
02:23
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Illness
The world runs through
a processor
called my body
which is stuck on
a strange setting
that makes everything
shimmer shimmer
like my rabbit
heart shivering
inside waiting
for the big dog.
Outside the birds
in surround sound
are soundness itself
my nose is nothing
like a beak but
paracetamol
keeps away fever
in another
half-forgotten
miracle of modernity.
Nevertheless
my hands prick like
the Middle Ages
and I must learn
the tradition
of patience as
I sit inside
this morning light
sent an instant ago
by that giant
of health the sun.
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8. |
Migration
03:43
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Migration
Houses contract in the night,
and relax in the ivory morning.
The roots of plants travel
through the secret world of earth.
Brilliant parrots colonise the
foreign trees of winter.
Each Wednesday morning rubbish
is collected by the noise of trucks.
People walk or run past windows,
from one part of an hour to another.
Throughout the day, rooms are
occupied and then left, like memories.
A child’s goldfish migrates from
one piece of food to another.
The river at the end of the road,
and everything thrown into it,
makes its way to the coast, where
the sea unravels into rain clouds.
Rain flushes out suburban cats
and the sound of metal roofs.
At night, headlights measure walls,
and citizens fall into their sleep
as the moon moves across the sky,
or the sky moves across the moon.
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9. |
The Field
02:41
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The Field
Something makes the sound of an iron hinge
Long ago rusted and now beyond caring.
It may be birds or a distant wind-mill
Or a withered fence with frantic wiring,
Or a hinge which was left to itself
And now, like a bell, calls lonely things
To grind themselves upon the wind
And whittle to nothing our human songs.
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10. |
This Voice
02:52
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This Voice
It goes without saying
that it sounds like your voice.
But is it yours? And if
not yours, then whose?
It could be the voice-over in a
film; not a war movie, but a
tale of childhood and
disillusion that begins and ends
not with voices, but with
insects starting up at night,
phantom traffic, and the
honk of a distant goods train.
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11. |
Car
02:22
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Car
A car on a country road;
horizon everywhere you look.
Inside the car, a twelve-year-old boy
and his parents. Three immigrants.
Sunday and the 1970s are coming
to an end, miles from anywhere. The winter
sun, on one side of the sky,
squanders its light on the darkness
at the other side of the sky.
The boy looks out the window
of his parents’ Hillman Hunter.
His father drives towards the clouds.
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12. |
(Weldon Kees)
03:14
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(Weldon Kees)
Everything is ominous.
--
Another ordered loneliness.
--
The future is fatal.
--
Even the open field, a labyrinth.
--
The afternoon idly flicks through the pages of itself.
--
A list of names: good news, or bad?
--
The long silence of rooms.
--
History with its morphine headache.
--
The anonymous rain falling on motels.
--
The atrocities played under flickering streetlights.
--
The cars parked under melodramatic weather.
--
Finally, every future is fatal.
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13. |
Sleep
02:10
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Sleep
Sometimes
sleep is
a mansion;
sometimes
a hole
you pull
over yourself.
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David McCooey Geelong, Australia
David McCooey is an Australian composer, musician, and writer.
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