Voodoo

Through the curling fingers of the trees
Through the gaps in the canopy, I see
Eyes in the darkness following me

Behind the whispering wind words
and the chatter of the love birds
Cries in the darkness, feral and free

And although I know I'm here alone
my blood and bones my own
There's a pillar of smoke, the colour of blood

An all surrounding, all consuming, forever looming
Unstoppable force.
An ugly burning ballet, twisting above.

Summit

Open wound. Alone and reddened under burning rays of distant gas giant glee. This spinning orb. A marble of mud, infatuated with it's own ignorant cycles, spins, an anti-clockwise ballet. And at it's summit, under Polar bear survalence, the Eskimo girl, carves faces in the ice.

Microchip, on our shoulder.

The marching, monolithic automatons of our digital era, with their swaying scythe arms, leave no deeper scars in modern audio art than the ones defacing the sounds of progressive electronica right now, underground. These songs puke forth from the mouthes of tiny cellars, bedrooms and the young and bloody bellies of the dirty electronica queens. The angry energy of a generation of near-cyborgs, in gleaming streams of chatter and bass. The deafening agro spasms of an animal out of control. This almost involuntary cacophony, is the by-product of the forward thinking creative mind, of a frustrated species. Akin to the organ grinder's monkey. Left screaming in a concrete box. Cheated by it's arrogant master into thinking, strength is security and security is freedom. We suffer, in toxic plastic luxury. Secretly craving the soft thud of a cowskin drum in the jungle. But taking our silicon and doing what we can with it, none-the-less. Microchip, on our shoulder.
This here, among famine, gorilla wars and the tantrums of an angry planet, bled dry and stressed, starts the latest Paradigm shift. Here now today. We're teetering on the edge of the apocalypse, grinning into the flames. Roaring into the streets with the nastiest noises imaginable, horrific yet beautifully complex. The voice of our machine, if it had a throat and tongue. As natural as any stringed instrument. As chaotic as the mathamatical chirps of the tiniest birds. Calling, "Where the fukk are we now!?" into the vacuum, and waiting for the silence.

Powerful / Miniscule

With two bloody hands, in two bloody wombs. (one giveth, the other taketh away) I tread carelessly through the mud, under starless ghost cloud skies. Trees on either side, twist slowly. Creaking, content and swelling sweet and green. Arching inwards to protect and subtly remind me of their infinate beauty and overwhelming power. I don't need reminding. I feel miniscule as it is. Despite the bitten and bruised bodies I drag behind me. Despite my conquests of flesh and bone, medusa screams from the Moon above. Forever. The winds whip the world away as always, while the crust slips around on a bed of molten Earthblood. And we all crash into the rocks in her torrents.