Byline: Ash Can Replica
Sentences are being written that aren't aimed over your head. Spray cans shook, stages sanctioned.
So settle in for something new again.
Symbolic and specific some litanies go on for days too long.
Abandonment of memories, emotions is necessary for growth. Those dramatic, never-be-the-same moments make tough choices easy because they take any choice away.
Finding that combination of writing music of one's childhood while trying to produce music right now is no different than dreaming of a poem you thought you read when you were a younger head.
Everybody is trying to get the biscuit, presuming certain things learned, assimilated and mimicked off one-dimensional planes of being are enough to get by half the time. Playing chess with your passions is no gamble for slackers or rackers.
If you can imagine, gaining some sort of footing, hinging against the world well then good. You have to. At some point, some apostrophe, some catastrophe, we need to know. Or we will need to will the need.
Who we are, what we are made of, is not merely a matter of what we have, what we have done, but also what we have lost.
We, who swear by Apollonian documents smeared by our own creed, sincerely wish to present performances in the most Dionysian manner.
Forgive us our distance and any frozen moments of dreamlike perfection, illusions and allusions of ideal, perpetual life separate from nature.
Birthing the tragedy, basting with the beast, let's just say it can get hot in the cauldron. My flat black kettle pumps product into the air, a stew of thousands of faces, recipes. Desires. Replicas.
Serving up sentences resplendent in transmission, sautéed for satisfaction illuminate what's left of the ashes left behind.
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