instrumental for lyf \mm/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Copán/230472700375514
https://twitter.com/Copan305 

Feed to be fed.  That’s how this is all going to work.

any one moor.

I have no Magnum Opus to show,
for all the cancer of words
my larynx collects, without pause.
Nothing,
for all of my solitude and silence.

I sit in this chair and die.

Copán.

Yes,

But before tonguing what would slowly become the gapped music of his wet diatribe (the song of a crippled mouth), he asked for a cup of water.  Falling ten fingers into a loose lock around a cylinder of nothing in the meantime, exposing a few bruised nails.  Simultaneously (as in collage), a distracting couple in the rear of the squat guffawed: the man and woman looked out (miraban), from inside lacquered eyes, the window-frame into the neon in the street, twisting their bodies uncomfortably in their knifed booth-seats–which spit up suppurative filling with every laugh that triggered a brusque repose, hands always locked onto the never-bused table between them–for the view, and the competition of laughter.

Obsequiously (servicialmente), I took a few broken-leather steps over to the sink and, pulling the bottom half of a two-liter plastic bottle from beneath the counter (peek-a-boo-object-permanence), proceeded to fill its wrongly-called vacuum with the indifferent county’s piped water, watching him peripherally. Reject segue for Cory Trusk’s description. White space. Frowned upon.  Cater to the needy.  Alms: Fill:  

Two men, counter separating, “cup” overflows.  The ex-diner-present-squat holds three tenants and the handsome guests in collage format.  From the visiting right: laughter, panting.

The water felt temperature-less, in the way that we do not feel the temperature of our own bodies (it is the day that is hot), and he drank it osmotically.  I took four paces backwards over dandruffsalt-stomped mosaic floor and let my weight fall into the vapormoist wall beside the rust-clad stovetop across, the quartercolored (gre(y)/en) sink.  White space begins to vanish; feeling of emptiness within the scalene triangle of character positions remains.  

The water gone (peek-a-boo), Trusk kept his breathless head down as if the squat were suddenly a holy place, echoing with the laughter of fornicators at the back of the nave (get your fingers out of there; carcajadas en Monserrate).

Privately, I (you):

“Me pidió agua–propósito del búcaro–queriendo tiempo.  La desocupación; un fragmento indefinido para apartar la mente del pesado cuerpo.”  (Se tranquiliza el mundo al hablar de l’étranger.)  Confusion of language/perspective, precursor to code-switching and/or fusion.  

Cory pulled out a mint from his pocket and stuck it into his mouth; he could taste the iron, too.  Simultaneously (as in collage), the distracting couple realized his presence.  Four seconds passed as they all nodded at each other as if allowing each other (Here: PRET–imperfect–ERIT.  Oh, El domable tiempo de mis costumbres manipuladoras.  El punto temporal también es infinito).  The coupled woman was nubile, formally speaking. (Ha.)

Silence returned to the sunset rectangle, as existed before the presence of my guests.  Present utterer (you) takes a breath.  Do it.

“The trouble is this woman, Molly.”  

Women of ruptures;

porous, tubes of poison.

Delicious venom of thighs.

“Molly is a liar.”  (Crutch of allusion.) 

Trusk paused long enough to inhale and exhale all of the carcinogens floating around from the smoking ex-laughter of the blonde couple.  No ventilation here.  The wind is dead.  You are seeing this yourself.  You are writing this all yourself. 

“The exterior is everything.  And she begins to mimic all of these beautiful things.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a problem to me.  It’s ten by the way.”

Je n’ai pas encore mangé.  Casse-toi.

––––––––

Evade everything internal to carry on with the superficial (reckless propagation).  Irresponsibly dulcet puzzle making.  (Inconexión aquí. Ah bon?)

Dekta sat in an angular chair across from a door-long mirror and began to narrate herself.  Austerely, in the hexagonal room, had built her id.  (Pro-drop violation.  Obsessive need to comment.  Tenebrism: letters on paper.) 

DEKTA (A study, 3:22 pm): The way her breasts are slightly exposed.  Black bra laced beneath a sheer-draped breast–desert colored, the blouse (Diaphanous is the word).  A light cloth, unthinking, down her form as will a pair of drunk hands, but allowing you to see, only, your hypothesis of the meat centering the circumambient.

The chair, being the immediate obstacle between Dekta and the core of the Earth, reflects two legs–six with Dekta and the invention of understanding the viewer’s movement in relation to sculpture.  (The Medio-Oriente).  A wooden quadriplegic; a comfortable chair and it elevates her from the carpet that smells like a perfume that smells like something good.  She liked to sit on chairs.  (It’s a lie, but it’s your lie.)

At 16:00, Dekta changes her name to Molly when she enters her neighbor’s apartment.  Four steps across the hall (suddenly the world is backwards).

“Cory.”

–––––

Thumbs plunge gullet.  Distal nails, eight, surround seven vertebrae.  Pantomime the Axis (Dekta loosed, italicized: | / _).  Occipital bone into tile.  The sound of scurrying.  Patella into teeth (Have you ever seen a deer stomp another animal?).  Patella into teeth.  Meat coated metacarpals cutting me, my meat.  Patella into teeth.  Air upwards.  Shape up, shape moves up.  Wooden heel: mandible/frontal/nasal/mandible.  I feel wet.  I am draining.  

––––––

Viene, caminando Tros(k) hacia mí.  Desarraigándose la verdad lineal con el levantar de cada pie de la fría calle.  No sé qué habrá hecho.  Veo:  1.84 metros de piel blanquísima.  Se mueve por la Tierra, dejando en el suelo algo pesado desde ante-adentro en cada huella.  Estiércol espiritual.

––––––

“What the fuck is that.”

“What do you mean what the fuck is that.  It’s me.”  

“Are you serious.  This is unfuckingbelievable.  Had to be me.”

“I was born with it.  There’s nothing I can do about it.  My parents left me with it.  Do you still?  It’s not a big deal.  Do you?”

“No.  That’s fucking gross.”

“Fuck off.  Yours looks the same.  I was born with it.  It’s me.  I’m like you.  I’m you.”

“Fuck you you’re like me.  Cut that shit off.”

“I’m a woman.”

“Cut it off or I swear to god I will.”

____

And from our guests to the right: laughter. 

fyeahenglishmajorarmadillo:

[Picture: Background — a six piece pie style colour split, alternating black and grey. Foreground — a picture of an armadillo. Top text: “ [Read novels] ” Bottom text: “ [that are mentioned in other novels] ”]

If you ever thought about what I think about anything.

fyeahenglishmajorarmadillo:

[Picture: Background — a six piece pie style colour split, alternating black and grey. Foreground — a picture of an armadillo. Top text: “ [I read grammar books] ” Bottom text: “ [for fun] ”]

Submitted by http://ionlykissheroes.tumblr.com/

Myself, Anthony Trussell & Jordan Chymczuk.  Recorded 3 songs at practice.

A record created with drums and bass.

A noise project consisting of Jordan Chymczuk and myself, Yoán Moreno.

A noise project consisting of Jordan Chymczuk and myself, Yoán Moreno.