nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
echolalia and alexithymia—i woke up alarmed. i didn't know where i was at first. just that i woke up in your arms.

textual relations/e-ruptions
is it that some cuts you can reopen and others you can't? if i could just get lost between the two notes being sung. being in the middle of a power chord. between the root and the fifth. yes, i'm talking about feeling vs. reason. yes, i'm talking about sticky fingers. what i know is conditioned by what i need to know. so i'm centered and i'm vibrating and it feels like driving along the edges of the inverse of a mountain. what makes a cliff more impressive than a beach? no eyes in the back of yr head, no arms in the back of yr heart. just a fan that's gonna blow or suck but you don't know which and you kinda want both. two flames last as long as it takes the match that lighted them to burn out. and the only sound or song is that of the charred stick writhing until it's consumed.

the air is perfumed with cologne. you want to see how close you can get to it, if you can enter the air without it raining on you. shy tops and bossy bottoms. gay ghosts, shy lust, and angel's spit. boy swept to sea and we are shyly hunting for him. sea weeps for boy. we are hunters with brooms and we sweep the sea. sand spiraling outward in the shape of an anus. it's not a graveyard, but the bed is. he shut his eyes and heard the shout and felt the warm accusing strokes fall lightly across his face.

looking at:
antony - crazy in love
businesses retain gay prejudice
damage
gaze
german group develops new trabant
lasc studio
l.a. zombie
lykke li - little bit in bermuda
mobile phones get cyborg vision
new exoplanet orbits backwards
one fast move or i'm gone: kerouac's big sur
science ponders zombie attack
this is what i do
us banknotes show cocaine traces

listening to:
atlas sound - walk a thin line
babies
behavior
erik de vahl
florence and the machine
frida hyvönen - jesus was a crossmaker
low - words
modest mouse - doin' the cockroach
sound of arrows
wallenberg
washed out

photo by nicholas haggard

holy trinity for a swedish boy:

father

son

holy spirit

how a wild tiger i have known lets her hair down:

gold (glitter) + black (telecaster):

Daniel Portland's anagram name is DILDO 'N' PRENATAL

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
i'm very super-ficial; i hate everything official.

textual relations/e-ruptions
you're like a child with a bug bite—you keep rubbing it like it's some sort of magick amulet.

drawing from the point of magick—that if you draw the object, it brings it to you.

supply me with majoun mixed with a single drop of blood.

psychedelic penetration.

looking at:
alsop architects
patryce bak
bat for lashes - sleep alone
belgrade soccer stadium murals
claire fontaine
guys with iphones
how artists must dress
huggy bear - rubbing the impossible burst
wilkerton

listening to:
broken social scene - love will tear us apart
destroyer - bay of pigs
guided by voices - hold on hope
mount eerie - wind's poem
taken by trees - watch the waves

2009: simian mobile disco (feat. beth ditto) - cruel intentions

2005: sweetyoungthing - cruel intentions

sigil #1 (gridded paper, china marker, cum):

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
all i can hear around on four sides is the sound of paint rollers. smells like teen spirit. it smells. i'm letting go.

textual relations/e-ruptions
you smell like wet sweat. but maybe it's not you. maybe it's just clothes. maybe it's just wool. the blue socks you're wearing in a soviet-era high-rise. i find you on the balcony. it's raining. sipping something hot, you put down yr mug and let breathsteam slip from yr mouth in my direction. i shiver. notes from a piano being lackadaisically plucked waft through open sliding glass door and get lost in drops. yr sentences are short, but more importantly, succinct. the balcony is furnished with two chairs and a table. we make them face each other. when i was young and the chairs were swings, this was called banana. but now when i hear banana, i think of something else.

in dreams (july)
why i don't work in orgies
phone call from a foreign country
losing the game and loving it

and it ain't often enough
ain't often
show me a movie
and i'll show you an oven

dream girls keep giving me mystery drugs that are like tiny sparklers you swallow whole. the other drugs keep burning holes in the carpet and i'm shuttling between the record store and the gay bar and the loft apartment, like this one, but
cathedral ceilings
roller skates
elevators
for the mood, too.

i'm asleep on the beach
skinny elbows
pierce the sky

aj is replicating herself by taking potion and walking through a revolving door, but every time she does it, she gets older. i trip on acid in this complicated way that requires deciphering a code on the back of a box and eating the contents dry, pouring the rest out. really intense, really fast, like i feel like a chief or something, and then all of a sudden so much time has passed.

mom is sprawled long on a lawn in a wedding dress and someone is dying in a car.

mom is appalled by my dirty ears.

grandma walters' ghost.

i'm under arrest by the national gov't for something i did on the internet. i'm running like a fugitive as i'm followed electronically. i give in so easily. why? cuz fighting is exhausting, especially losing battles. prolly has something to do with going invisible and sending erotica over e-mail. also it's like my biggest fear—being in trouble for you don't exactly know what or how you did it.

talking to my grandmother about the life choices i've made.

looking at:
bless - oxbow
brainstormers
center for tactical magic
gender pay gap not being closed
gossip - love long distance
in which we endure days in the summer: seeing the big picture
christian marclay - guitar drag
chuck morgan - this spring is
music for men london launch party
people in pizza slice costumes becoming pizzas
sonic youth etc.: sensational fix
tackling south africa's rape epidemic
ted talks
three degrees - if and when

listening to:
damon + naomi - the great wall
magnolia electric co - little sad eyes
taxi taxi - ripest fruit

an incomplete audiovisual compendium to d. a. powell's eleven disco songs that equate sex and death through an elaborate metaphor called heaven: