OCCASIONAL POEM
Where
the organism ends
Rather like becoming
part of sound, inside music you’re
tuning or enjoying, exploring and dealing
with music
instead of a title, each title has the look
of beautiful people and they
are my next installation.
Studio processes
the sound which is being
and never is
the record of music. I’m going away
with the listener I’m
going away with the listener
tuned to translate the document
into permanently thought-up mixes
in the same dimension as the stuff
on the speakers
is a record maybe, maybe probably
I let it out.
A simple mix to get the music’s code
not difficult to listen, preserve a show
I know different
They’re going on their thing, a piece
is a recording and a complex
The equipment is six instruments and six years
without chance, I format a position
while cooking dinner sometimes
becoming millions of sounds repeating
artifacts mixing symphony by ear
and twelve devices
I tell you sound
can go into a space titled “Humans”
story painted on a speaker
thumbprint of stereos
every-body listens through people
traveling into a microphone
and out
The wet way we’re built
method of water to approach the sun’s
non-mortal installation
the piece it’s using to sound me
Today’s plastic, choice to be another
record of sounds, knowing separation
from the immortal installation
transformed into zeros, not preserved
physically cooking the phonograph
format closer to a body
which doesn’t differ at the end
from a closed book on movement
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