Tag: compactor

[sad on main]

[it wants to be a numb dull thing; or an obelisk in a room; or an arrangement of many intersecting ropes that describe, in the space between them, an empty space shaped like a person; or, most usefully, precisely itself, but with the “conscious experience” module only active at specific times]

[or, you know, it would like to be exactly itself but with, let’s say, everything from 5π/4 to 7π/4 excised, for quality control. maximal usefulness, minimal minima, enough negative-values range to give some purchase for neighboring intelligences]


https://unopenablebox.tumblr.com/post/171542448934/audio_player_iframe/unopenablebox/tumblr_ogvjtwghgc1usv0mm?audio_file=https%3A%2F%2Fia600308.us.archive.org%2F33%2Fitems%2FMountainGoats2009-03-27.nyctaper%2FMountainGoats2009-03-27_nyctaper_t10.mp3

emotionallaborunion:

emotionallaborunion:

160. The Last Limit of Bhakti

I’m not sure whether “Let me serve you with my tongue” is supposed to be dirty or not.

Likewise, I’m not sure whether this song is addressed to a lover or to God. ‘Bhakti’ means, apparently, “devotional worship directed to one supreme deity”. So I’m more inclined towards to think it’s a love song.

“Leave this grieving sand and sky far behind” is such a good turn of phrase. Also note the lyric change in the bridge (“let me hear the machines’ great gears squeal and wheelgrind” – it’s just “grind” in the album version.)

2009-03-27 – The Society for Ethical Culture – New York, NY

Grateful today to be in a world where this song exists

The figs we ate wrapped in bacon.
The gelato we consumed lustily:
coconut milk, clove, fresh pear.
How we’d dump hot espresso on it,
just watch it melt, licking our spoons
clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat,
the salt we’d suck off our fingers,
the eggs we’d watch get beaten
’til they were a dizzying bright yellow,
how their edges crisped in the pan.
The pink salt blossom of prosciutto
we pulled apart with our hands, melting
on our eager tongues. The green herbs
with goat cheese, the aged brie paired
with a small pot of strawberry jam,
the final sour cherry we kept politely
pushing onto each other’s plate, saying,
No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours.
How I finally put an end to it, plucked it
from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth.
How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart.
How good it felt: to want something and
pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway.

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, “July” (via oofpoetry)