Spoken Word From “Relative Distances”

Distance One by Molly Arnol

Butterflies spend their final hours masturbating flowers
and drinking the tears of mourners who cry for their dead
The dead return as butterflies and the dead butterflies return
as children… children sucking on flowers and puppies still small
and wet with their eyes closed

Tears pool in the grey river that is a cold silver cut beneath mountains
animals cluster around with their soft and open bodies and they are honest with us they yelp and sink their teeth in;

the road leads to an ancient city now dissolved as its kings lay silent under woolen blankets that wick blood to the surface and their faces are old and bruised; beside the mountain we would still wait and listen for the moment when all eternal is the void and the darkness behind the child’s eyes can be heard;

in the pastures there is the impression of where a horse lay sleeping crushed purple flowers and the smell of wild mint, insects clicking through their various existences. we have lived on wild chamomile, strawberries, mushrooms, fire and the water from the spring tastes like nothing the shepherd lays with his sheep and pulls his cloak closer, the old woman prepares to die and farewells the mountain from her door and laments her death that will prevent her from seeing the mountain again and the mountains form a procession at the hour of her death and drone their stones down their song travels the valleys

the skin of the soul is thin as a butterflies wings and has lived as briefly; come Psyche play with me as there is no grave and the pyre has gone cold; the impression left on the body from the severing of love is gaping and impossible to conceal

ask the children to throw their flowers in the river
ask the dead for peace or let them give it to you
ask the puppy to open its eyes
and we will ask the butterfly to ring their bells ring their bells ring their bells

Distance Four by Nathan Hudson

Stray dogs healed at our ankles
Softly leading from our bowels
The strange guiding thread of light
Turned signs knotted inside and
over kneaded until stiff
mankind: a form of early rigor mortis.
I’m in a melting pot
of stewed organs and pickled hearts.
Chest pains and poisoned glares. The bitter
desire of lemon pips and skin. Turning away
From the depth of the within.
Charred scabs picked at and bled
Still Listening to words unsaid
Sweat pouring from the waterfall of thighs
Sex moans and cries
After, after now there is none
Only one
An honored combination of drum dance and song
Spirited away to the here
No longer weighted
No longer waiting
For death stares and shaking
Side stepping the truth
Pickled up to the eyeballs in 70% proof
What is meant to be is meant to be
That subtle wall I tried to break between
You and me
Only Particles of breath
Endless possibilities turning emanating stress
The needy partner that hugs at your chest
After all your love is gone
And your stitched up bled out and underfoot
An empty vase of soot
Standing cradled
On the mantelpiece of time
Water slowing greeting quicklime

Distance Six by Giorgi Qorqashvili

Schau, wie es aussieht mit dem Huf gegen den orangenen Himmel
So gut wie keine Zeit für mehr Informationen über die Sicherheit
Über die Sonne und überhaupt keine Lust auf ein paar Tagen auf dem Weg nach oben zu haben wir noch nicht ganz sicher sein können, dass er auch schon mal Ernst genommen werden kann und will nicht mehr so viel wie möglich zu machen, sondern nur ein wenig weiter
Nur so, als ob man sich die Frage nach der Geburt, Schule und Arbeit gestellt hat
Wenn man übermüdet ist, ist man übermütig
Wenn man nichts mehr will, kann man erst alles wollen
Gut, Danke für die heilende Kraft und Energie sparen können wir Ihnen gerne weiter so angenehm finden
Nun mehr, auch die Vorstellung davon was man sich vorgestellt und vorgenommen hat zu sichern
Die Versicherung ist unmöglich schlecht synchronisiert und ich kann unser Treffen mit den anderen beiden Seiten des alten Menschen nicht mehr als ein einziger Fehler melden
Nun mehr, ist es gerade unerträglich und dann noch die Frage nach dem Urlaub in Deutschland ist der erste Schritt für den schönen Abend und eine gute Zeit
Schief geht langsam vom Hafen, junge Frau
Die gleiche Richtung ist nicht mehr das individuelle Angebot
Es interessiert mich nicht sehr viel mehr als ein paar ausgesuchte gut dressierte Tiere aus dem Bildschirm mit dem Telefon und Internet Explorer
Soweit alles klar
Und was machst du am besten mit dem Wiedersehen
Wem interessiert das denn jetzt eigentlich schon dass die meiste Menschen in den nächsten Tagen Wochen Jahren Jahrhunderten
Stahl und Blei fließt aus den offenen Adern
Ich sehe die gleiche, wie bei der premiere eines neuen Massenmedien GmbH in Berlin
Ausnahmsweise nicht so schnell wie es aussieht
Nicht so viel wie es aussieht
Nicht so sichtbar wie es aussieht
Sonst ist alles gut

Distance Eight by Scott McCulloch

All days rolling into one. My wasted limbs grow smaller. I lock the door and sink into baths of shadows, grip my face between my knees, knuckles drip sweat, bad tastes in my mouth: butts of cucumbers and the smell of burning hair. Gun smoke under my pillow… billygoat with horns running out the head … bursting like the neck of a broken guitar. My nails are falling off. I can hear the lake; decay fluttering out with black wings. I wake up spitting the scratches out of my throat. I look onto the blanket and see bits of fingernails and hair moving around in the spit. I hear a shrill tone coming up from outside. The clouds are sharp knives tearing the throat out of the sky. I find it hard enough to express what I think I know. All these bunched up faces, lost to the drunk spiders in the corner of my room, are not even there. Wretched shadows playing around, trembling innards, my chest is a shaking bag of screwdrivers. My eyes turn in the breeze, without shadow. Silence. The lake is slow. The sun is wet sentences. The shore fizzes like soda. The bank is flooded and swamped with a heap of legs sprouting from some seeds of piss, stacked up and poking out like rats eating their way through a pile of apricots. Back at the house, in the garden, I see a frenzy of hands. The women smell like sand and ham. The valley looks like piles of guitars. Off in my head I keep walking around in the village; I keep walking around an old spacious museum of dementia. Dawn … blood in my mouth. I fumble with some toilet paper I’ve kept in my pocket, pull at the thin pieces and press on the gums. The paper falls apart. Scummed in the beard of night, I move my hands over the face bleeding in the hallway, smelling like a handful of coins. Body uncomfortable, pink and limp, and I begin to remember my mother who died with no children. Walking around the lake seemed like such a hazard; the air sweltered and painted a silver hell. I don’t like to think of those years when everything changed. I want to wipe them out of memory like a bad dream. Everyone suspected everyone else. It gets to the point where you’ve been up the arse so long that all you’ve seen is shit. War. Drugs. What’s the difference? It all just turns to noise: the noise of a steel hell being rolled up like a carpet. The night grinds out. A mute television still buzzes, playing streams of inflamed coastlines. A bunch of different colours bruise the sky. The lake folds with grey waves like fishermen’s nets, shimmering on the surface as insects make knots in the air. On top of a blade of grass, a weasel sucks at some eggs. An old woman stands in the doorway, headscarf wrapped around her face; she starts crying, walks to the car to hold me. She cries more and talks in her demented half-language that none of her children can understand – a series of strokes throwing her throat into the darkest parts of her body – it’s as if she speaks from her stomach. She squeezes me tightly. I feel my whole body swelling up. I smell perfume coming out of the back of my head – childhood keeping its lights on. I can’t think much further than the front door. My lungs heave like a T-shirt after a swim. I stand by the window and watch the silver hairs of the late sun shake. We drink beer and watch TV. The old woman holds me with both of her hands and won’t stop crying. My glass bubbles as my mother’s auntie keeps topping it up with beer. She wears a camouflage shirt and pants. Another very old woman whose face is sculpted sideways, with small raisin eyes and red cuts on her crumpled forehead, walks into the TV room and hugs me. She shakes. I ask my cousin if this old lady is her grandmother; she tells me it’s her mother. My mother’s auntie in the camouflage keeps changing the channel with the remote, showing me how to use it. Plastic flower pot-plants line half the room. The old woman in the doorway starts to cry even louder, and my mother’s auntie and my cousin tell her to shut up. A white kitten with taut reddish skin runs around the perimeter of the room, behind the TV and the pot-plants – an old woman gets out of her chair and paces quickly, hunched over from her diseased brain, wanting to beat the kitten until it’s a pattern on the carpet. Sitting back down, her lips start to chap like white lines splitting a hinge. She opens a drawer and pulls out photographs of me as a newborn. Wounds appear in the rear view mirror as it bends the road behind—one swirling waste in reflection. More distorted sceneries: lakes drowning themselves, mountains seemingly falling in on themselves; yet unlike most landscapes that are ever-vanishing, these are coming into being. Not stiff or unshakable, the sun and moon less idiotic than usual. Articles of light beam farther on into the unfinished distance. Debris piles up in scattered mounds. A car is wrapped around the trunk of a tree. The land appears helplessly deduced to collapsible vitrines. All there is is a layer of glass for protection. Glass walls, glass books, glass doors, glass bridges, glass machines, glass gardens, glass harvests, glass organs, glass eyes, glass balloons, glass skies, glass dreams, glass masks. A blind fury of consciousness laid bare, shattering away in seconds. It feels as though I’m an already dead person who keeps trying to commit suicide.

buy full album: https://tete-noise.bandcamp.com/album/relative-distances

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