inknode (for poems) : http://www.inknode.com/users/evelynspear
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soundcloud (for songs) : http://soundcloud.com/eeys
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music videos (links to youtube) : 90s sad song

håppy birthda¥  (queer noise core)
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visual arts portfolio



There was a small, small, small piece of an asteroid that came to earth
instead of doing as asteroids usually do - falling from the sky -
it rose from the sea.

They moved into the forest.  There was a tree that fell into the road.
It remained there from the time one could remember until the time one forgot.

One ultimate thing that they forgot:
There was a book buried deep beneath this hawthorne tree.
The man that wrote it had no name.
It told of a singular tone broadcast throughout the universe.
It is the vibration of the play of our nerves.

All the fish are dying.  Well, not to say they are dying.
They have each committed suicide.
They needed more alienation.  It wanted to pushed through the sieve,
to become a real piece of furniture inside the forest,
a rider on a slow plane, on a slow wave home.

Broken rabbit, broke your teeth.

I do not like to smoke.  When I am drunk I lose the crystal.
I know that smell of fermented cans.  The electrical heat of deserving.
Laughing sudden, but hot in a way.  Pink lemonade.
I sipped it like it was always coming.  The strippers were my friends.
[strippers såmple vid]

Another thing they forgot:  only eat that which leaves you
feeling as if you had not eaten at all.
One may not eat to regain commune.

Avoid have predetermined thoughts. 

You had been stained as a child
until the color wears off.
There are birds in the tall grass.
It is the wave in my hair that makes me vomit.  With bird like
sensibility, they stare into each others eyes.
It was the fragile face of china teacups pulled from the dirt.

The wave in the light has been lost.
The little girl that smiles at strangers as she walks by.

Things that are sour.  Things that make you feel uncomfortable,
yet sweet, yet uncomfortable with the reassurance
that things will be the same.

Will the angels ever sing to me again?
Every question is an illuminated manuscript.

If I could just get out
If I could just get out
If I could just get out

I don't where I would go

to be the quietest thing.

The internet is a disease.
The Americans are sick.  The Japanese are sick.
Let's be smart for a second.

When we become our machines there will be no more alienation.
When the individual consciousness and sensory input ceases to be,
becoming the singular tone.
[movie with tone]

 


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