Playlist: July 2020

landscape painting with green triangle

lime green triangle

 

and Spicer says, ‘don’t worry I will tell you everything’. this is the dream where you appear as a lime green triangle and there is nothing I can do _ lime green isosceles learning spelling looking at the great internet for hours, very lightly _ lime green isosceles learning your angles /

 

                                                                       \ if you appear to me lime again, full-flesh of note

I know a great red splash will appear on the side of the morning, best side, coffee breath not four hours on call, or shepherd style. So how a triangle holds me like every brushstroke, something gestural in lieu of a writerly end. July, july, like who is writing?
(so nice
out of your window the mews were, smoke-warm lung
just one
accident) is a landscape even real? where is my juul, my eye?
There is this line in Katie Dey’s ‘Bearing’ (mydata) which goes, ‘I am warm by her username’.
None of ever disembodied; always a record of brushstroke, beautiful people on the pavement outside and bouncing a trite kind of fungible language, who goes. To shop for that same geometry. It tumbled out of the wow so luminous. this dream I kept having about going for half a Guinness with you / and all pretty drunk on aphid dependence
is jangle
is jangle                     expensive impressionable air!
look up from the mic it’s there, like yellow flower
went in tesco wearing a mask
felt lux of outside
purchase protect like
there is so much of so little bread in the world
‘But I write
you tomorrow, I always say it in the present’, says Derrida, of a bookleaf letter.
Look who’s shining back, sarments of a username. what is the use value of
removing the bees from the kelvin meadow? sweet carb, sometimes
I am barely iris
growing sideways
and the milk is sour trochee / streak of copper
want to draw us a room to live in
depth of field, dappled motion. Like a ramen hack
all it takes slight pinch of telling you everything. like we camp this close to the website
with duckmice, star anise . . .
growing sideways
that season I got everything early. and it was all good, kind to me
very bloodful much dawn, little saltish, waking only to sleep again to vague
dreamnote will you go
sent up to Parkland or like
a sluice of weather, let me swipe it from yr brow. wild
reclaiming the word for thyme vibration
abundant / gold sounds / this
you is more / Disentangle
prettily the screen again, hair in fist and first / make space for your
space it_ Don’t worry I will tell everything
by the sheen of my wrists a bracelet
of upstroke acoustic lines of steel, latching sun.
Best side, coffee a short breath upon pale-coloured air is how have you slept,
synchronise “morning” for warming, always already
I had that poem about the warm London air and
wanting to kiss us, where did it go
the poem
cut thru a land &
dumb smoke without snow as it was in Glasgow, then
lemon balm smoking a natural data by summerised fountain, four
in the not now morning
O wow like salt lakes
look at us float!           no money
you can or can’t say swim
you swap pronoun for leaf
Like
leaf is barely iris
leaf is barely eating
leaf is barely anyone
I was so happy to just say afk :                                    )
breathe me / is only the accidental priceless picnic
of being barely alive like
somebody taking a polaroid, here in my doll’s dress
I-i mean leaf never felt sick as america, except to say sickening!!!!
the worry of telling you everything, that’s practice
so much I would crisp by it, hot swear
everything bluegrass
nude in the
locket of
new soft animal shapes
“golden green, red blue”
These are just lights! growing sideways
you pull up slick at the station, leaf coming
before say come
round the corner you
narrate my emails
deleting erotic gasoline, plainsong smelled of triangle
caught you in chord. lime green over Laura Nyro
say what I held in my hand was just
neat spliff
or tiny bird
the heather all over the heather
wild I keep wanting to say it would never go
just about purple
best thing I ever saw or heard
no name of a name
learning to spell say oxeye by the layby
eat three almonds, live in Japan
to jumpstart
liked songs make wonderful life / it’s coming

~

Aye Nako – Sissy

Tacocat – I Hate the Weekend

The Kinks – Rats

Orange Juice – I Guess I’m Just a Little Too Sensitive

R.E.M. – Crush With Eyeliner

CAN – Moonshake

Khruangbin – Time (You and I)

Klein, MONG_WOONG – V3

PJ Harvey, Thom Yorke – This Mess We’re In

U.S. Girls – Rosebud

King Krule – Stoned Again

Sonic Youth – Bull in the Heather

Thee Oh Sees – The Axis

Sun Ra – When There is No Sun

Fire-Toolz – It’s Now Safe to Turn Off Your Computer

NNAMDÏ – Glass Casket

Thanya Iyer – Always, Be Together

Christelle Bofale – Moving On, Getting On

Toro y Moi feat. Old Grape God – tron_new_rose_hifi_v2

James Blake – Are You Even Real?

Porridge Radio, Lala Lala – Good For You

Immaterial Possession – Tropical Still Life

Sharon Van Etten – Malibu

Silver Jews – Animal Shapes

Modern Nature – Halo

Fair Mothers, Faith Eliott, Esther Swift – Monochrome

Magnolia Electric Co. – Josephine

David Bowie – Wild Is the Wind

Karen Dalton – Little Bit of Rain

Christian Lee Hutson – Northsiders

Portishead – Deep Waters

Elliott Smith – Whatever (Folk Song in C)

Sparklehorse – Sunshine

Joan Baez – The Wild Mountain Thyme

Playlist: June 2020

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The daylight was like ordering pyjamas off the internet. Light blue. Sky broke for when it rained and the hills were seen as old pornographers watching us pass like gifs. I’m grown into us to reach for the kettle, for the internet, wearing my silks, something’s on the boil and it’s not quite tea. I think of some other season and know it is cornflower, not quite light, not quite blue of dawn because it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the dawn. People are buying vintage files to play dialup connection. The old pornographers eat their cameras for warmth. I’ve seen them do it to be secret, fucking careful to be made up in a lovely afternoon with blusher, oranges and Russian vodka. It’s the same thing you lie down for, sometimes lying down because I can’t get a word, or a line, can’t catch or watch. You have to watch it for happening. The daylight was like that, then pulling on silks, moth-fringed, light blue it was like the colour of the internet turned inverse for ‘its’ children. They were still making artillery in the system, so we could sleep here peacefully and not be disturbed by the old pornographers and their bits of camera. The sexual motion / of foliage all up in my software. It wasn’t that we had any tension, there were other kinds of ars poetica, but something’s on the boil and it’s not quite tea. 

There were other kinds of daylight the colour of the internet and not the quite blue of this tea. Because sky is making us pass like gifs in such loops as I can’t get a word. The deteriorating resolution of you are not bloodleaf. Because June is super lovely, moth-fringed, pulling on silks. You pass a lot of grasses, long-grown from their natural habitats, watching the drops fall out of the sky for what, for love. I don’t know what shape it is they make on the surface of water, but I watch. The old pornographers were making a nature documentary at the edge of the forest, which was inaccessible, badly rendered. So I could sleep here peacefully, I came out of the shower in cornflower to tell them the best blue spots they could film. The colour of the internet is touching a liquid, then it goes through the lens, fucking slow, so huge, it belongs to this season. Snapped. The tree was just that down the middle, sort of bruised where it had stood, not light blue, lightening out into favourite tone. The old pornographers scolded my aura and told me these pretty white lies. Like. Say your best tree was a willow and we do it lightly, willowy, that’s how I know what tallness is, like pulling on silks in London. It’s the same thing because I can’t get a word, moth-fringed my mouth is pushing up cobwebs. (*) The loop is very beautiful it feels like you are grasses, lots of them exist unmown for hours, how at dawn for the children, light blue, how they enter and trample; only the old pornographers trespass for profit.  

Here look at the tiny bird nursing her young which are tinier still, it’s the same thing as knowing it rained and a goldcrest buoyed up on the birdbath, tiny thing, not quite vodka. Because I can’t get a word, there are gilded flakes in my colourless tipple – visceral realists! – like anything we had off the internet, like this particulate stuff that fell from the sky. I want to be fucking careful to light blue the mise en scene of this feeling, tell it slow to flicker. Be made up in a lovely or a line, can’t catch or not be disturbed by the old pornographers, whose interns were cameo sylphs of such beauty as to even sleep peacefully here, or inhabit the air. It was like the dream of Bloomsbury and the supermodels draped over carts that advertised mustard to the masses and it made no sense except mustard can boost your metabolism maybe, yellow it is, so I ride my bike beside them. I’m grown into us to reach tension, summer thinspiration, I dawn because it’s been a long kind of daylight to find this, pulling on silks, dust caps, yolks, some time since the colour of the internet turned up bits of camera. The contact sheet of ruinous cornflowers, raindrops stained; pinned animals appear in separate parcels, how it all looks side by side is not quite vodka. It is yet a shard. Archival. I’ve seen them do it for happening. Warmth. Freedom is the edible mischief of knowing poetry could never. Warmth, warmth is keeping a secret, local to cygnet, melt & forestry slenderness. The daylight blusher made love of your face, I’m fucked.

 

 

Sun Ra – Realm of Lightning

Run the Jewels – yankee and the brave (ep. 4)

Spellling – Dirty Desert Dreams

Noname – Song 33

Fleetwood Mac – Storms

Laura Nyro – Broken Rainbow

Connie Converse – Sad Lady

Ratboys – A Vision

Big Star – Dream Lover 

Bright Eyes – Mariana Trench

Coma Cinema – Tall Grass

Gleemer – Brush Back

Feng Suave – People Wither

Tricky – Fall Please

Let’s Eat Grandma – Glittering 

Soko – Being Sad Is Not a Crime

HAIM – Gasoline

Kelly Lee Owens – On

Tomberlin – Tornado

Slowdive – Some Velvet Morning (cover)

Mogwai – Take Me Somewhere Nice

Bing & Ruth – The Pressure of this Water

Ecco2k – Hi Fever

Lil Peep – driveway

Ashnikko – Cry (feat. Grimes)

Donny Hathaway – I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know

deeper – Pink Showers

Katie Dey – Dancing

Christine & the Queens – People, I’ve been sad 

Thurston Moore – Hashish

Ian & Sylvia – Early Morning Rain

Robert Wyatt – Shipbuilding

Soft Machine – Why Are We Sleeping?

The Replacements – Can’t Hardly Wait

Songs: Ohia – Didn’t It Rain

Kath Bloom, Loren Connors – Wait For My Love

Lianne La Havas – Weird Fishes (cover)

Phoebe Bridgers – I Know the End

Playlist: May 2020

Playlist: May 2020

   (1)

These paraesthesia days where there is a thing like too much or less of light, continuing to know ‘what went wrong’ with the license. There is a Crispin Best poem about your inbox filling up lightly, your inbox lightly fills; but the word he uses is gentle. I like it when I’m looking for a line from ‘a poem’ and I can’t find the line, and the poem gently eludes me because it is a caterpillar already cocooned, and you have to pluck the caterpillars from the wriggling tree of the book, or is it a forest before thought, because pretty soon it will be swaddled in the transformative and what comes next is too much to give wings, it’s anamnesis, intangible, the pines in the wind. Max says Red Bull got their asses sued for claiming their drink gives you wings and I want to attest to a singular experience in which I spent pocket money on a genuine can, silver and blue, and the sugar made me fly from one end of the period to another, during which such time piled up in triangular grains at the side of the rainbow road. Is this the same as the sugar elixir you give to save bees? But I can’t go back, my wings are wilted, there’s less appetite. I write this with rainbow spectres spilled on my fingers through polished crystal; like I ate the apple from the old Apple logo like the one on the old computers at school. And we’d sit on those stools in art class writing for hours on machines where a thing could not be ‘saved’ except to desktop, where it would chill very lightly for a dusty season or two, and then be removed by a cursorial drag of September instance. I want to go again, be there, drink cheap vodka at lunchtime and write my magnum opus on radio design and fall into the white-tiled toilets crying. Later I would do the same at work. Lorde sings ‘It feels better biting down’ but the bite was out of the apple already, like the bite from your arm. Marks we have shared of our flesh. I have been sitting at windows again, waiting for caterpillars to appear in the floats of my vision. They are gentle and beautiful and ripe for the pluck ‘and that’s love’. I can’t find the poem about the inbox that gently fills (whose?) but I like the bit in Best’s ‘Nature Poem’ where ‘you can hold a tiny leaf and say “leaflet”’ and ‘you can tell me “don’t worry your sadness isn’t going / anywhere let’s just be alright together awhile’ because it is so gentle towards the sadness, subjunctive, cradles it into a lessness, that’s why the line folds just so, with us just there before ‘anywhere’ because we go in the going, that’s crossing a line. Why do my toes buzz when I sit too long and is this what people in novels call ‘cramps’ and when I say people in novels I mean primarily men because ‘pins and needles’ is too feminine, domestic, except I knew men could sew and I knew sailors and waiters who could stitch up in no time and once I was wounded and let them hold me on the planks or the bar with red thread to stitch up my sorry knee and each stitch was a tiny vicarious kiss and the thought occurred to me there isn’t a word for that, a tiny vicarious kiss the way you can say of a tiny leaf, ‘leaflet’, or of a cat, a kitten. Maybe you just say ‘feather’. Well anyway, your inbox gently fills where I can’t find it, the petals for roses, not of them, and I sit here looking for synonyms while the world can’t sleep or burns and I can choose to cocoon myself in the almost not-knowing of other fevers. Sifting through the less of each other, days pass into messages, like people used to say for a trip to the shops. I see things shuttered and strangely detached from their context, objects afloat in the space of what was. You would fly over all this, laughing at me with your endless, sanguine energy. Turns out the poem is actually called ‘your inbox gently fills’ and maybe it’s like the making of love is like looking for a title, you want to complete and not complete, you want it to go on or finish forever in this one whole thing, still rippling, this ‘big and spooky’ world again which is always the outside-in of it, the best you’ve had, asking about the mouthfeel of Hegel or something. It’s not about names though, right?

   (2)

Feels like the hospital inside the hospital inside the poem. Feels like you disinfected the irrelevant conversation to make it clean again, whole again. Her voice feels clear in a way I can’t explain or speak to, that’s not the point or why I would squeeze more juice from the aloes for the sake of my cuticles. When the caterpillars start harmonising, high pitched squeals of light, I know it’s like saying which of us is speaking to the violent affirmation of nothing like rainfall? They die in your tread if you let them. I want this to stop like the world, and helicopters fly over the scene of writing which is my little head, or a sonnet by Ian Heames. In the dream it is September and already ‘over’ in the ladies basement, washing our hands for the atmosphere to the tune of ‘drink water / good posture / good lighting / good evening’ which always made me think of shortcuts to a Schuyler poem, like saying I love you, like how many times Prynne gets away with saying that in The White Stones is super beautiful waking up at 6am with this huge yellow hardback bruising my chest and it’s only that ‘good morning / I see you’ in this place which is less than air, but sirens. And a slant of light he had said I would know, even with everything over, the memory strays in solar resonance. I had never done such lines as the posture of quartz in the month’s end, gloss hair, cut with lace, a noted conditional; but I am selling these paintings to support the purchase of salt, shadow and one day a purple diamond in general. It’s nice The New Yorker noticed the amphibrachs. That’s my name and it’s not. I once told Callie it sounds like a Pokémon. The air here, glistening, is super effective. 18 degrees with a 0% chance of rain. I pedal the loop like I haven’t before, then / Celadon coloured scrunchie, release huge hair and the special aporia of all this falling. 

   (3)

What if thoughts are snacks. I carry them around and worry their edges, like peeling the skin very gently where the body just gapes because it is tired and sorry and your hair is long and I tuck myself behind the prospect. ‘Socially distanced tins’. When you give up the fruit of the internet and the caterpillars lap at the sugar and they have cascaded from the breadfruit tree in the song called ‘Barbary Coast (Later)’, ‘a dancehall there / where the sick folks go’. I gather up such caterpillars, when strong sometimes / a waltz is made… in the rain that you play in, in the lozenges sucked of the sunsets thick in your blood and another apology for ‘clogging your inbox’, a gestural stretch of the arm is pattern. If your thought is a peach and the slice of the peach and I open the tin very slightly, prise you out, and you slick there in syrup all over my internet. Such limbs. And I would cry at this kindness as the wishes allow. Wherever the mail arrives there is starlight. Dancing to Peach. Syncope. Little heat in my foot. Imagine all the email was fruit, the gentle pile-up of apple peelings, my laptop hot from the former resource wars (is brutal). ‘The more I see / the less I scream’, soft feelings, soft feelings.

   (4)

After school, she would cut us the apples. After the scholarship, I would cut up the hours for the tree D&G say is Chomsky’s, acid-hard, and I find myself in the trespass of yesterday. Whose node goes there. Snacks please. Crispest, best. I like the bits where he (Best I mean) steps back and lets it happen, like ‘i let summer take over the house / for however long it needs’ (‘Don’t Call It A Dream’), which is how this feels, small-caps sense, which is a title that makes me think of a Crowded House song and maybe this is played somewhere, Freaks and Geeks say, did we watch that the heartbroken night before Christmas where I walked to Dennistoun to eat dinner and it didn’t snow but it could have, why not, make love. Life’s bad teen comedy is a situation tragedy of the not-going-forward, into the absolute and the man who has walked five times past my window this morning, now he carries Sophia’s cereal. Summer is crawling across the bad efficiency of risk assessment and I miss trains, even buses, mostly the lightfast feeling of passing by an evening sea. Bluest of green and bluey greenness a mad men would write in the advertised plural…Like a praying mantis, this is a common species of pain. 

   (5) 

If you fold into a leaflet. If you let this go. The caterpillar crawled into the last of your Tennents, yellow can left by the river, distant tin, and it grew on that fizz into the county sensation of other nostalgias. The cough syrup afforded by terminal contract, it sticks us to base and we want to go further, cherried, flex our last before cutting season. If I spread my wings for however long it needs to be summer all over, the clairvoyance of airborne diseases and how we began as larva is just wage precarity. I look at such attic moths across the moon as is permissible in lyrical chrysalis / fruit pickers required in the north / and you choose not to kill One hour after the other, starting to hatch. I feel not gnat. Summer takes over the longest passage in To the Lighthouse and it is choosing to not read, milkweed all over your throat, it is choosing the patience of the old cicadas. But I am thus plucked and I float. What does Alice Notley mean by pastly?

   (6)

To be known for spirited performance, the caterpillars fuse in devious multiples. The past is a margarine tree that you climb and I wait for you there in the climbing, spreading myself on toast like stars or tiny seeds of pollen the cataclysm would otherwise eat, being as selfish as saying ‘my brain was glowing’, not same as before, my friends just pretend to be ants on facebook. Big <3. Guitars collect sex at the gift shop. The light vibrates in the loss and it’s lemon and green, it’s in major key, it’s trying / you can’t treat it.

   (7)

Whatever / fuck modernism / if it can’t be in favour of insects / I can’t feel the blood inside my capillaries. Better to sit beneath the breadfruit trying to describe paradises you’ve never even been to or won’t or can’t. What he said of lightspeed and photons, bright infinite pop, answer the question, the little ellipsis in O’Hara’s ‘Now It Is Life…’ and I’m pulling all away, the fuzzy excess of the cygnets, the dog that refused, the picture not taken. The additive lyric, the flash of ‘Vanished’, the casual vernal sensation of having been here before and loved it. General keyboard smash and it’s all there is now, here, you can have the nothing that turned…

~

Manic Street Preachers – Peeled Apples

Bright Eyes – One and Done

Katie Von Schleicher – Brutality

Spellling – Under the Sun

Björk – Venus as a Boy

Arthur Russell – Love is Overtaking Me

Yo La Tengo – You Can Have It All

Belle & Sebastian – A Summer Wasting

Kacey Musgraves – Butterflies

Dolly Parton – Light of a Clear Blue Morning

The Velvet Underground – I Found a Reason

The Mamas & The Papas – Safe In My Garden

Coma Cinema – Marie (No Sleep)

Kath Bloom – Come Here

Jason Molina – Shadow Answers the Wall

Angie McMahon – If You Call

Lorde – Ladder Song (Bright Eyes cover)

Phoebe Bridgers – I See You

Conor Oberst – Barbary Coast (Later)

Fleet Foxes – Third of May / Ōdaigahara

Matt Berninger – Serpentine Prison

Caroline Polachek – Look At Me Now

Snail Mail – Pristine

The 1975 – Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied

Yves Tumor – Dream Palette

Perfume Genius – On the Floor

Soccer Mommy – I Think You’re Alright

Muchuu – Getaway Train

Ghost in the Water – Cardinal Red

Parasitic Party – Shifted by a Phase

FKA twigs – Glass & Patron

Bing & Ruth – Live Forever

Modern Studies – Shape of Light

(Workshop) I Need to Start a Garden: Journaling the Crisis

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Running a workshop on Friday 15th May, 1-2.30pm as part of the Stay at Home Fringe Literary Festival. Free & all welcome.

In his book Modern Nature, Derek Jarman refers to his home in Dungeness as ‘the idea of my wilderness garden’. Suffering with AIDS-related illness, Jarman tends to his windswept crop of plants and flowers as a way of staying in time, planting for renewal, resilience and tending to the cycles of the seasons. As we find ourselves confined indoors, this workshop asks how we might cultivate our own wilderness gardens in writing. What arts of noticing can we practice to keep attuned to ‘nature’, our bodies and the tiny changes of daily life occurring alongside the monumental dramas of our contemporary moment? We will experiment with journaling, free-writing and asking what it means to write, dream and feel through crisis.

RSVP here for Zoom link.

Taster playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0jRnDh8vz7x1eNjPEutI74?si=9Ks_8pffRQyxX7o4oETSDA

Playlist: April 2020

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April, the quarantined month is sweet. Not cruellest, for that would be February. What is the human capacity for crying exactly? I had cried all 28 days to water the snowdrops, saved the 29th for one great, acidic cry of my life.

April, I dreamt you had leapt from the hole in my head / and the hole in my head from the length of your light.

April, we name our sadnesses arbitrarily. The sadness is a euphemism for what we are tired of saying, and even saying ‘these times’, and even saying the strangeness. To live in the sadness or strangeness, say

April, a shattering epiphany that I still

April, my kindest regards.

April, the dying narcissi.

April, I never signed on to be locked indoors, never signed on for these losses or debts. Never signed on for these sadnesses and yet they are happening, belonging to someone in pain upstairs, lending a movie, tending a wage.

April, the sadness of paragraphs.

April, I watch you teach at a distance, blue-dimming with cans of juice.

April, The Baudelaire Fractal.

April, the pedagogy of longing. I lose dull words. I teach myself not to need you. I learn to need the living itself. Lil Peep screams in my ear, ISN’T LIFE BEAUTIFUL / I THINK THAT LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL. This is a kind of instruction.

April, the sarcasm of flowers.

April, I walk in the underpass reading the red paint, Make the rich pay. The president is everywhere and nowhere, confected aleatory; a bad rhizome, the president has bleached his words. Tap root political, it can’t get out. The water doesn’t flow here. There’s lead, but no leader.

April, I found a Jason Molina lyric buried in a poem by Peter Gizzi. I had been writing about the undersong but this was ‘Oversong’, the verb ‘to be’ eclipsing ‘me’.

April, I wander the lonely rhubarb clouds, an hour or so. The world on edge.

April, there’s lead in the water.

April, I would polish your cutlery.

April, someone on the radio is defending his advice on a bleachy digest.

April, say hi to Angela for me.

April, where are your showers?

April, what would I ask of your showers?

April, the poems. Mary Ruefle filling the 22nd with sunflower hearts, or was it her friend, ‘Please Read’. How I misread wilted for waited, waited for wilted. Seeds of words. How I knew nothing about the orange blossom excepting its smell, which I drunk so hard, not knowing the name but only how passing a top-note I wanted it all perfumed within me. This form of quietness akin to heat or light. Who would design this, and all that beauty.

April, the air is cherried with synonyms. You spit out the coolest noun for this.

April, I eat breakfast at six in the evening.

April, you are teasing me with readings and the old response; I have no ability. My year folds back into last, remembering the burn in my stomach, wanting to get there fast and slow, the scenery seen from a train. Manchester blossoms before Glasgow and the song about the orange room, the pinks in the street, the wondering. I did not know then that I would take you, carry a little seed in me.

April, I have so little to say.

April, sprained ankles.

April, the canal is glistening at dusk.

April, the supercut / us.

April, in these uncertain times, you are the discount. Please let me out for a walk, on all things said, the passing around of a line.

April, James Schuyler remembered you to a French pear and the sulphur-yellow bees. I was nostalgic also, pollinating the document with all my normals. What difference it made. They said a world.

April, the pollen set free.

April, the edge of the world is grey.

April, the sunlight’s adultery.

April, what sex?

April, fuck you, that was yesterday.

April, I’m reading Lee Harwood again for the sea that I miss. Infinite sea that I miss.

April, I want to run down the slope of the universe and think a single intelligent thought.

April, they are absolute units.

April, the rivers are so low I’m starting to think ‘they’ need sertraline. Sweet relief of the rain.

April, fuck it I love you.

April, it’s always somebody’s birthday and now they’re blowing out candles on Zoom.

April, you buy me groceries.

April, I’m starting to think I once met a girl called April. She wore her hair in elaborate braids, and the kirby grips shone in the sun the one day in July when I ate ice lollies by the fountain at the end of all I remember. The roses were over-watered, all colours of the sun. Generous, redundant, you tossed in bank notes to wish this was over.

April, Lee says ‘her beauty undresses       the sea’. You picture that, the flicker where the dress is the same as the blue as she is the sea.

April, I wear blue and roll myself out where the sun would set.

April, I can’t stop quoting Clarice.

April, I want somebody else’s salt.

April, the pink moon, the Lyrid meteors.

April, there’s something I want to delete.

April, I was crying for the violinist on the radio, crying for those in her apartment, dying. Two of them, she said, barely in their forties, choking up.

April, I felt like a meme. A bad guy.

April, make the rich pay.

April, it was so on the nose the writing was giving me zits and I’m sorry. Keep thinking this is it this is it this is it and I’m sorry.

April, step into the fifteenth century.

April, Joanne Kyger in the song called ‘Belief’.

April, this stamina of maintaining the romance of living.

April, naming us yellowest flowers.

April, a lunar-resistant photography sings.

April, give me the negatives.

April, it all started on the eleventh. I went a ritualised cycle in the sweet warm rain, with flies stuck jewel-like to the sweat of my chest. I kept going and going until my heart gave out a charitable breathlessness.

April, you have a shark smile and I wonder what it is you might do to me.

April, I really miss Nice ‘n’ Sleazys, pints of Guinness, gigs & readings.

April, the air is a silver curve.

April, you are thousands of results.

April, the change I can’t have.

April, the little black cat tried to get in the door and for a while we sat there and then scooping her up I held her awhile, her wee beating heart next to mine. The warmest thing in weeks. Her glass eyes looked to the curve-glass moon and we both were momentary slivers. I went inside and washed my hands and the soap bubbles… and I hope she got home eventually.

April, oracular.

April, it felt stupid as a miracle.

April, consider the orchid.

April, it made of us talking heads. I dreamt I went through the screen and it was all a quiet darkness of matter, having read Karen Barad, having watched Twin Peaks. Is it that you go through your own eyes, zooming, watching to see what they’d do in the afterglow, repeating yourself. Here is the other Maria, etc. I watched you on someone else’s story, like a bad cartoon, the bad rehearsal of all of our laughter, a bad white powder.

April, I hate this.

April, my pins and needles.

April, Marianne Morris says ‘Never lay in the dirt elated’.

April, my dad sends me pictures of lambs.

April, it gets so I don’t want to call anymore because it hurts more not being with you in the summer, the summer, the amiable feeling.

April, the president says to try light and heat.

April, you are rice cakes, sadness and crushed velour.

April, the world is not primed or administered.

April, ‘they’ failed ‘us’, etc.

April, blue masks lay on the pavement like plasters afloat in the pools of my youth and I wonder whose wounding was minor, to take that off.

April, I swim in it.

April, a lesson.

April, I felt in the fortress of dreams the falling into after-this. On a spinning top at the park by the beach and we held on forever / and all my old friends were shining.

April, walking outside labyrinthine over…’

April, I can’t listen to Joni anymore.

April, the crisp sea air.

April, the police are everywhere.

April, I miss everyone.

April, if I could transcend already, the froth on a latte, the password required of me.

April, I make a donation.

April, if the story is lifted.

~

IMG_1683.JPG

IMG_1677.JPG

~

Cocteau Twins – Rilkean Heart

Ariel Pink – Feels Like Heaven

Phoebe Bridgers – Kyoto

Dua Lipa – Future Nostalgia

Gena Rose Bruce – The Way You Make Love

Lil Rae, Pelican Tusk – ODYSSEY

Field Medic – POWERFUL LOVE

The 1975 – Jesus Christ 2005 God Bless America

Neutral Milk Hotel – April 8th

Felicia Atkinson – Everything EvaporateSky Ferreira – You’re Not The One

Goth GF – Horse Girl

Lil Peep – Moving On

Paramore – My Heart

Double Discone – Red Light

Grimes – Rosa

Cindy Lee – Plastic Raincoat

Gia Margaret – Groceries

Laura Marling – Held Down

Jess Williamson – Infinite Scroll

Porches – Xanny Bar

Frank Ocean – Dear April

Mitski – I Bet on Losing Dogs

Pinegrove – On Jet Lag

Angelo De Augustine – Santa Barbara

Hand Habits – Flower Glass

Peter Oren – Falling Water

Tim Buckley – Marigold

Julia Jacklin – Don’t Let the Kids Win

Fiona Apple – Under the Table

John Prine – Pretty Good

John K. Samson – 17th Street Treatment Centre

Mount Eerie, Julia Doiron – Belief

Songs, Ohia – An Ace Unable to Change

Bright Eyes – Forced Convalescence

Nic Jones – Master Kilby

The Lowest Pair – Shot Down the Sky

Lana Del Rey – Bel Air

Sun Kil Moon – Ocean Breathes Salty

Outer Limits Recordings – Silhouette

Pelican Tusk – Rhubarb’s House

Roddy Woomble – Context of Midnight

~

IMG_1676.JPG

 

flotsam

Flotsam 1.jpg
flotsam I., A3 watercolour, by Jack O’Flynn

Flotsam 2
flotsam 2, A3 watercolour by Jack O’Flynn

flotsam

 

‘Hear me, hear my silence. What I say is never what I say but instead something else. When I say “abundant waters” I’m speaking of the force of body in the waters of the world. It captures that other thing that I’m really saying because I myself cannot.’
— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin
— Adrienne Rich, ‘Diving into the Wreck’

On becoming a body,
the little abundant shines and its pores are clotted with dust.
I saw what sound it was a wave makes
when startled by gestures towards this torsion
a long beach, the false irrigation of beautiful islands.
The melody was a long intimation of losing faith
in what is meant by a certain colour, not
this blue which runs in the prussian rain.
I want to run up the spine of your back
and settle the amygdala city, tie
my lyrical wrists in mobius fibres
and return the rights to speech.
Do you want to continue?
He was born and beautiful,
he might have seizures. We interfere in definition.
The depression of time is a beautiful curve
in the small of morning, named
after the call you wanted.
Blue dust of feeling.
Blue dust of biblical name.
I worry for his tiny heart.
Glycolic, afloat
in the radical millions
when I say this bird
is a nameless bird, plotting
and pecking the wreck
I go down
in such hunger
I go down
without formula.
Not this.
The world is stuck.
I sing to you
in the echo, in the rich
and greatest loss.
Who hurt us?
I had a dream we were swimming
in the San Pedro Bay, just like the video
it was almost sunny. There will come a time
when my car won’t start
if I ever have a car
in a lightless world
the structure of passion is a ritzy hotel.
Your hour is a fucking astronaut.
Imagine Disney injected
arterial dreams
this crudely.
Imagine a fire in the minibar
at the back of your mind.
As the relation to your wreck
I call it ship, I still want
the elsewhere conduit of thoughts
to sign my brain as treeware
in the black black gold
my oleochemical, fear of soap
and gaussian world is a kitten.
She burns it all up.
On becoming this back-lit
history of pixels, we pour into jars
the last of sea-glass, liquid shingles, I cut the bird
into salad I cut this sort of pristine hope
to feed the kitten.
I thought the picket
was shining in rain, a sound.
Something is drawing us out.
I make a romance from your shoes
and the kissable way of these days
is a no-show, mewing, the marketing
of genital shame, the apocalypse breakfast
tastes of salt. Come back into my life,
I always found you
with a breath laced in pesticide,
a currency of morphine
dreaming me
back like a thrush, I want to wreck
the multitude of this song
with its hyperthermia, its oil-made
hide of feathers.
You want me to be less literal,
littoral I like your wildlife.
Lighter, somewhere
what we see
without reason.
What can soak
up the dark this good.
I like your messages.
I like to react with my abstract halo.
The rediagnosis read depression, to kill
not clean the long and beautiful rain.
Prising the daylight from its packet
I want April, a lot
of lilac song.
I go down to the nervous water,
deep in mammalian blood
I am, I am
not breath, not bird
west coast
my body is a poke of air
in the book. And it lets in
the crudest wind, reminder of gold
in the room where we woke up last October
in my father’s house
in the valley
where frost never leaves the cornicing forests
or sets its voice to speak
for the sodas and junipers.
If we could just avalanche into orange
like the song, Mount Eerie would be a genuine place
to kill or not kill the birds we oiled
in the prussian rain, they gleam
like unemployment
doesn’t in the colourless streets.
We share a little nest
of noctilucent materials.
I was jobless
as the natural light, listening
to your comedown opening chord
which is to say, I think we should stop
seeing, I think we should stop
seeing at all. I roll around
in the oil of this
happiest adderall
to sob uncontrollable
to stop trying to see you
as snow,
if a former love should fall
very cool, like a two-minute Uber
costs less than lunch.
Ducter, he
could break me
the ultimate mosh is us.
I have said that he could and he could
I have said that too much.
To float like capital
back to your panic
I smooth my sleepless residuals.
Ducked it, ducked it
you come back, holding a blink
to know
that time is a gleam, we had a guest speaker
passing out in notional
structures of passion.
I wrote everything down.
It is a wreck to think in the beautiful rain.
It is all that dissolves
to remember
I hope to meet in code someday
again, to set this
in parenthesis, very lightly
choosing to run
the artificial palms
horizontal across your eventide.
This was all ours in the poem.
Prospering, we’d know
each other
so much more than mineral
in the flotsam
way, a lot of coffee
fills our faultlines
and the tar sands sing, and the quicksands
go astray, what of the waters
don’t touch what we were
to sing something
hurting, to rainbow
the quoted weight of your heart
is only debris
I go so long in the rain
to break her
I go so long in the run
as to make a beach
in loops of oil
to empty my purse
of mermaids, to feel like
the only decorated islands
in the United States of America.

 

*

This poem was written following a talk I gave on Energy (W)rites: Telling the Embodied Stories of Energy, as part of The Curatorial Fellowship: With the North Sea series at Peacock Visual Arts, Aberdeen. It responds specifically to Lana Del Rey’s ‘The Greatest’, where the mournful twangs of a classic rock ballad play out over sunset scenes of Long Beach in the San Pedro Bay, whose four decorative ‘Astronaut Islands’ were built in the sixties to camouflage offshore oil derricks and muffle their sound pollution. Classic rock is a genre and industry founded on oil: vinyl is a type of plastic made from ethylene (found in crude oil) combined with chlorine (found in salt). PVC, the resultant material, is a highly toxic form of plastic, for both our health and the environment. Perhaps it’s only ‘natural’ that Lana would style a kind of vinyl-nostalgia to sing of various kinds of tainted existence. If her earlier work was dubbed ‘Hollywood sadcore’, we might note this recent aesthetic shift as something more like ‘anthropocene sadcore’: where the cinematic eulogising of wasted youth, ‘the greatest’ American Dream, is played out against the false beauty of late twentieth-century petroscapes. But alongside oil there is also water, and the brilliance of light, tone and pigment. There is haze and trace and repeat. Lush tints within variant opacity. A khoratic space where the colours soften or harshen into each other and something of form is held between, with varying paleness or intensity. It could be Billie Eilish singing of ‘burning cities / And napalm skies’ in the apocalypse unconscious of her song ‘Ocean Eyes’; it could be a flare of orange burning into Grimes’ ‘permanent blue’, its elegia for opioid bliss and extinction. The weird pleasure vistas of a scene we can’t quite name. An improvised blur or break. What the water speaks as a force of shimmer. The accompanying visual works are by multimedia artist and sculptor Jack O’Flynn. 

Flotsam 3
flotsam 3, A3 watercolour by Jack O’Flynn

Flotsam 4
flotsam 4, A3 watercolour by Jack O’Flynn

 

Playlist: covivid+chill

dan 5.jpg

which is to say, the hours were broke a sunlight. so we put on clothes and forgot what we owed to our calendars. this ‘we’ a sort of lipid, held too long. dolphin emoji. the end of all cauterized architecture, you go out at lunch with yesterday’s virals and plans are ceasing. plans are cancelled, crisping. play this list. I miss ‘us’. which is to say, suspension is only the length of a line where you want sleep for the morning. instamatic date nights, we give up a cutlery. lap keys. calories… livestream, light. my useless tickets.

the neighbours whistle in rounds. the isotope of you and I, washing machine, say once I ran glistering to active. mindful of only day, octave, schooling the goldfish. lovely supposition _leaps_ how they memorialise touching aslant. who wishes for rain. whose moon is a size. eeeeeeeeeEEeEeeee minus. st. johns wort. curl tail. once we occupied very sofas, listening for the light to get blue and it wasn’t emergency but something was bleeding. I’d like to walk around through the back of it / skin burns in window, awhile.

¾ time is taxing me back to the snail mail, waiting for the lyrics to ‘Movies’ and put me back on the porch, and put me back on the porch where you found me. adaptive, contagious, stupid egregious. blonde mops up the politics. pretending to speak of the stars, I only mean dolphin. pipsqueak! no infinite fulfilment don’t be / foster a wallace.  soft explosive give me a sentient moment, call it crisis, therein a high rusticity. always said I was a shepherdess; now herd me a meadow of sparkling, v simple flowers.

Playlist: March 2020

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I dream I am driving, and the accident with tomatoes mattered less because I was going to slam myself, my assemblage of metal and flesh, quite deliriously into the tree. He once teased he was good at slamming. Before there was yesterday, I had watched you with the beef variety in the centre of the plate; how you held the knife quite close so the skin would almost burst, I held my breath. Red would split upon red, the tremble. Is it even red, this colour they ascribe to the fruit we always said was vegetal? Breakfast, another cut between my legs. Breakfast, the people who queue outside for their messages. Two metres apart, we exist at the opposite stems of each other.

To think of it now, my mind flowering as though on modafinil, recovering a single pollen of thought. It is this: I would crumble to every yellow you asked of us, sweeping me from your sunsets as nobody would dare come online. 

As the plot develops, you are pushing the knife, really pushing it into the fruit. You are going quite steady, through the seed. I feel a warmth from the skin of the keys. You can’t go through with it; you drop the handle and check my pulse. We loll around, considering things. We are two lopped halves of the edible. I felt like Whitman, licking tomato juice from the knife of the man who doesn’t exist. Who made you a man? You could just as easily have been a sunflower, boy. We loll around, considering things; we sway in the wind that doesn’t exist. I want to be as sure as the land. The land outside is an area, and the area is X, it doesn’t exist. 

who / that / it
pleases
to live

There are millions of infected tomatoes living right now on this planet. I find it triggering when someone pretends to count them. I set my alarm clock to March, knowing we’d even get back if we tried, if we were silent as we are. I cycled hard up the hill to meet this, dreaming the fruit upon my return. 

The clocks go forward, stupid clocks!

*

Fiction makes us go places. All the signs said, for circumstances beyond our control— 

Move you between ex and why. 

I dream of a quarantine beside the sea. My brother is ordering luxury coffee, the air is good, I feel it stir in my chest. The air is time, but we can’t buy it. I leave fat tips with coins I can’t use. Why is it for ‘me’ or ‘us’ that the world exists? You took the single when you wanted the double. No, it is not that at all. We thank the people who serve us duly. You have served me the last bad song of myself. 

‘Of crushed red tomatoes, you turn it down to just an orange glow’ (Bernadette Mayer, ‘Very Strong February’). 

In lieu of my thesis, I kept making playlists. Which argument is it that would strangle the days, leave them to simmer

Then strangle the days to a blazing teal. 

*

‘Something is going to happen’, writes Sartre in Nausea, ‘I see myself advancing with a sense of fatality’. It is our curse to be so viscously stuck to ourselves. I don’t know what that’s about, what any of this means. Imagine a laptop on top of a laptop. I am helpless in the form of a sentence. Why are my keys so warm, from what tip did we insufflate?

‘The Nausea isn’t inside me: I can feel it over there on the wall, on the braces, everywhere around me. It is one with the café, it is I who am inside it’ (Sartre, Nausea). There is no island from the virus, no Nature to look back, sashaying her endless oceans of hair, like the restaurant manager portrayed in a surly review on TripAdvisor. I am nauseous with a virus inside me I can’t even see. Maybe we are close to a birth with it. A long, interminable pregnancy. 

The twang in my chest was a causal relation between ventricle rivers.

I feel trapped in the body inside my body. It’s always looking back. 

A friend messages with the apology, ‘Still need to reply to you but my days have been frustratingly full of speaking at videos of other people speaking at a video of me and so on forever and ever’. 

Can you adjust to the nausea? I drove a car very hard, knowing I could not drive the car, knowing it would end so badly and the creosote bushes would sing to me. I drive us back to the virtual diner, where you leave all the olives and sip a red scare.

The nausea comes in the form of abyss. It is good to hear you speaking, the lemon trees growing, your hair losing tone because of the days. 

*

If people were chalking ‘We will be okay :-)’ on the riverside walkway, I would do a Ben Lerner, via Whitman, and pour sympathy out in paint: ‘I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is’. Do we know how anything is? I have been texting my nurse friends with everything and nothing to say. I cross bridges for no reason than burning it backwards. Could you say this to a river? Can fire kill a virus?

I project us backwards into the current, knowing the absence of voice would sweep me, swallow a flower. If we forget how to speak, if we get through this. 

Tambourine canter.

Swallow a fruit. 

On the other side, politics chokes.

*

One day, we will live post-email and lilac you sit on the sill of my window. 

If I had a thing to say, it was not worth saying.
If I had a thing to say, it was not worth saying. 

Something is going to happen. You spear the tomato, eventually, and it is so trivial. 

I want to live in the blood that makes us so trivial, harvest my red, be less of love and more inside it. 

*

Somebody I don’t know on Zoom is called upon to define their practice.

*

If you were never already in reach. ‘Distance is here the expression of a certain loss […] which is “losable” only insofar as it is within my horizon’ (Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology). I watch other rituals on the feed, tomatoes conveying their life like sunsets, oozing Billie Holiday songs on a glitching sea. 

*

Your former melancholy. 

Darkside.

I want you to draw them. 

I want you to draw them, very slowly

until every one is a baby. 

And you make a baby of my tomato. 

And you make it very strange. 

And you give it as seed. 

Sequined with topics.

These bundles of fatalist apples of love. 

I sketch out the yellowest nets.

*

I should have sent no poems over the sea, I should have envisioned the breakfast of distance, I should have swam while I could. 

I would like to arrive dishevelled / at the edge of things.

*

Smell of wild garlic in Pollok Park / you polish your shoes / I miss you.

*

So this is it that survives ‘you’: 

‘The joyless, atrocious, sad “pleasure” is in the details of the suffering, in the suffering itself, in the taste you taste to the bottom where nothing forbids you to suffer, and each cruel dish, so relished, offers the heartbreaking pleasure of being able to feel.’
   — Cixous, Dream I Tell You

When someone on twitter has already written, had lunch twice just to feel something

‘In order to avoid saying “I,” the author eats incessantly’ (Ben Lerner, Angle of Yaw).

My heart freaks out at your avatar. It happened again and I’m sorry.

stop_refreshing_the_news.pdf 

*

Adding these smiles of coriander, you discover dawn’s vanity in the mouth of a crow. It is adding its cries to the plate of tomatoes. Such seasoning loses the seasons. I would drown you in oil / before you could make / the cut of my life. 

*

Remember gigs
Remember green infinite days
Remember growing backwards
Remember gross affairs with inelegant consequence
Remember green & finite money
Remember glistening sheets
Remember guessing who would be there
Remember gestalt was a thing

*

And you make it very strange, this thing that will happen. Immensely belonging to no one. Her body a pyramid. Enter it. 

Motionless, causing a solemn offence.

Outlook fails to open a page.

Something is waiting. Remember it green & infinite. 

*

Easy for you to say of a fall. Feels spooky to have speed dial. No news is rhizome. 

Catch you on zoom.

Hate us for saying it.

I adore us. 

So trivial.

Sacred tomato, last supper,

cut me on cam. What do they look like?

You are yellow and red you are yellow and / red you are yellow and yellow and yellow. 

~

Stereolab – Infinity Girl

TOPS – Colder & Closer

Deeper – The Knife

Ellis May – War on Territory

Porches – I Wanna Ride

Squid – Sludge

Thee Oh Sees – C

Porridge Radio – Pop Song

Catholic Action – Witness

Savage Mansion – Weird Country

Disq – Konichiwa Internet

Life Model – Saskia

DOPE LEMON – Streets of Your Town

Sufjan Stevens, Lowell Brams – What It Takes

Sharon Van Etten – Staring at a Mountain

Lucinda Williams – Sharp Cutting Wings

Broadcast – Lights Out

Half Waif – In August

Sun Glitters – UUnnrreeaall

Kelora – X24

Grimes – Delete Forever

Moses Sumney – Virile

The Weeknd – Hardest to Love

Minor Science – Spoken and Unspoken

DjRUM – Blue Violet

Princess Nokia – Gemini A COLORS SHOW

Laurel Halo – Zeljava

Brooke Bentham – Control

Good Good Blood – Sanctuary Mornings

Real Estate – Falling Down

stmartiins – Holly’s House

Ratboys – A Vision

Waxahatchee – Lilacs

The National – Never Tear Us Apart

Beth Orton – Blood Red River

Phoebe Bridgers – The Garden

Bright Eyes – Persona Non Grata

Playlist: February 2020

IMG_0928
Warning: contains dairy

These Piscean days, I lose whole mornings to night. I spread every hour like butter to sleep, back to the melt-world with its length which is only the sentence, dripping at the end of the knife a line. These nights are nothing! Paragraphs are so conceptual and I am always failing to come inside them. I wake up to ill-formed texts and forget my dreams. ‘There is a type of daydreaming that can foretell the future’, Jenny Boully says, ‘a type of dreaming that explains why nothing is being written’. Nothing gives itself up this way. In the diner, pressurised to justify something of which I have nothing to say, I took my leave of the mirror. I watch butter drip from the knife that is poised on a plateau. Honestly, I would eat truffle fries with Deleuze any day. He’s like, ‘what a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, and even rarer, thing that might be worth saying’. In saying nothing, I dream my days and nothing gets written. It is a process but nothing gets written. Yes you can take the menu away. 

As nothing happens, indistinguishable figures surround me and my space key sticks. The mark between will melt in your mouth. Some of the figures make violence, they bear what I can’t say of the happening. They are dripping with the fat that won’t hold language. So I am struggling to say this to you. I had this beautiful dream of the world’s oasis, its heart, not the world’s but you know whose, what that dream belonged to, what heartfreak is it the dream contends. When you cut the knife in the middle and it melts all the rainbows around it. 

Truffle smell is just vapourised rhizomes, baby.

A refuge cove, pastel-hued in some new time before dusk and dawn that was not night, unnameable, not even twilight. I feel it is a word only islanders know. I was swimming so freely in this cove, my soul was archipelago, and I knew it was the end of the world, breakfast, not the cove but everything breaking up, it was happening, at long last, and we were so calm. We were so calm in our pieces. Disaster is archipelagic these days. The other person was asking me questions, confused, and I was saying it is only that things will change, and you knew and you knew, like Nico. It all breaks up. Can I convey to you the beautiful feeling of the water, which always continues? How I touched that chalky rock like it was a planet, how I said (being spoken) it is told to believe, the scales are disordered; if we keep touching the rock it only can happen. The water surrounds us smooth as cream. The sea level rose around me; I felt rosy, I knew I wasn’t the only one — I couldn’t wait to feel truly atomic, after all. The violent figures would extinguish each other, I won’t say like love.

~

Have you heard Grimes’ new album? For me, it is more like, I felt so light I could fall above earth, like angels descending. We might catch each other on the way. Our wings would stick, like my hair in your glasses.

After the end of the world, like the single annihilation of a mountain, bmbmbm, a kind of love that eats you from the inside out. A love without purpose. I read this satirical piece in The New Yorker which goes something like, but what about when there aren’t many fish in the literal sea? What then? Is there an app for that? Someone keeps scrolling for other expressions

…and the fish will catch you back 🙂

~

The scene in my dream was like the one in Antonioni’s Red Desert, where she swims around the turquoise bay, she is so bronzed and this is the lightest moment, the music, before industry almost. Childhood’s idyllic shelter is water.

I wonder about the shelter of water. What is it to swim and not actually swim, from my perch in the city, a milky white cat at the end of my bed? You end the things you say with salt. Chalkmatter colours my black leather shoes. It only snowed or almost snowed; they salt the roads so poorly. At the end of The Topeka School, revolution just is the kid doing asphalt sketches in front of the cops. I read that book by an early winter, on the old Virgin, heading north. The full spectrum of my psyche swings between two types of moon: the black cat and the white, the lunatic cappuccino continuum. miaow / miaow / miaow. It is a foamy thing, otherwise slender, dusted w/ safest chocolate stars. I could mew for a future, should it work. I sleep through the pickets; I am wracked in guilt, I wake with a cold full of head.

Why don’t you tell me a story?
Why not yesterday’s?

Reality is bladderwrack.
My dreams are thickening; they scent so hard.

~

It is mostly, surely — I’ll tell it properly later — that the story has to come out backwards. You pull the child safely away from the water, you unravel the knotweed ribbons of time, you tweeze a poison stem from my lips. Why would you? I had forgotten the cove was an island, a place to be always alone. Robert Pattinson pulls the kelp from her belly. Why would you let her fall in love with the water? You can have these luscious, indulgent memories, salt spray, and still be unsure as to who they belong. This is our state of it now. How long had I lived in nature documentary, ambient music, instead of the freak of my heart? The freak of my heart was a golden foam. The island was upside down; its bowels were dripping into the sky, there was so much lava, gold-dripping lava. The sea all warm with thermal energy. The sea gone almost gold. I go to see a movie about the smallest glacier in the world, and Iceland is a word I cherish like fruit. 

So eerie, only the splash her legs make slicing the water. There was no sound

Two types of cat, they eat up my thoughts like golden commas.

It was between what I wanted to say. It was covered in gilt and leaf. Before I slept, thinking the unsaid is a tan line and surely if I took off these clothes you would see it, crinkling frost of gold, how the not-saying had burned the skin of my chest and back, how it was all there, so plain and white, negative scripture — what I had covered. If you could insufflate the measured lines, excoriated pores of deepest carat. Shame is expensive. Whose fault is that violence? The moon-cats, white and black, they blame the sun. The scratch little hieroglyphs from the skin of my arms.

~

It was the interruption of a ship. A wreck. I fell for it. She leaps off the rocks of her refuge cove. She fucks up, walking through the park in tears. It is only Monday. The ship is a ghost. What do we mean when we say ‘alone’?  It sailed away to a moonscape, burning. The child wants to know what that also means. Eudaemonia. The ship coming back, as it always will until the end, which is the after we’re in, we’re ever. 

I want us a mountain. The strangest isolated music, whose voice was all. I dreamt somebody was threshing corn, impossibly on the side of a mountain. There was an operatic howl from the sea. I could feel these landscapes start to collapse, this deep impending heat, inland and littoral, which would surely explode on a note I couldn’t reach.

The rocks resembled faces. I found my inlet. The rocks like flesh.

~

‘Walking thus, hour after hour, the senses keyed, one walks the flesh transparent’, writes Nan Shepherd in The Living Mountain, ‘But no metaphor, transparent, or light as air, is adequate. The body is not made negligible. But paramount. Flesh is not annihilated but fulfilled’. Am I afraid of this fulfilment? 

Every hour a transparency you catch on not-sleeping. 

Brain function down by infinite percent. 

Pareidolia is a symptom of material contingency. My transparent success of walking this back to air, a bodiless gratification, ephemeral as rainbow. It’s coming around. In time, to erase like a tan line, missing the call of a thought.

The train goes north to Aberdeen, and I want to keep going, to go as far as Inverness then west — so painfully do I miss the summer, the midges around the loch, the rich excess of Highland rain. We took photos at the mirrored curve of the road. The crazed church cat, wild heather and car rides, rice cakes. Now the light is pink on granite, there is snow on the hills. 

That break I took, listening in the corridor; ‘How to Disappear Completely’. Labour’s psychic debt is a cup of tea. And why are the blossoms here already?

~

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There’s this line by Karen Dalton in ‘Remembering Mountains’, ‘Do you think the seasons change? / Without your heart’. It’s a miracle when they do, and I hear Sharon singing it, and I love the name Sharon. I can’t stand the sight of snowdrops and crocuses, when colour still hurts because it throttles towards the overlap of the year, a loop I won’t complete. I wear it necked. They used to say I look like her. ‘Are you dreaming?’ asks the song, and I wish I was, as if I could sleep, and it is five in the morning of a Wednesday, indigo light / cheap lager, and I am watching Joan Baez on the BBC. It’s Edinburgh, 1965, and the crowd sing along in the chorus, and she is so beautiful and soft, the chords familiar, ‘O the summertime / is coming’ and I can hardly bear it, the fact of this five in the morning and the promise of leaves, long hair and warmth. Angel Olsen: ‘If it’s alive, it Will’, ‘So That We Can Be Still’. My heart among strangest cacti trembles. Whose purple heather belongs to the mountain? Her voice will carry me through the morning light, the screaming gulls, the missing sea. My cousin gives birth to a boy. And I melt on the blue I wake up to / in this flat that isn’t mine. And when the others sing along Joan murmurs, that’s beautiful

What are your favourite books to read? I used to think, I used to think…

Everyone watches in such stillness and awe. ‘I watch you grow / from a child of shimmer’, Julia Holter sings on a fragile, chiming version of one of Dalton’s songs, ‘My Love, My Love’. What belonging does the shimmer really want? It feels like the loneliest fragment, plash of a fountain, so significant. As I write this, it’s starting to snow: rich flakes of not-snow, the long and melt of it.

Remember when the world seemed plenitude. She was 24, her voice a soprano hillside, ribboned with crystal. 

Dude, the river is a drum machine.

~

There is an era I long for. 

~

When the rabbit appears, is it like Donnie Darko. 

When the rabbit appears, is it like in Donnie Darko. 

I guess I could never get the physics.

I always felt too meta. 

When the rabbit gets away.

~

‘Knowing another is endless’, Shepherd intones, ‘The thing to be known grows with the knowing’. I don’t exist apart from the knowledge of others. Somehow that’s soothing. Like never really knowing what you know of me, and not to know that. I give little pieces to the sun, like wine gums of soul. The sun could chew my life to its sugar and cinders. It gives me a tan line. I think about solar panels installed in the desert, a solar forest, a solace. Send a stupid text like, all of the funk is cherry coloured. Waft between; what bleeds of a middle, you press the knife in. They were playing it in the restaurant, ate to eight, and I knew this would happen forever, and I knew it had already happened. Black stuff gushing straight out from the centre. The bookings cease behind Billie’s lashes. She gets up to eat her ocean fish and the sky is an ocean eye, skinned by a knife.

Angelina, I had written so long — I wanted you to show me how to wash windows, like in the Pinegrove song, or how to paint the walls pink like in Betty Blue, or how to be painted that smutty colour of being extinguished. You would pull the ladder away. There is a ladder scene in a film you say is super beautiful but I haven’t yet seen it. 

~

Bright Eyes are coming back! Spotify has a playlist called lofi love. I have seven unread messages; I keep deleting the apps, choosing colours to flush the hours, wishing I was outside if I felt less ill, changing skins, crying in public — 

The republic of crying in public! The spun out sky is another seduction. I took notes, returning to Anne Boyer’s A Handbook of Disappointed Fate. I was particularly struck by her use of the word ‘encradling’. It seems this is something a cat can do. There is a fountain made of glass we cry beside where we used to make wishes. The secret is the fountain is a harvest of tears. In the dream where me or the girl was clung to the rock (who is she) and I knew that in touching the rock I would survive the end of the world. My paw on the rock, I would promise. Well the rock was whittled and polished and shaped, and now it’s a fountain. ‘The harm will come’, Boyer writes, ‘it never doesn’t’. We only cry beside it, cradling kittens. This is so metaphorical, he says in the movie. We can’t cry exactly inside the harm; it would be like trying to trace your own flesh with a cloud… ‘for the harm may also be like an entry in the encyclopedia of what has not yet been written’ (Boyer). Shamefully, I am still more interested in wishes than knowledge, even if the knowledge would allow me to be. 

                                        A waste of paint! 

                                         An elixir of less!

                                        A precious index!

~

Watching the figure skaters twist and snap their ankles on ice — temporality of wishes — love that spark snap kick when they leap and pull each other backwards, forwards. Some of them are infinite flowers. Halo selfie in lieu of sleep, so graceful I dream of the tessellating rainbows. Watching The Love Witch, Spinning Out, Parasite, Ismael’s Ghosts, The Lighthouse.

~

These Piscean days are strange and excessive. Spread rainbows from the jar by your dreams and remember the all-night messaging, the synchronised falling asleep two coasts apart on autoplay, other Aprils. You look cute without glasses. I get ID’d at Sleazy’s, give the bouncer my whisky to borrow. He’s like, ‘Good night?’ and foolishly I tell him of the day, one sip on the train. That is not what he meant. I go to Aberdeen and back. I read the whole of Patrick Süskind’s Perfume in one go. In the novel, the Marquis de La Taillade-Espinasse has a theory that ‘life could develop only at a certain distance from the earth, since the earth itself constantly emits a corrupting gas, a so-called fluidum letale, which lames vital energies and sooner or later totally extinguishes them’. So his theory is trash or whatever, but what if I am scared of the earth inside me? Mum, did I really eat mud as a kid? I gathered petals from roses and watched them float in a soup bowl, calling it rosy cologne. I love the bit about developing an angel scent, so ‘good and vital’, what happens towards the end is success. I am scared of the invented theory of an earthy sickness, so I eat truffle fries with Deleuze in my dream. I am trying to garner immunity. You have lamed my vital energies! I dab my wrists with liquid tobacco, maple and cherries. I want to seem resistant to the fluidal theory. I want the teeth to sink in my wrist, a taste of pulse. Maybe like Nan I need to get close to the mountain, melt with its snow and sleep there. ‘No one is the only one‘. I am totally extinguished. They would dredge me sick from my earthly perch and call me hahaha a virgo. Sleep has its pulse like a feline body of sugar and grass and plasma. Sorry, I’m feeling milky. Sick tidings, bro. What is the odour of fresh-fallen snow? In the library the scent is quiet. When I get stressed, sometimes I experience a phantom olfactory glitch. I smell what isn’t there, this extra-sweet and ersatz presence. What is the scent of a coming storm? Who is behind me? I joke that I can feel it in my breasts, some quip from a movie, bruising me.

Melt-world of the fridge makes ice of this milk. And who would pour it?

There are so many storms of this month you could fill a class of primary children with their names, and they would take off their coats to fly with the wind and in the Red Desert story, its central heartfreak, that was the tale of the kites, to fly by your coattails, his heart murmur that almost broke us. I was sorry to cattily tell you the story. And so to gather up those fish, get caught again, you stay inside the essay.

Pour me a storm? What of language catches.

~

From the stage on Valentine’s Day, Angel addresses the crowd, my sweet lad, and the dusk flavoured Buckfast on the walk to find you, darkest blueberry red assessed, and the gossip would settle its glitter on song, and we would have cried had she played ‘Sister’, but to fall upon ‘Lark’ was ultimate. As if she were singing Angelina, farewell or washing windows, as if we were singing along in the car and this was the long and winding road to Arran, St Abbs or Skye. We have all these earnest chats about burnout. It’s been a fair while since I’ve seen the moon, or even the news. It snows but doesn’t settle.

~

Free Love – Bones

Sufjan Stevens, Lowell Brams – The Runaround

Melody’s Echo Chamber – Snowcapped Andes Crash

Sharon Van Etten – Remembering Mountains (Karen Dalton cover)

Perfume Genius – Describe

Weyes Blood – Lost in Dreams

Culte – It’s Too Cold to Be Spring

Joanna Sternberg – My Angel

Joan Baez – Will You Go Lassie Go

Conor Oberst – The Rockaways

Julia Jacklin – Don’t Know How to Keep Loving You

Billie Eilish – xanny

Ratboys – Peter the Wild Boy

Deeper – Pink Showers

The Orielles – Come Down on Jupiter

Disq – Loneliness

Sorry – Starstruck

Kississippi – Cut Yr Teeth

(Sandy) Alex G – Salt

Nice As Fuck – Angel

black midi – Sweater

Hannah Lou Clark – Trigger Happy Kisses  

TOPS – Witching Hour

Hatchie – Stay With Me

Wild Nothing – Sleight of Hand

Grimes – So Heavy I Fell Through the Earth

Arthur Russell – I Kissed the Girl from Outer Space

Nekkuro Hána – Loverspy 

Tan Cologne – Cave Vaults on the Moon in New Mexico

Bonniesongs – Dreamy Dreams

Bright Eyes – Waste of Paint

Heather Woods Broderick – Wyoming

POLIÇA – Little Threads

The Concretes – Miss You

The Mountain Goats – Tallahassee

HOLY – Heard Her

The Hollies – Jesus Was a Crossmaker (Judee Sill cover)

American Football – Never Meant

Roddy Woomble – Everyday Sun

Radiohead – How to Disappear Completely

Lana Del Rey – Terrence Loves You

Playlist: January 2020

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I am trying to find a narrative arc for this month. It is somebody reaching out to say, I can’t let you be. There has to be a simile to describe white sheets, expensive linen and French cologne, detritus of a Joni song and the world, the implacable world beyond windows. What is this like and is it really like this. Too much world in the song. A crease is a melody also, or a cramp in the song, the bit where you fall asleep in the story. Rising and falling in tempo, you climb right into the album. In a room of friends, all of them peaking at various levels. An arc is a part circumference of the circle or curve. I only have the bassline in my head; it is a soft morning bass, ‘Forgotten Eyes’ maybe, but it won’t get me up. D. had an endless playlist and the hours were indigo, endless. I am trying to find a narrative that goes up, but it comes down and is also left, right, start + a. I forget, I forget. Nobody knows where b went, but that’s okay. Joni I’m sorry but I just can’t listen. I want to cheat and do all the levels at once.

I say there is too much world in the song, but there is so much leaf in the leaf and again it is a thing that folds, then falls. 🍃

She says the cat might look over your face before you fall asleep, paw your features, but it is only because she wants in. There was a fold in the day that we lost, because our heads were fog, because of that blur I think in plural. There were various selves I could not chart because the grid-lines were squint. Can you shorten this? Bernadette Mayer says maybe if you grow your hair long you write longer poems, and ever since she cut hers it’s all short lyrics. I want to shorten my emotions to a cut: yes, this is that, yes, say it. Imagine going into the salon and saying I want a haiku haircut. 5 x 7 x 5. Your eyelids fat wet petals of overlay. Nothing works but shapes, and I pass them silently through sheafs of language, and I don’t say much about it. 

Gold flakes off cheeks, mascara blackens my vision. Is it okay to not brush your hair or get dressed or think about anyone else’s necessity. I bring a velvet satchel to the party and empty my grief in lottery tickets. Everyone is happy. It is so easy to pick a number.

At six in the morning, watching him do card tricks. 

Is it so easy to pick a letter?

I get home at nine and while everyone heads to work I am watching Morvern Callar again, putting tinned soup on the stove, watching this film simply for the scenes at home with the cassettes and the fairy lights. Plum-coloured nail paint, that’s how I remember it. I watch it on mute, feel eerie. 

~

Google says I have to validate my identity. There is a toll for walking the way that we do, so fast, defeating the days, and I felt the bright sensation of a coming air, like this was performance. The layering…oh it was, surely, 2018 and I felt the first flakes while listening to Songs, Ohia — maybe it was ‘Tigress’. Had I known then I would buy a tiger coat, two years in the future? Drink cups of green tea in the empty morning, stalk my email? Certain messages grow in spines of grass, until they are so tall we pluck them for the gaps between speech. ‘God watched us talking in the mirror’, Jason sings, and I think I’m some anonymous, single star. 

Extinction chews us over.

You could tuck me away in the sheets; I don’t protest the air.

~

saying now when the feeling came
strongest: how I miss the future, it’s sideways surrender.
— Lotte L.S., ‘As If to Misread Song’

There was a storm, and the streets were quiet for Saturday. It felt really good to battle the weather, to write long email, to listen to Sharon Van Etten and wallow. I would only do this for a while, a week say, and then the threads would release and I’d come home soaked in rain, with extra red in my tresses, I’d say the emails were terrible flowers I couldn’t bear to read. You can read a flower like an algorithm; it takes a certain kind of smartness. Outlook says, your inbox is 97% full. That in itself is confession. My eyes smart. The flowers…they have a strange way of opening and something of poison honey in them warms, and I want them. Cats are allergic to lilies and raisins. I put petals on my tongue and think about the word ‘beautiful’; how pointless it is, and good for nothing but everything. The lecturer asked us to chew on a raisin. I listen to Jack Halberstam give a talk on nothing, the exclamation of Gordon Matta-Clark, ‘nothing works!’. Jack asks, ‘What does it mean to destitute the world?’ and I feel jaded and warm, and an hour or so later I order soup, and the soup arrives late. We talk of failed dates with the children of the sun, and know this is also study. What they said or did not say, that counts. Nothing is hypothetical, only the walls of buildings we move through. Why do you sleep in the middle of the bed.

When I first wrote this, it wasn’t raining; but now, on the flipped side of yesterday’s blueprint…

I like that bit in The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin, where Shivek says, ‘I am going to unbuild walls’. This initiates a general phrasal collapse, like how all of us were Instagramming sunsets at the exact same time, all across the country that Sunday. And it felt more important to look at those sunsets than read the news, collating each one, the various colours. In the car, telling F., you know I always wondered if the sun actually sets on the east coast, but now that I’ve seen it…

I can’t tell if this feeling is vertical or searches horizons to meet.

S. says, I’m going to find out where your wound is. 

Le Guin: ‘the hand you reach out is as empty as mine’. Why all the letters dissolve on the keys of my laptop, so I type in the alphabet of blur. Why all the luminous grey of Tuesday. Oil in my scalp.

~

Another question mark, a cascade of candy canes. The sky’s pale outro, my twisting gut.

Jason sings, ‘We’ll be gone by morning or be together by then’.

A.’s hair is curly again like the hair of the girls in Mystic Pizza. I think of K.’s story about the girl, is she a girl, who sheds all her hair and it is monstrous and she is chastised by society. She is followed by the fall of her own dark locks. We share teenage stories of hair loss, scaling cliffs, or in the kitchen. Sometimes I find a tiny black curl in the carpet and think of the commas still between us. 

Evan sings, ‘Can I believe in the me before I knew you beautifully?’. 

If you let all that hair like a river, if you let the stream continue. All my life feels like content repeated, the last time I saw him was the middle of summer, the last time I wore cobalt and cardinal together. I love like the rain in combination, additive river, a clarity. K. says you just need to be lucid, there’s Clarice for that. Am I also an alarmist? 

The sky is a needless worry. 

The sky is a needless worry inside me. 

I require surgery to cut out the sky. 

When they found my stupid heart, they said it was a wind turbine and set it to air. 

I had all these essays to write, I was blue.

I see chunks of time as colours: years of purple, silver and green; minutes in violent red; seconds of airy teal; golden months and bloated months of solemn navy; glowing yellow mornings; decades of rainbow; the indigo hours between me & u.

I spend so much money on pens.

I’m such an alarmist! Always messaging, messaging. Why though: mistaking her middle name for Rose, reciting other names out loud, wishing it were June and I were lost on the west coast, feeling the rain whip me out of this slump. 

~

You still exist and I feel good knowing it’.

~

Alison Rumfitt has this poem, ‘Pollution is Just a Mindset!’ and ‘We’re all going to get swallowed up by a big / whale angry at what we’ve done to all the whales’. I want to know the difference between the big whale and all the whales, like is the big whale part of the other whales, and since the speaker ‘had a dream about it’, she knows ‘it’s at least metaphorically sound’. That’s how I feel about the days now, they have to be at least metaphorically sound. That’s just the bar I set. It’s lined with tequila and milk. S. says sometimes a spoonful of milk will settle your belly, like if you are so hungover you can barely keep down the air. 

Perhaps that’s just it. The fog in my brain is pollution. I need a spoonful of milk. A glass of charcoal. In class, we swerve from the topic of stars to molecules of oxygen. C. sings don’t piss in my oat milk. There are passive aggressive adverts for Oatly everywhere and so everyone is writing about oat milk but I already had a line about poems ‘brimming with oat milk, / cornichons, kimchi’. Our best fermented days. Alison writes, ‘It didn’t look like a whale but I knew it was a whale’. That’s how I know about the fog in my brain, the long and bulking whale of it.

~

I swallow myself on read. 

You left gleaming’. 

You shouldn’t feed cats milk. 

You shouldn’t feed your child to the tiger. 

I had so many babies, they were all just poems, and I fed them to the tiger. 

I put on my coat.

The poem is a rectangle.

The whale was only algorithmic.

Is that the same as metaphor.

The tiger was soaked in French cologne.

The tiger was starving.

The whale is a wave.

The whale is a mean old daddy. 

The whale ate the rat.

I give it away for free.

The whale and the tiger, fucking each other.

I found the appropriate clip art and dragged them into your golden ratio. 

I wish it were really rectangles and not always squares.

Instagram addiction.

Our theme is ‘climate change’. 

I need to start deleting emails.

~

It turns and it turns. Make of the heart a spectacle, so you could pour it with what Sophie Robinson calls ‘dynamic emoji’, so you could feed it popcorn, synecdoche, wrap it in sheets like Kafka’s hunger artist. Harvest each beat until you are ready.

~

‘I am going to unbuild walls’ from the squares. I am swallowed in the pictures you post on the internet. Some of them simple compositions of shadow and light, black and white. Spooky quality, quiet mew. Sometimes there are people, and this hurts because people are so beautiful and knowable, but ultimately…

Sometimes, in the distance, like at the top of Buchanan Street say, we see the turbines, tressled in lilac.

I draft the email, the sky is a needless worry inside me. The future is or was always surrender, but here I am with my yoghurt, ignoring the sell-by. I want to ferment the future inside us. You can always recycle, but does it work ‘in the end’?

~

Lana Del Rey bought her Grammy dress from the mall, a ‘“last-minute silver” vintage-inspired gown’. Time shimmies.

There is a pause where she turns just so, a moment prior to smiling where you know the smile is her personal glitter. 

You can’t put it on paper. 

Time shimmies under the moon.

I start to think of paper as something you have to continually feed, so writing itself is no different from keeping a Tamagotchi, say, and it’s the telekinesis of keeping a pet in your brain. The writing is sometimes a snake, sometimes a rat. I can smell it like new rain or the sheets after sex. Time is hunger for writing. A lick of it. Sometimes I wake with a bad taste in my mouth and can hear him in my ear, screaming THERE’S LEAD IN THE WATER

I want something sultry.

I want the impression.

It’s as if all the sequins came off the dress and clotted the pipes, and I could die glamorous and pointlessly poisoned. It’s just the old way you die in writing, falling within the rehearsal of speech. I didn’t expect to see you, etc.

She looked good after all. Sometimes the dress just fits and you can get it for six hundred dollars. I sleep in those sequins because I don’t sleep. 

~

After the workshop, M. and I saw a dead pigeon. She took a photo.

~

Imagine the weather were French cologne. 

He is so lovely in the red and the blue
He is close to the stream

In motes, the arc of it caught in sun.

You take a photo, then another, another. I love this.

~

The arc is a nightclub moted
with fragments of moving lavender.

~

Sometimes it’s fine but then I zone out, start replaying these moments. The allowance of volatile quality, another baby, I didn’t open the door, I mumbled down the buzzer I’m sorry. Tesco is so empty. Lorde sings ‘But when I reach for you / It’s just a supercut’. I have to believe it all gets better. D. gives me chilli jam for Christmas, my arms are full of marigolds, C. says hello, I want to collapse. It happens again; is there memory?

Brexit message from the Principal.

All I can smell are the other expenses. Silver and gold are so much silver.

HOW DO YOU DO IT?
HOW DO YOU DO IT?

January slants backwards. I forget how to dance.

Type this / typify

Report search prediction…

I dream a checkerboard transparency and see the bars resolve. A pick-up truck is dumping a garden-load of shrubs on the Gibson Street tarmac, a place they’re re-laying; the streets resolve into alien characters, Megadrive graphics, the shopfronts boarded up. This is a different city, believe me. In the dream there is a river, a lavender river, and teenagers go there to play at drowning. There is a whole millennial economy of breath. Someone with a shaven head says, “I just wanted to forget my breath, just for a moment”. No, maybe it’s “I wanted to give up my breath,” as if that wasn’t the same as dying. No, maybe it’s, “believe me, the air is better down there.” I’m in this disaster, it held me too, and I wanted to slip in the lavender water. And J. was holding a guitar, wrapped in fairy lights, and it was just like the movie I saw on her story. 

26,240 words already.

‘What also touches me […] is the unendingness’ (Hélène Cixous).

Apparently there was snow, I stayed up all night and I missed it.

And Phoebe was singing I love you in someone else’s song. And that was enough. 

~

Bright Eyes – Hit the Switch

The Beatles – Happiness is a Warm Gun

Big Thief – Forgotten Eyes

Savage Mansion – Karaoke

The Weakerthans – Sun in an Empty Room

Brick Distributor – Another Personality

Nasari – Spoilt Milk

Danger Mouse, Sparklehorse – Star Eyes (I Can’t Catch It) (feat. David Lynch)

Sylvan Esso – Coffee

Lorde – Supercut

Mitski – My Body’s Made of Crushed Little Stars

Pinegrove – The Alarmist

Adrienne Lenker – Angels

Anna Burch – Not So Bad

Porridge Radio – Sweet

Soccer Mommy – circle the drain

Nap Eyes – You Like to Joke Around With Me

Lens Mozer – All My Friends

The 1975 – Me & You Together Song

Frances Quinlan – Your Reply

Quirke – Se Seven 7S

Double Discone – Espionage Industriel

Wuh Oh – How Do You Do It?

Palm – Memories of Winter

Hatchie – Obsessed

Pet Shimmers – Mortal Sport Argonaut

Disq – Parallel

Julia Jacklin – Body

Happy Spendy – Take Care of Yourself

TOPS – I Feel Alive

Katie Dey – So You Pick Yourself Up 

Hovvdy – Ruin (my ride)

Purple Mountains – Nights That Won’t Happen

Songs, Ohia – Tigress

Karima Walker, Dominic Armstrong, Bobby Carlson – Blue Thread

Van Morrison – Astral Weeks

Sharon Van Etten – Give Out

Phoebe Bridgers – Two Headed Boy (Part 2) (Neutral Milk Hotel cover)

Red House Painters – Have You Forgotten

Bob Dylan – Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right
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