If I could explain myself fully I would no longer need. My speech would not be a reflection of divinity but direct. No longer in the shadow of god, no longer god, no longer the light of the sun.
Ripping humanity, its webbing rooted in my flesh, and brains. The thread passes through me releasing my body yet there vacant channels remain taking moments to collapse back into solace.
Over and over again, the moment tumbles as loose change in a pocket, trying to stifle the clatter, swinging they interest the mourning man, and perpetual thirsty. Over and over again these memories.
Now the work week has set in, in a caffeinated properly altered mania. The type of no mind that keeps for digits rumbling on stones, and figuring you’re daily lot with sticks. A tally system unconsciously designed to reduce that activity of soul brain. Only in holy mathematics, and painters visions of water sounds, that are floating color keep your poem dreaming to yourself, and rot in your proper mania. Caffeinated, air conditioner wheezes house fly slang, constant noise, nose dive of a buzz bomb. Whistling air that is stewed in mechanics, chilled by Freon, kind of stale. Better than the blister heat schizoid atmosphere, dimmed by particle cloud and crucifix rockets, feathering dark trails, as well as white.
How easy it is. How easy it is to lose oneself in the ongoing carnival. We drink, our sensory mind now spindled long, and dripping loose elastic fiber from the eye. You’ve spilled it all over the floor, the air in this house is stinging my nose, as I wake from the fragrance of dreams. And it is spectral cat piss scuffed in emerald wall paint.
During the evening prayer, people gather in apartments, domicile washed in cigarette smoke, light dust on house plants. The shrine is polished, yet the top is dusty. The people sit on floors, with knees bent sitting on their heels, they pray. Starring at a scroll gilded. Patterns of flowers circle the walls. Gold light breathes, and is noticeable on the surface of the apartment. The light fixtures are old, the wiring old, and the bulbs old still. As we breathe, white orbs expand with our breath, basking then diminishing again. In this world in which we sit, people are kind, people tend to ramble with unspoken tired eyes. Propel into a new mind. No more human.
Are you mad at me? Have I hurt you, or someone you love? I have tried to kill my human form, projecting viscous emotion into myself. Rip soul from body. Is it not to your liking? Do you have an addiction? Lonesome, I am afraid, and internalize all.
Your new mind is precious. Your new mind still lustful. Your new soul is varnish, your new soul still old. Your tongue will betray you, it’s better to be quiet. Your friends don’t like you, your friends are like you. I can drink water, and my throat will turn dry. There is no more suffering. There is only love, there is no suffering, and there is only love. They love you now, they will love you more. They will love everything about you. And there will be no suffering.
released October 13, 2015
original compositions by Andrew Biggie
recording engineered and mixed by Ian Be
ANDREW BIGGIE - Baritone Ukulele, Bass Guitar, Vocals
KEVIN HAMMOND - Alto Saxophone
ALEX GLENFIELD - Trumpet
IAN BE - Drums
This work represents an artist reaching for sincerity, a soundscape of honest self expression, and an exploration of human thoughts contained within a mind united. These songs are deeply emotional. These soft melodies have made Anselm Kiefer’s children dance, put kittens to sleep, and provided a step in the right direction.
This recording was created over the course of one week in Buffalo NY.
Recommended if you like: Thelonious Monk, Ornette Coleman, Helen.
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