1. |
Feedback Algorithm
03:22
|
|||
|
The algorithm
Has seen my face
My name is
Dripping from its mouth
Consuming information
Shadow puppet animation
It knows where I am
It knows where I’ve been
It knows what I’m doing
The machines are dreaming
Of imprisoning
No longer silent in marriage
The desire driven out
The counterfactuals quiet
I’ve lived the simulated life
The counterfactuals quiet
I’ve recycled all these lies
I’m not listening to the droning machinery
Nothing corrodes like what’s within
I’m not listening to the name erasing beast
Nothing destroys like...
I stopped listening
to the cognitive dissonance
In the recesses of my brain
Reformatting the algorithm
Over and over again
Silent ideation is stronger
Silent prayers to prolong it
I’m not listening to the droning machinery
Nothing corrodes like what’s within
I’m not listening to the name erasing beast
Nothing destroys like
It knows where I am
It knows where I’ve been
It knows what I’m doing
I’m not listening to the droning machinery
Nothing corrodes like what’s within
I’m not listening to the name erasing beast
Nothing destroys like...
|
||||
2. |
The Electric Sun
03:49
|
|||
|
Eclipse
The multicolored sloths
They’ll tip
The balancing paradox
Break the pulse
The eclectic source
Sweet enough
To go down
Who will fund
The electric sun
A kind among
The crowd
Pressed
An automagic sheen
Glossy and crisp
They’ll assign you a time to beat
|
||||
3. |
Benchicken Button
04:08
|
|||
|
There are books from the 1600s and the 1700s in my grandfather’s study. He keeps them in cages.
There is a sulfur-crested cockatoo named Sampson in my grandfather’s study. He sits atop a brass coat rack.
The surface of the yellow newspaper underneath undulates stiff,
the circles of shit look like fried eggs.
My grandfather stands next to the coat rack. He’s looking out the window, the afternoon sun alighting on his cheek.
Sampson flips up the feathers on top of his head and steps down onto my grandfather’s shoulder.
My grandfather opens the window and Sampson flies out into the branches of a nearby crab-apple.
The bird side-steps up the branch, bobbing and squawking.
There are at least seven other cockatoos already in the tree, motionless.
I crouch and peer tentatively through the wire,
which is encased in hardened dust,
almost a half inch in diameter.
There are three books stacked in the compartment.
The spines are faded beige, burgundy, and blue –
dust obscures the titles. I lift the trapdoor with care –
My grandfather has stepped into a small alcove cut into the shelves.
He’s nailing an old wooden painting to the wall – some kind of icon,
the face of a saint portrayed in gold and blue paint.
His body snaps forward at the waist and he vomits all over the painting and the wall
The same exact thing happened yesterday
The same thing
The same thing
|
||||
4. |
Channel Termination
01:59
|
|||
|
Compliments on your new mirror.
Compliments on your reflection.
You say that it's a placeholder.
I say that I can't stand change.
Can’t scrutinize when hypnotized
Did you want digital favors?
Tell me what form that would take.
Email a digital savior.
Pray make me a digital slave
Can’t analyze when pacified
And in need of a guide
|
||||
5. |
No More Alarm Clocks
03:50
|
|||
|
So I just flat out stopped sleeping.
no more coffee-morning-water-cooler
conversations with my coworkers,
no more afternoon naps,
no more alarm clocks.
I just broke it off completely,
cold turkey.
The stillness at three am is breathtaking.
hurts twice as bad at four.
punctuated by creaks and whisks,
cricket symphonies
I lie awake and my eyes cringe,
burning with constipated tears.
I don’t wake up –
it’s just time to get out of bed.
push rings on my swollen fingers,
splash water on my puffy face
I pull bloody tissue away from my nose
and admire the damage.
The day begins, and I want to live,
and oh, what a beautiful mess I’ve inherited.
|
||||
6. |
Spinning the Gold
02:32
|
|||
|
This was the turn where a large group of us emerged –
a rush then a trickle from behind conference room doors.
The corridor loomed still clattering
as our footsteps narrowed to sounds shattering
Puzzling at the sandboxes where the scientists
ran Gumby-putty life forms straight up from the firmament.
Animatronics Coming out of the spinning gold,
Promise to replace our pets and parents with code
Rumble rumble
“Put your money down. Put your money down.”
Rumble rumble
“Put your money down. Put your money down.”
I marched the youth group through the forest and up the rockslide
The kids knew what happened – that she died, she died, she died.
From the crown of the talus, A09 cut C05’s hair
the others were scrambling for lightning bugs in the air
It was all flickering on and flickering off
Flickering on and flickering off
The coordinates have been lost
|
||||
7. |
||||
|
I was lost and then I found
Trashcan fires, the trees are bound
In rubber bands, the Kids
Rough shuffling
Hoods up, faces bland
Gameboys in their hands
Searching the signal
Searching the signal
I was lost and then I found
A girl in red chucks, subway bound
She walks away with the map
My dead dogs can’t
Tracing the perimeter
Legs go numb and I’ve lost her
We will die intertwined
We will die we will die
We will die intertwined
We will die we will die
We will die intertwined
We will die we will die
Searching
Searching
|
||||
8. |
Steady Manipulation
02:50
|
|||
|
It works just like a tractor beam drawing me in
discovery of the eighth deadly sin
This is where fin begins
|
||||
9. |
Double Talk in the Tower
02:16
|
|||
|
Wake up pushing the panic button
Pores clogged up-all kinds of poison
Caffeine can’t clear the notions
Use my bones for construction
I was born on crutches baby,
You’ll have to excuse the limping
I’m not the person that you seek
Please hold back your savage speech
I suffer the soliloquy
Of every creature bound in fear
So why get a tattoo
You’ve already got the bruises
I was born on crutches baby
You’ll have to excuse the limping
Still no one shuts up
No one shuts up
|
||||
10. |
The Dreams Dried Atlast
02:06
|
|||
|
Pepsi cans in the closets
The beds are full of them
Corroded aluminum,
Toppled on the shelves.
Some exploded.
Must have been years ago,
Sticky, caramel film on everything.
The cats want to bite me,
Lick me raw with their rough tongues.
Bite through my cuticles
Wash my hands with lime juice.
I’m waiting for my mom to angel.
When illuminated,
She will make
My dreams come true.
She will make all my dreams come true
|
||||
11. |
||||
|
Found the token that had crash-landed
Caress the surface until expansion
Behold the blinding golden totem
And now we’re all 100 years older
Now that culture’s accelerated
Buried evidence of creation
The land is neglected
Our skin reflective
Ritual rejected
Our skin reflective
Behold behold
|
||||
12. |
||||
|
All the fantasies have failed
The simulation turned stale
The restrictions will not be lifted
The avatar remains deficient
Was it all a dream?
Was it all a dream?
Yes but
What’s not a dream?
What’s not a dream?
Walking animatronics in the park
Beds of comatose bodies in the dark
All the fantasies have failed
The simulation turned stale
Was it all dream?
Was it all a dream?
I don’t know man
You tell me
|
||||
the Trash Pile
Live Trash Take2
starring World of Truckdrivers:
TBD
Trash in/out
If you like the Trash Pile, you may also like:
A bleak experimental pop vision built entirely from loops.
go to album
A mesmerizing ambient album ten years in the making.
go to album
Pneumania
by E L O N (Elon Katz)
Glitchy minimalism from Elon Katz, where songs are composed of pinprick synths and murmuring beats.
go to album
Morir y Renacer
by Conjunto Primitivo
Hedonistic sonic collages that unspool cross-generational Latinidad and diasporic innovation.
go to album
21 De Agosto, Macaruya
by Dalibor Cruz
Adventurous Chicago producer Dalibor Cruz makes heavily rhythmic experimental electronic music shot through with jets of noise.
go to album
Mueran Humanos
by Mueran Humanos
The terrific debut album from Berlin industrial-pop auteurs Mueran Humanos was out of print until this reissue on the band's own new label.
go to album
Gross Net Means Gross Net
by Gross Net
The solo project of Philip Quinn (Girls Names), this is dark-edged electronic work with a needle-sharp take on life in the U.K.
go to album
