1. |
The Gong Song
06:48
|
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there might still be a future for laughter
if only i can stop menacing my identification with those winks of water
people who live in the
people who live in the
shed
are leaving it down to the
up to around the carrot
where you feel to to up to to,
too so they fed
& the hit chewed
(they fed)
and sped
through red
(blue-green?)
incredible
(normal?)
syndromes
cos who was
next in the shirt was
when they stopped . they knew what it hadn't been before
an old beginning
born on the inside
then falling up stairs
ankle first in time to
hear the bell ringing
when you get to door
the theoretical nursery
rhymes came on times
plain
time is a flat
full of
explanations
and there was toothpaste
on the eye of the
cold seeker
Sam Langer
-typed in a towel, 16:28
30.11.2023
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2. |
Space Boogie
08:53
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...space boogie, space + boogie, space (positions of parts reciprocally affecting each other ad infinitum) boogie (a repetitive, swung note or shuffle rhythm, groove or pattern used in blues and originally played on the piano in boogie-woogie music, a redoubling of boogie, which was used for rent parties as early as 1913, and which may derive from the sierra leone term ‘bogi’, to dance... burgin mathews*)
boogie::: in space. where is that? apart from ——it—— being “the place”, which doesn’t narrow it down at all. we are there. wherever we happen to boogie is in space. or is it meant to mean: ‘boogie, with some space,’ like, ‘a spacious boogie,’ so maybe meaning ‘with bits left out’, stopping, like near the beginning (‘about’ 3 seconds in. in, on, or around those three four seconds). (stopping playing.) what people mean by spacious—the opposite of dense—silent—clever. they mean there is something that isn’t there, in a pleasing relation to what was put there (and what was taken): so they (not oùat, people—whoever they are) aren’t talking about ‘the silence of the eternal spaces, etc’, so maybe it isN’t a ‘spacious boogie’. it’s very busy, and not spießig (but rotating).
there is now a space in the space where my dishes should be. what? there is less egg in here than i put this morning. oh. the container was manufactured by bosch. it is a container with something missing in it: it is space. dark matter, they say, can even be found at the top of the stairs. probably. forgive me—my head was empty. nous serons écrasés, les volcans sauteront, (due to a shift in the lack of space, but maybe creating new islands) as rimbaud said. blank, went my mind.
or is it a waltz and a boogie getting taken apart the way that space aliens or some strange science fictional beings might do it, or busily cavorting while getting beamed, that’s what space always makes me think of, comets and aliens. the usual. the way that the returning piano part sounds triple and double but not quite rocking in the left hand and also rolling in exactly the supposed way? or what aren’t they talking about when they mean space...
[the nowadays-people often (in english) talk about “spaces”, like, “they’re working in that space”, as in, they are tapping the vein of that pre-defined cultural resource: “he’s gotten quite big in the train station piano playing space”, or “we’re in the same space”—where ‘space’ has nothing to do with room, nothing that would echo, i guess it means, appearance in profile that can be recognised as marketable, edible, that is that meaning of being ‘in’ a space. the world as an eternally expanding chessboard / maybachufer. “they’re really big in the self-contradictory statements space at the moment.”]
is the stopping, the space, as an introduction, an opening door, if you like, to beginning again, stopping, as a door’s opening to beginning again? a door with a present of a bunch of strange ladders and flowerstands behind it? are repetitions (time) what develops a sense of permanence, the one moment of space being there, being laid out, in a sense of array (‘array’ which seems to used to have meant something like ‘there ready to go’, hmm), or/and is it the stretching between the arrayed multiple things-in-the-way which lead us to consider them as being ‘in’ space? in the way? there is no bumping into things without space getting in the way. time being repeated to develop a leading of us to consider a sense of permanence as one of the elemental characters of space? the ground and the getting ground. into parts. space—extent unlimited or limited—relying on time—(whatever time could be when considered independently of space, something in the head, body, something perceived in the instruments, some sort of way of waving at space, time as a tone to remind space that it’s definitely ‘of’ time, a ‘space of time’, a space that belongs to time—being the way you see the same new (“mirror, mirror, on the wheel”)—‘boogie’ as a certain way of repeating the relation to some spaces of time...
what about: space boogie, in the sense of energy drink ______: as in: i recommend this boogie if you need some space, they market this boogie by claiming that it makes some space? to fill? with? drink drink, boogie boogie.
...
Sam Langer
after three on friday afternoon...
(1 december 2023)
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3. |
Supreme
14:37
|
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_supreme_
all so what else
how but and then, and then,
who bent, and run and them
if then, what you
and were,
and rooping
what what (...)
by being near . . .
and agreeing fear
and seeing here
and clearing tear
and wearing there
see how,
there are
/ /
and so lets see
lets see
and lets
see how
they are
when you went, where you went, what was sent
see how they are, see how they are
it is too good
to not be free
we hear of thee
when any see
the present tree
for what they know
in what they show
is how to know
where every go
unfortunately
they are not seen
too certainly
and what they deem
can never be,
it is not thee
by bearing by
as easily
as what it does
it isn't hard
to be as known,
it is too hard
to never know
that what you know
is known indeed
to the same degree
that bears agreed
on other sides
and even when
it doesn't when
its other side,
it isn't then
it is and now
its other when
Sam Langer
...4.42, 3 december 2023
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4. |
Red Horses and Cows
10:02
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--Red Horses and Cows--
the darkness
holds round
the marks
beyond the stains
of silver and iron
while a haunted heart
clatters down
an utter catch
in the longest barrack
with the need to ride out
not stripped away
wearing through our glasses
with our gazing
on the great bell
(on pointing at things
on understanding change
on hardness and redness
on name and substance
on the storehouse of traces)
there’s a black wind from the sky
to potter this land with its things
and the corners do shine in the grass
where we lay down to wake up
among them on other days
even too awake for the sun
stood on some sort of balcony
built onto a cliff that’s rippling
and if the days are themselves
and awake themselves
no different in length
or even as longer
as the more darkness
they growingly contain
such is the language of love
while the school of names
falsidically misplaces
concrete vines shall dust
on one day belonging
to the presence of memories
that closeness to the golden number
of magical folk songs and studies
of silent dialogues
Sam Langer
|
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5. |
Industrial Nebulution
11:10
|
|||
Industrial Nebulution
feeding me was the first problem
but that was only an extremity
count though.
count though's coordinated messaging system.
some count further than others.
others count further than their weight
artificial beaks pecking the moon, the nearby planets
nostalgia for an abundance that nextisted only perfectly scattered throughout the earth, and air
which became the problem of coordination
so that the Sssembly of the former through digging and massing manuractures an obsquoir scents of oonrage
a clouding of synthesis
hoopfully an aliment of eyeroar in the purse conniption of reels the relay tritons shun
\~|~< {{{
1. (composed of successive short curves made to resemble a cloud
—used of a heraldic line by which an ordinary or subordinary may be bounded
2. of a molding : consisting of an overhanging band the lower projecting edge of which conforms in shape to a continuous undulating curve)
Sam Langer
|
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6. |
Alice
09:20
|
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ALICE
to you, relative is absolute, to me, ... “it suits you”
what else could i say to you
looking for something
like a heart on the way around
and they wait still and on the way
standing an old beginning in front of
something strange like a kind of mirror
a lope in the well snow
seen from a moving bridge they did
know what it hadn’t been before
what is form’s form though? content?
one active, one passive?
and from there it goes up
with the between inside this bit of it
should i need to remind you, it still is
is form the thought of what there
is raised in the content
bodily raised and location
its need on the way down
what else could the doctor say
lacking any rhetoric
or answers – the rabbit’s rhetoric
was more revealing that the train
driver’s, we couldn’t play chess
were too moving – what’s at the front
next we were dancing crying sometimes
in the grassy train’s corners where
we saw exactly what the others feeling
strong emotion were doing
we didn’t need to say it
coming up the stairs, but sometimes
did, to each other
and again as well –
would it be here?
was it going to come here?
as well, we said it
in the rooms’ grassy trains
and in the squares’ classic chains
we walked cross the edges
in the summertime
in the slight sermon form
the hills of what was left
the year’s sort of also
an elf, who investigates those
changes on a stroll
we tripped up for free
whether to fall or rise who knows?
in winter? the devil at the table too
like a little bear, looking over
Sam Langer
(late at night, december 6)
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7. |
||||
it’s hard to sing the Blues
it’s jacaranda time
the roses are crawling down the fence
i met you tonight
it’s time to meet the cowboys
you sleep badly, getting ironed
well, at least you sleep worse, that is
and those who suffer are sposed to be my doctors
whereas windmills aren’t what make the wind?
trains just cannot come on time
but when the coin turns inside out what to do?
these dabs are just seething in owlish trust
coins crashing on the roses in the bin
© Sam Langer
|
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8. |
Raise Five
03:09
|
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raise 5:
intervals and incarnations
how the phrases
to a sound
upon the condition. . .
leg it and arm it
up on the condition
shifting shape with its
key memory skeleton
element timed to an inner-inter movement
of carefully speeding mediums
going through the corner
and out the same line
of a plain over
looking
for the time beats made
to try to find the beats
times making
©Sam Langer
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9. |
Mouth trap
05:46
|
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tongues in or in shoes
sorrows pond-eye in the cave that irons the shoo-ins
to the shoots of straight
copped or fill-ins under a song through the pipes
a palatial bent-up it is to be introduced to the tooth roof
and a necklace of caterpillar pipes deserted to the dentition
what’s the rate on this god pan
who turns on a bronze age sponge to furnish want
sheds contained in a pancake
whose tears also function as serrene mishap corks
an owl on your name combs the fish fields of your frame
that spectral sequins peep through time sadness you paddle
© Sam Langer
|
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10. |
Something with the moon
17:47
|
|||
something with the moon
at the “first time” end of a muffled winter afternoon, with half-anticipated hands of feet-over excitement that was running a slight hill rolling down its windows of generally lit traffic hummed together there in an up home, some “first time” ends, time ends like happy crumpled mégots
no bits in thoughts that are all touches of reflections together
the sweat that peels time back to a carefully tailored waist swinging in a symbol on the park at night
musicopoetomatographic drawings of the effects of the moon on the sentiments with long complex wooden flute lines, rolling repetitions of bass and drums bar trios, shall we dance effects, quaint cats in silhouette one exploring the month after the other tuned his curving lion claws to rise above a tin
the moon in the morning
the moon cones the morning cones
yours the first move behind morning
behind memory, the mournful face
of a fragment with teeth
all the people with the things seen in
the cool accompaniments to what start
the collateral albatross to noon naps
what time do you start thinking about
whenever you hear the moon?
you starting in bed to stair something
who are you, when what’s gonna occur
to the moon is they’re land again
to tell another sad tale out there
in a tin as it happens? in a different can
and phazed as repeated degrees level
o that memory of the light that’s
one day darker than the sky
© Sam Langer
|
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11. |
||||
Instable Mates
instable...
can never
be any
o, old
con
stable
but, but
it’s not
un-stay-
able
being
on
a the...
ferry
out out-
side
of an
airy why
a necessity
and would you
fall off this
second
instable...
can not name
name being
bothered
to frame
an other to
e-
lude
at home
in the air
through the
second
wind, in dough
© Sam Langer
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12. |
Slam 2000
05:36
|
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there isn’t any grit between your belly and the world – there is only nothing but grit, cold but hot. it’s hotly cold and amongst the grit. the grit thumps through the hail, moves over onto a rough end of the pineapple mat where hands shake the feet off a medium-sized tooth. the tooth begins to grate runs meanwhile on the wire cupboard-front of a stolen pipecleaner forest. hands and feet wind the drive in on a cable hub against the wind in the grit blown against the thing just been said to demonstrate that there are degrees of grit to the gavel’s head that is nearest the damp pit.
© Sam Langer
|
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13. |
Lucia
09:45
|
|||
when the sun comes up it sinks lightly into the sky... it is a music of day continuously beginning with no unnecessary heroics, merely the absorbed twinkling of a star of relative giantness... the “piece” (of what vast cake?) is where musicality appears to scale perspective as an exfoliation of melody as understood by myriad tiny striding runners, like magnetism to an all-too-willing series of fingers of space. meanwhile the shards of been-in coherences are heated as light thens, before they slightly enter the hotel foyer or end credits of film, whose plot finality is granted as whisked to finite and infinite modes of god-as-benevolent-producer/impresario, who returns your calls, to say hey lucia, its cartoon was to be filled out with glorious painted plant, i got your message, sliding the horizon when i plucked up ...
© Sam Langer
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14. |
Illusion
07:52
|
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ILLUSION
“ The illusion is perfect ”
—Arthur Symons
? time is
an illusion
when i see i
still dream of them ?
—Simon Sieger
*
time is
(an my un) illusion
when i see (i by him them tim time why)
(am cell dream i him of still them revolving)
*
yes, no, to, and, our, their, feet no longer fit, shoes. they spread out, as age accelerates; though ever unable to catch up with time, which it does try to, age, ageing itself in the attempt to catch some time to keep, who is only even a category when dreamed of, in the rational sense, as a protection officer for kitchens checking on improperly maintained ones. some claim the numbers cooked in the illusory kitchens of time.
triadic mountains vibrate in the invisible helmets of kitchen corner disputation cataclysm credo proverbs, and their hands move to turn over the pages of the book of proverbs, whose foliation beneath your ceiling are professional masks, jellifying in the open fridge, occasionally terrifying at some slight corner in the bender, beside the triadic mountains, that were ever vibrating in the see-thru facial helmets of warm kitchen corner disputation, etc., as the coursers shook then hands with the surface of their name.
*
we must confess to never having thought the very able foot ever wasn’t. it is only the sneaker of time to slip on the geranium rain. it happens so slowly to be as hungry as the mercenaries in their sewing box.
*
o memory day
darker than the sky
there is no grit to
a sun core you cannot
imagine
an airy why tried on
to frame an outside
of a fragment
o memory
in your hair of
your hair where you
tear the dough to
grit to drive in
on ghost sequins
*
exceptions of spacious time death model their zooming
by an inspection of wasps in hollow roadside chair leg
metal and wind brushed down truck grass as though the elephants
of hamilcar’s army had never emerged towards the northern
barbarians in their (? flexible box ?) of perspective out of
a cloud of dust, only by hearsay, their huge flapping ears,
birds or snakes standing up on their tails, or was anything
never not, musing on the brick path trailing towards
toilet shed block, or was nothing without a trace?
*
you never weren’t yet
it zooms me and you in
we hurry to fill up the time
space is the big coat
toes burned down for prose
*
o memory day, composed of illusions about the former reality former that assumed it would get easier only by following you down the path that was following hard on your tail, your cords, but only harder than it was before by being easier than how it will be next... stirring the dust atop a top...
©Sam Langer
|
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15. |
The soul and the cake
09:30
|
|||
the soul and the cake
who took the piece?—never answered by finding ourselves walking across the plate without it. among the crumbs, complexes of our footsteps form doilies of echo to the wobbly poles of the thought of its section of attraction, continually swimming in keeping in our minds. to have and to eat, and to meet somewhere in the middle, neither, of a cold dry wind only approaching the very edge of the trimmings. and of waking up now, before you know where, with suns abruptly there, to pull the grains through the hours, rolling in clover glasses, to other sides, of red horse fence. it may be that we’ve already eaten the piece was meant to digest to the insoles could’ve corrected our audition in this tunnel stroll up the cat wall behind the candle.
© Sam Langer
|
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16. |
Här kommer Greta
10:27
|
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17. |
||||
18. |
The Impossible
07:31
|
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19. |
Sudden
07:55
|
|||
SUDDEN
only like the sudden sun that gets grey by being gay in the winter bricks. the swans talk to the forgotten buds on the blank sticks above the slippery rocks and the pigeons somehow manage to sleep on a forty-five-degree-angled bit of zinc beneath an immense sign that means nothing whatsoever to them. can we warm ourselves by blinking, or perhaps arm? can we bring the teeth nearer the “stuck” around the edges of the ceiling, whose glistening is well away from giving in to any fairytales about what spring is gonna bring? harvesting that basket of old lightbulbs and drying the petals calmly in the bowl cos you’re coming round to have a bath, and drink “crémant de loire” (what an earth is that?). cutting into the plains out there in the mist with a pick. until the vast child and we are drunk. we’ll scatter our belongings and collect the hostile furniture from the window view and jam on the apocalyptic trumpets with pencils. and you’ll have finished your bath, our friends will come to the party, smoking cigarettes.
©Sam Langer
written in a couple of hours and forty seconds.
|
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20. |
Breach the gap
15:21
|
|||
Breach the gap
what rhapsody in one’s room’s apparent forest. what relative fealty in three’s room’s apparent, cooking quietly. welcoming feelings of energetic sadness, rumouring towards a pushed elevator. a rolled back, pair danceable trip that then spirals onto cabbage-racing world powell ligeti. who can run out of stuff on the sewing machine to breach the gap in the human abstract. reflecting very sadly and finally, with thoughtful finger to temples of hotel carpet or television credit, is revealed to be a question mark of pacing. and, we probably will or won’t need more tiny electric motors to wind ourselves round our thumbs in the wind from the next final forest.
© Sam Langer
|
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21. |
Hymn
13:05
|
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Hymn
i got there yesterday
eyes do not see
all course for direction
to the winds, every possible
plane of horizon partake
singular shore potholes
and set off tomorrow’s
neutron-dense mountain
all the points dance
together dividing
the shade into a cymbal
*
compasses
can’t make circles
or holes for the potholes,
the neglected smoke
the hidden
leaves
falling off a flower
we sing
that thou wast born
in a turn
*
(oomph)
where, between
the polar bears
of polarized
polarities
you notice
oscillating tortoises
longer than snakes
for whom no compass
can plane the eagle,
for broke, off the heavens
all course for direction to the winds
*
what we ask for you is not too ruched
there are not any stars
above the stairs, parting
in the air to the hearts
of a trio of three pairs
of storm systems
touching their toes
ask also the rubber band
what’s its stance?
what we as for you
not too formel
forgive them and give them not up
repeating themselves for trying
to forgive those who made the difference
to an identified subject for they knot and know
what they throw they realize
not that the horse has thrown them they consider
selves in the saddle in the mirror they piece
themselves together as if with clothes
the camel has come by
with its soul up a drainpipe filling if
no soul were to be come by the forms would
be listening to the wrong sirens, is it alright with teeth
to know exactly where you go any more
the sirens of the waves wash the shore the sand
protects the shore waves protect the sand rocks
another rhythm make it stand
there’s another scale to all
consider the pupil
knocked over what passed
must understand scribbles the wind
dancing flowers open on a run
not too formel
not triumphant, the bottom to the note
left sure by the wind
a little zarathustra, a little myriad
putting a basket
“Let love embrace the ten thousand
things; Heaven and earth are a
single body.
With sayings such as these, Hui
Shih tried to introduce a more
magnanimous view of the world and
to enlighten the rhetoricians.”
© Sam Langer
21.12.23, 18:33
(incorporating words by jeroen nieuwland and ido bukelman)
|
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22. |
Praise machine
43:19
|
|||
23. |
The long dance
11:40
|
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24. |
Hold the bold
06:57
|
Oùat Berlin, Germany
Oùat
sɪᴍᴏɴ sɪᴇɢᴇʀ | piano
ᴊᴏᴇʟ ɢʀɪᴘ | bass
ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ɢʀɪᴇɴᴇʀ | drums
www.ouat.info
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