Meat in a locker, mouth in my pocket
translator says
what a mistake
what a mistake
i didn't mean it
feel not good now
one of my tongues was bad
they were just screaming
get me your guns
get me your guns
get it to me
but as always
just double
some shit
get me your thumbs
get me your thumbs
your rotten stinky mirror
fried chicken free market with fleas
and some wifi too
between irrelevant holes
one of them asks -
recognize the breath:
balloon with frozen air.
detect some detox juice,
floss, relatives which are betrayed.
My new album seems to be published now by Klammklang, called «Occasion Smell», not a mistake, but more like a noose. Starting to be really difficult to understand the nature of surrounding smell. Cant be sure if it is just an occasional smell or it is truly piece of shit enclosing us.

Really want to pitch some concepts about, draw some context around, but actually i dont fcn now any. Scariest part of my time is just not knowing stuff, but feeling it. I could feel something. Something fcn useless.

ONE OF MY
TONGUES WAS BAD
symbols crashed in plastic
cases carrying SoC,
ear doubles sos

OCASSION SMELL
symbols crashed in plastic
cases carrying SoC,
ear doubles sos
breasts feeding mouths
press attaches
nose dressed mustaches
dirt digging
fish licking,
black wet, west white stomach
recognize the breath
gas gas gas
cold magenta flowers
yes yes yes
some boy attached some sir to phrase
just stay in your room
look at this chair
smell where you sit
Hm. Lead. newspaper
duck —
mischievous bird
spreading noisome.
what should i feel
what need to do?
what is this smell?
rehearsal of repeat
variety
pets conversation stops
in endless hula hala hoop
was just a kazus.
PERMANENT RESEARCH
BARKLING MOUTH, SLEEPING TONGUE, MOANING CUNT

it will return all invests
however melt
walls and rooms together
only blue light is needed by the floor
wide open mouth with nothing inside
sounds like a hole with wind in it
while someone crying somewhere
she has no eyes, so tears are lost
inside an empty stomac
BEAST FROM THE MIDDLE EAST

what should i ask
what should i say
whom should i love
whom should afraid
while cars are moving
slowly
while drones are hunting
dust settles
dawning
JUST WANT TO SAY
ONE LONG AND SHAKING PHRASE
IT WILL DISTURB MY MOUTH A LITTLE
BEAT OF BLOOD WILL TURN AROUND
CONFUSING SKIN WHILE HEAD IS NODING
POLITELY SMELL BRINGS SENCE
WHICH SCARES OUR NIGHTS
BY FLASHES, LIGHTS AND CRUNCH OF BONES
WHILE SCROLLING DOWN AND UP
ALL THOUGHTS ARE BASTARDS
BUT FINGERS ARE CRUEL LITTLE BABIES
THEY FEED THIS EYES BY TIME AND DEATHS
SEARCH
WALLET

please no more
pure madness
lick the metall
burn the paper
take a shit
by liquid
while it burns
rip this numbers
by lightly touching it
this evidence of crime
NAP IN A SUITCASE

little dream without air
in nearly closed
case without documents
or any paper. little boy
brown eyes thick skin
salt and water,
lungs and coast without letter A.
PIG BESIDE THE SCREEN

meat in locker
empty stomac
mice in pocket
eyes in mouth
fat horny hips
damaged conductor
trying to solve
blinking lights
stupid clear fucks
ALL COPS ARE MADE IN CHINA

their fingers like broken bells
their legs already tired
parking places down the street —
night markets needs them
like black guys needs their bullets
all cops are made in china
POOL WITHOUT WATER

meaningless
shit
tanks drowned
ocean relief
killer whale is just a whale
which eats another one
ALL THOUGHTS ARE BASTARDS
That record is about static in desperately, on high speed, changing reality through windows of cars from Russian 90s. When news here were about killers and acts of terrorism, on the entrance doors were photo-robots of some really weird boys and girls, when your father may did not come home – criminal, love, existential, shocking, nice, weird and so on and etc. Movement that happened in cars.












The music is about that cars, about it consciousness. About how cars remember that. How they record it on magnetic tapes with some shitty music, before someone stole the deck. If you will watch this 25 minutes music film — it is about some kind of fake memories or how memory become nostalgia sadness on some fiction. Past become blurry and romantic, but it is not. It is dangerous and distract us from understanding the present time, which is not exist properly for us. I am terrified how true memories becomes pleasant and dreary fantasy. It is certainly scares – to feel present as it is and to abandon the subjective past, to realise past without personal binding. While we are dreaming our fake past, – our lives fucked by some more or less unromantic gentlemen motivated only by holding power and controlling big amounts of money, exactly the same time when you are trying to live your life.
IN THE SAME CAR
"Bank Robber" is about existential personal experiences that characters had and how global world rules are involved in it. This particular record or narrative music story [link to text] tells about a mysterious character, a person who just arrived in yet another city, to commit yet another robbery. Everybody's heard about him, but nobody knew just for how long he have been doing this, how many banks he cleaned and how many people he murdered.

The Bank Robber is a fictional character briefly based on Nezumi Kozō — the nickname of Nakamura Jirokichi (1797-1831), a Japanese thief and folk hero who lived in Edo, present-day Tokyo – Nezumi also translates as rat. "Robber" an abstract entity, an amalgam of numerous personalities, real and fictional. He's just an image, the one who steals, robs and kills — every physical and virtual bank, every hostage, real or fictional.




BANK ROBBER
Wrote some thoughts about music i recently spit out. Music piece is called Furniture Patron.

It seems so odd to communicate this way, actually. First of all — i really don't know who actually see this mash of mistakenly drafted letters. And (even more important maybe) — in which circumstances.

It is hard to describe but i feel so awkward to share some thoughts with you this way. It seems more like a promo, like a marketing. Proper business shit. Or even worse — public diary, which is sounds like something shit-involved too, isnt it?

I want it or should it? Saddest part — I clearly not forced to.

What should i do to create some sort of conversation from it? Maybe for first will be good to proper learn this beautiful colonial language. Is it even possible to read? will know.

So.
As dead-weight i have several hours of music, was recorded fast and no amount of wish to edit it any. Its distracts me from new one, which i am trying to finish or write, while reasons of distraction should be only events, events of good will, which is so hard to find now days. Is it me depressed or you just happy to see me.

While i was in charge of my childhood, here in Russia — was born internet, slow one. Some computer games, if equipment was in your family. Maybe Doom or Doom 2. Some fiction books from different era of different countries. They was properly licked by soviet translator tongues, till started to shine. As your crazy pink panther diamond named Floyd. 60s science fiction, adventures, Gerald Durrell, etc. On tv was Chechnya, couple of terroristic attacks (of course more of it), Grase on fire, soviet comedies, X files, 90s russian pop music, Money for nothing song, several dead journalists, shoted ones.

Than this beautiful time was gone. And now i am sitting here, incredibly fucked-up in this new era, even new century — mash in my head, it consists of someone else grid, asses, snickers, fiction non fiction. Murders around — should i do something with it or never. Common name become proper name — president.

All this is like caviar in a jar — tight, in the grip of images of another's childhood, someone else's youth.

What i am trying to say is that i have some feeling that i was raised by fake which was not belong to me in therms of time, generation, class, geography, ideology etc.

This gob of music is just concentrated associations with old Gerald Durrell book called Three Singles To Adventure. Really loved it when was a child. Funny little book about travell to the country then known as British Guiana, to collect some fauna. British man. In the jungles. 1954. I was read it in 90s at my moscow suburbs flat. on my couch, which everyone else had the same. It was some wardrobe too maybe?

Now it is 2019, i am thirty, my pocket full of spattered by fingers fucked-ups, and when i see or hear word JUNGLE — my head splits by intersecting parallels. One is about this book i told you above, the other is voice of Alexander Rastorguev, man i know, which was killed this summer in Africa. And all it mixed by fork on plate sound, plate with flowers.

I mean — what all of this, how i suppose to be here, what should i say or feel?
I have a little daughter too. Her name is Alice.

So, again. You could listen it. Love you. Z
Intermission
Meanwhile, bank robberies are real and they've been real since the moment the banking system itself came into existence. There are a lot of examples of real and imagined robberies and heists: examples that had infiltrated the popular culture, art, literature and music. Generally, a bank robbery entails at least one or even several murders – hostages, security guards, accomplices.
Time passes. Actual participants die. Their descendants die. Bank robber himself often dies, too. People who had authored fictional realities where bank robbers and their victims exist, die as well. And thus, the edge between reality and a fairy tale becomes blurred. Everything turns into myth. It is this single, all- encompassing myth of the bank robbery that fascinates so much.
In case of "Robber" first comes the story, then comes music, then text with some artworks – all of this form do not repeat each other, they all were created to look on one narrative fiction story from different perspectives.
Its actually a book btw
In digital too:
Its actually a movie btw
MISTAKES ARE ALL AROUND:
It is sad and vulnerable useless ballad about some boy who fall asleep. He taking a nap in a suitcase and he is dreaming. About his home at fire. We don't know if it is fictional dream, like usual dream we have, for entertainment. This boy — thick skin, brown eyes. Suitcase is floating in the sea, ocean or salty river. It is hard to breathing — fire all around and water is sneaking the suitcase, also. It is deep dream, so it will not be interrupted even by screaming diplomats, while they are fucking each other on another shitty summit.

So, to be clear, sad and useless song about some boy died, maybe drowned, while diplomats were fucking. completely fictional story. False statement.
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