At First Sight

by Fen Trio

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the things scattered under the moon were only silence or, well, other things also: the crisp shadows of what were olive trees that filter away down from the mountain ridge toward the sea, the white fronts, the little waves, whose sound you imagine as quieter than it really is crashing and actualising the rocks, whose miniature lagoons find crabs fluttering, the apparatus of some terribly dramatic nightmare, fluttery, prehistoric bat then also, fleshy, unfortunate, and creaking, - remember, they have eyes - like the configuration of things you know will happen just a few minutes from now - TD wire me up sit still bristles and burrs we stood by the lilies an insect on my neck my legs were cold sticky feet and salt Grecian on my hips surge stir me a cultivated spin a lark cried in the meadow corner pulse between my toes FICKLE AND TENDER ARE THE EDGES , I CLING TO THEM Lest the night end HM What resilience is such a hardy tone that one trunk or branch may question a true-meant advice parcel? I think probably the negligent and the orgiastic should have a bath sometimes, in other words. HN It was syndicate ———— live —————— blue ——— Pushing around around the stars slipping on butter con- -vulsing whispering shh. shh. SHHH hunt me They said hunt me I swim in oceans in salt lakes in rivers I beat currents I live in moments I let my body become it. ——————————— yes more more more—— more more ———— — i can hold ———— it MZ MOONFLOWER THERES THIS MOONFLOWER LIKE NOCTURNE’S CROCUS RESIDING IN AN EBONY LIP OR ALL THESE TAUGHT STRINGS I AM SPILLT I AM FULL OF IT I CAN’T LILT HERE IN FULL SIGHT OF AN ARMY OF DUST BUNNY HONIES I’M ROPE-A-DOPE I CAN COPE TAKE FLIGHT AND FIND A NEW DOGGERLAND OR I CAN CHANGE CROAK AND FEEL GOLFO LM MILKSHAKE PUSHING UP AGAINST PORES THE MELODY EXCRETES ITSELF IN QUAVERS AND QUAKES DROWING IN LOST SCALES OF BLUES, TERRA-COTTA OR MIS-TAKES MILKSHAKES DISTASTE STOP CHEWING AND SPIT IT OUT IN POPCORN BALLS OF FOR HER SAKE HIS SAKE THEIR SAKE MILKSHAKE LM FUCK FUCK FUCK THIS DAWN IS OPENING AND I’M STILL HERE DUST SHEETS EXHALE IN THE MORNING THE OLD OAK CHEST WITH ITS BURNISHED DRAWERS AND A PIANO FORTE GONE SOUR HOUR, HOUR, OUR TIME IS UP VLA Hieroglyphic curtains uncovering a chaosmos Diagonally face the punch & judy abyss Neighboured by a field calling a boy calling, ‘wolf!’ And a human pouring water on a decision to push a blue or red button Bled to liquid enthused architecture amiss * proturbingly found enthralling, “unself!” Viola & cello centred by a Nord Piano Pianist sprouting sunflowers Outing won powers diagonalling graphs of light; an eatery, a field: wielding a beatery next to the next. MJS
rush to the plinth and dwell amongst blue triangles , strangers outside pulling at their skirts and the the sweltering quiet of lines come to meet you, gather keys and plant them in every snag at your lock ankles. If you look do not struggle , long enough tousle them at that form, shape play and meet the other side it twists and escapes pity the bottom of these doors, always swinging catching draughts, dropping hinges. HM in July. St Denis burned 2 months ago? The light from her tower [could not be seen on the moon, but] she felt it. Funny that only one person found the diamond. My tectonic plate shifted that evening because I wanted it to. Downstairs they only heard sentences that didn’t end. only. The stairs become richer and more flat. Housed by soil 89 years later or eroded and worn, stuck in a cupboard torn taken plastic rotting so. possessive. so selective. only mud, no sweet grass. But that was how it happened. MSM In obscure halls and corridors some lost crumble, some lost island outpost — I move, and within the air and the wood, there is a sinuous expansion, a completion of the trembling space among the sections of my body. A shallow light is erected along the angles of the wall; I have caught a window. Outside there is nothing, I promise, except the landscape, and the million-division tumult of the rain, vague I do not find it ominous, but nonetheless it is unbearable; it sees in itself the violent extension of everything - the moon under which everybody on earth, in all their positions, find themselves - everything outside where I am, the blueprint of every movement ever made, there is the tree, swaying. - never mind, it doesn’t suit me, I shouldn’t think too much, well, about these things, it makes me so ill. TD AND the sun collapsed melted into puddle SWAM into nothingness ———————— ———————— ———————— ———————— ———————— ———————— plonk T H U N D E R MZ THE GULL + In the crease of I ‘tween the sea and the sky swam a with Gull a Pearl though it wished it could fly LM JAUNDICE, CORNICE. SINEWED CHANDELIERS, BLOATED RATS AND THE RIND OF A LEMON GONE BLUE FESTER MOLESTER THAT THE BEST YER COULD DO? WHAT’S HERE, NOW WE’RE ALL GONE? UNDER YOUR SKIN || ANTONYM FUCK YOU, FOR ALL THE SHIT YOU PULLED WE’LL HAUNT IT, BREAK YOU. WE’LL SET OFF PSYCHEDELIC SMOKE BOMBS AND BLEED SYRUP FROM THE FIRE. LYRE, LIRE. LIVE WIRE DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE A CRIER YOU? I WILL NOT STOP UNTIL YOU GO MAD. VLA
HEBANA MEBANA MZ when I speak in Lyrical toung I spin storys not yet begun some are new or is it old try do what you’ve been told, ———————— screech and scratch, like a cottage roofed by thatch. ———————————— ———————————— ———— an itch that spreads like butter on my leg n moving north to my Dench teeth abduction by ——— the un cooth OP under the ocean things can shudder sometimes, and crack, did you know? Trust me, I do, and be sent apart, and shatter, and split, even though they are iridescent, and smooth and nimble there are, also, I think, waterfalls under the ocean; a grain of sand, having many surfaces, reflects light both this way and that, and this! and that! way too! and has meanwhile the vanishing point of impossible masses in its ridiculous hidden centre, or, maybe, I imagine, maybe it doesn’t. If the cuttlefish, the sea slug and the barely existent plankton, all of whom have tea and biscuits at four and then kill each other - if they don’t care, then, I don’t imagine you should either. TD salute the gate as the sky clears your brow Does that w?isp of a cloud tell you — ————— to drag your feet? tickled by the storm and the way flies tread on pages so careful itching to point out the flaws and how best to wipe up the spilt and the stains ——————————— rumbling strain secretes a honey that anoints trembling palms \ all to endure the finer threads, the bringers of long days and fuller evenings calculate the trickles and it will give you the form. HM Drowned and dangled in ash, white a stone. Dressed ready to pour the inches around the shoulders globed and ankles pricking eyes dry from so much liquid. Run out of soap. Cleaning the branches. Snow for Sheep to tread lightly on and cheese for rich men to gauge on in marble kitchens with digital flames warming the glass and their bones. My thoughts in your minds. MSM SUGAR BUGGER HE CAME HE SORE A CONKER NOT SOME PONCE, NO PLONKER JUST A PLAN OF MAN SPLAYED PUT PAID TO MY RUBBER MISCHIEF THE MUSIC DOESN’T ALWAYS HAVE TO MEAN THERE’S PORTENT IN PLANT POTS AND HEAVY TOPS — SO STOP AND HAVE A WEE PIDDLY STROP COP A FEEL OF SOMETHING BLUE AN’ AIRY FROM ME THE SUGAR BUGGER ( BUT LET ME TELL YA KIDDA, IT’LL NOT BE TIDY). LM ————————— stones in a stream ripples kaleidoscopic time, identity is the breath that breaks a cascade collapses evening. The discontented moon strangles the wind, a scarf that billows refracted echoes, she is jealous of your name, the shape of your lips birthing your hello. She talks and takes — the furnishing is gone, the lampposts missing their light, the shape of your face in the mirror. Tonight she wears your dreaming ME The little girl on the plane / who turned off her dolls head around / to look at me / J D SALINGER DG GANGRENE, ICE CREAM CHLOROPHORM DAWN. NO? YOU CRY? NARR, HERE, FUCKING GO. CREEPING, CREEPING ROUND THE CLOISTERS OF YOUR MIND. YOU’LL FIND ME DANCING ON YOUR CORTEX, STAMPING ON MY VORTEX. CAN YOU HEAR ME LAUGHING? HAR FUCKIN HAR, —————— I’LL DISMEMBER YOUR SANITY AND KEEP IT IN JAR DAR LING YOU DESERVE THIS AND I DESERVE SOME FUN TURN YOUR THOUGHTS TO A FAIRGROUND AND NOT STOP UNTIL I’M DONE SPINNING GRINNING, TOO MUCH OR NOT ENOUGH? I’LL KEEP USING YOUR TOKENS TILL YOU VOMIT SMASHING, GROMIT. YOU’RE PLASTICINE. ————— I’LL INFECT YOUR DREAMS VLA Door Open Flesh Crawling Your Hand My Knife Curtain Closing Shadows Calling GLASS BREAKING Iced Spine Coming Closer You Smile I … Die BC A feeling of nostalgia, A man who has nothing left, tip toeing down the marble steps, His sins lay clearly on his mind. a thunder and screech as the devil taps ones shoulder, and so this his guardian angel weeps forever - more, what a chaotic mess yet light pours into his eyes, and is forgiven for his ways. As he takes his last breath. JS MARTIAN MAN WONDERS WHY HE IS HERE, IS IT FEAR THAT STOPS HIM HAVING THAT BEER? WHY IS HE HERE? SILLY MARTIAN MAN! HAVE NO FEAR! I ONLY POISONED THAT BEER! BC
OUTRO 00:39


Poetry read 'a prima vista' by instruments, in collaboration with Gobjaw • 28/6/19

A trio of instruments - led by the voice-like cello and viola - improvise LIVE in response to poems written on the night. The instruments “read” the poems instead of a human, with the audience not seeing the poems until after the show is over.

The musicians were asked to respond to the works in the exhibition 'Nocturne' for 15 minutes, whilst a group of poets (and an open call to the audience) wrote in response to the music. These poems were then placed in front of the musicians and read 'a prima vista' - or - 'at first sight' for 15 minutes. This process then repeated twice more for two more 15 minute pieces.

--> View all the written responses in the lyrics!!


released July 18, 2019

Band members (Fen Trio):

Emma Barnaby (cello)
Evie Hilyer-Ziegler (viola)
Francis Devine (piano)

Recorded at 226 Rye Lane, Peckham at the 'Nocturne' exhibition by Oliver Pearce, Jeremy Stokes & Peter Carrick

Concept by Joseph Bradley Hill

Album cover by Joseph Bradley Hill featuring some "unwritten" parts from the responses by Marta Zenka, Dougal Verinder Gedge, Oliver Pearce, Peter Carrick & Hannah Machover.


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Late Works London, UK

indeterminate intermedia improvisation

permutable collective of artists, musicians, writers, film- makers, designers and dancers who perform at the nomadic series of live events of the same name & monthly radio show on Resonance Extra.
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