Friday, April 10, 2015

3 texts || Wayne Mason

Maps to longer movies, pieces of dialogue and sound

It slips in battered and torn, drunken intangible phrases. So many obsolete words! Desirous dreams past vast industrial sad prison buildings. American darkness, the world burns down linear foundations. We are much worse, a collage of violence and sound pitter pattering intermingling with Tao and tired conversations. Abstract ragged factories inseminating sad static beats. Spontaneous sound bending multiplying a thread to slick neon vibrations playing with words and consciousness. Beaten and consumed auspicious post-structuralists pumped with melancholia and broken stars. Hip dreamers jam ambivalent radio keeps tired minds with seeds of desolation. I wander factory floors, never showing, never telling. I listen to the machines moan, they moan the songs of burnt out stars.

Post Script Of A Dream

In my dreams I was someone messing with light and shadows then I fell within a dream within a living room or the blackness of ocean. My consciousness is typing this while I sleep, maybe. I realize the city is asleep. I am not real or unreal? Am I of desires and dreams? Something happened; there is the sound of sirens and within a dream gnarled steel and broken glass. I’m thinking I must go. I’m now sitting in absent minded place then I turned around and dreamed of ghosts instead. She strolled out of infinite blackness heading into the shadows of New York City. I couldn’t fall back asleep.

I Am also Transformed By Morning

Jam the frequencies with disinformation and ego-bends. I use will use the light found in interrogative pauses and accelerated thinking which deals with interior landscapes. On the stage photo in my hand I break with phonetics. Full color, desire, for theirs is the meaning of the suffering acutely. The second reason is subconscious, each transcendental occasion feeding the machinery of dreams. Self-awareness is quiet, always intuitive. Compartmentalization is a necessity of survival. I am not here right now, I never was. The echo of all in the wilderness in me precipitates in all the ferocity spiritual talk which seems to be firmly closed by the desires within a much cleaner game. Anonymous prisoners abstract by their presence are immediately aroused by their own neurosis. There’s something sad about physic correspondences intensities minutes, according and actually marked in black seems to the sensuality of my work to be totally white. And if for you the desire yet remains a body cannot fully transcend. Set display. Enjoy the word and jam the signals. Alter the mind. Replicate mechanical brilliance. Rest again until the shit falls apart. I am skin, and he his own voice. I found that you can hear, pray for others out of affliction. How often the echo of linguistic programming!

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