𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕥𝕙 𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕖

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Cavernlight "Internal Struggle" Shirt

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The Very Best of Low Spotify Playlist of Contemporary Indie & Slowcore Legends

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Made this illustration specially for my friend’s birthday Thibault.

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Kira McSpice - YouTube

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Untitled

He walked away

She screamed that he is weak

and he walked away

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Grain

I won't get mad

but what I see of you will shrink as our distance grows wider

The allure of the tide was too strong for me, like many

The water is soothing, especially when it drowns my ears

And the certainty of its repetitive nature is comfortable

I spent my life feeling its waves for momentary relief, leading to cold abandon when it pulled away

You never got wet, and I hope you never do, bright and resilient

I gave in

Inevitable after dipping into it for so long

I know I am being pulled away

I know I will never be back

I know you will never stand with me

I know you won't, and shouldn't

I may only know shade

When you still bear sunlight

I may become the water

And I may curse the sand

I just need you to know that you didn't push me into the ocean

It had already taken me

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Potential

Your friend takes your hand

You trust them

"Come on, there's water nearby!"

Your hurrying sinks to a shuffle as your shoes keep digging in the sand

The storm clears

In adobe a branch is planted with a wrinkled person affixed to it

"Pathfinder, please show us the way!"

The bound human's arms crack as they lift from its side, moving in rigid spurts as they cast off dust, dirt, and death

Excited, your friend's breath is baited unlike the oracle's desperate pained gasping below the sundried cloths choking their vision

Their arms point east

"Perfect! Let's go!"

The running resumes

Cresting the dune ahead, a rock supports the restrained body of a young, restless, blinded person

Finally, amongst the stars above and far away, your father struggles to yell through a gag as his sorrow brings the next rainstorm

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Living In The Museum

The more people leave happy today, the more will come back tomorrow.

They want to see my marble

reaching towards them

but not too close.

They want to see what speaks to them

and to feel like they're learning

but nothing too different.

Their expectations are all unique

wondering where it stands

and to whom it stares.

I would love to create just one opus

to contain all of my concepts

standing as a self symbol.

But no one can view it identically

from the same vantage point

or the same lighting.

If I can't standardize their experience

then how can I direct attention

and guarantee my impact?

Every patron will see a new sculpture

It will pose differently enough

to fit their perspective.

The sculpture will appear still

unchanging with time

as if eternal.

The fewer people watching my sculptures form, the fewer will doubt their reality.

That isolation is the price of living in the museum.

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Greener Grass for Machines

i walk on the edge of the crowd, seeing you all in it.

trying to connect, i spill my stories.

i pull you out of the current and we tell tales.

letting you into my mind is its own reward,

though i wouldn't mind peeking into yours.

having seen the machines inside you i'm consoled

knowing i'm not alone in my bitter automaton.

but now the crowd migrates without you.

rushing to get back to your place, regain pace.

memories are missed with the time lost,

and you had to work to reclaim space.

i don't want to hold back those i admired in the first place.

back outside the tide, i resist the urge to dive.

gazing at the faces and imagining their insides.

then i catch others staring back, continuing on

scanning me as if from outside the swarm.

we're all on edges of the crowd, seeing each other fit.

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Message

hold my tongue

with your weathered, learned teeth.

stop me from biting again.

as much as i yearn to impress

my throat onto your heads,

my orator just runs to the press.

so yet again your wings outstretched,

making my shade not to burn like you have,

and to keep your gut in the cold.

looking up from rest to your gaze,

my weight on you sustaining

that phantom limb's need to lift.

is this muscle meant to be trained,

or shouldn't we need it in the first place?

i could let these bottles float on

if i just swam along in the current,

but that would reduce their stories to pawns.

or i could show them my scrolls

and compare our notes,

but they can't bear to critique.

so, when we visit rodents, we sleep

as not to stir the vermin progeny.

but on the other hand i throw myself

in the way of your restless beak.

i may be hanging back as we all navigate these trails

but i know i'm pulling your hands

to try and steer where you lead.

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Rooted in the Furnace

We got a sinkhole in our kitchen,

all the tiles shaken and wallpaper peeling.

Could be where we've been stuffing our laundry,

or just ran out of caulk to fill the cracks.

Either way, we paid it no mind,

and it grew from the fridge to the door,

from the toilet across the floor.

The pipes jutting out of the dirt and the drywall,

and drop ceiling shredded around.

Through the hole we feel heat rising,

and hear the squawking from the basement.

The crows are dancing around the clutter,

trying not go up in flames,

but without the children escaping.

They've felt the furnace overheating,

refilling gas with every rising flame.

Claws would burn on the steaming valve,

so they just endure the roasting.

Until the furnace finally blows it smoke,

bursting out the house-grown pressure,

the crows only feel frost or the burn.

There's no gray now, just black and white.

Up from the sink hole grows a giant sunflower.

Its rotting face uncolored through the cel shade.

We're all entangled in the vines until it's chopped down.

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Beacon

the night fog, thick with dust and smoke

a depression over sea for ages

tainted by this void, a lighthouse remained unlit

silent until an inevitable, habitual spark

the lighthouse burns a beautiful flame

its warmth and radiance drawing many from the distant dark

sentimentalists, misanthropes, vagabonds

all converging and communing around the beacon

its heady inebriating light bringing wonder, vigor to lives

as the density of benefactors grew, so did their warmth

the heart fires and body heat compounding greatly

storm clouds replaced by an inescapable, passionate blaze

steaming and suffocating the view from the lighthouse

the stairways inside collapse into embers

the dancing of which entertains the visitors

patrons each take bricks from the lighthouse to claim their own

but lament the lost stability

the tall pale structure, once hardened and obscured in darkness

now fragile when it's most featured on the horizon

the beacon dismantled

consumed in twisting, combusting delirium celebrated by all who witnessed it

until it left them no guide through the raucous cliffs,

and ashes to further shroud their view

like they had been for so long

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Do It Again

haunt me

and make me numb

pull me up

to put me down

because if you don't

i'll do it for you

and we both don't want that

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Sublimate

solid, stable, present

i re-enter the mold

edges grinding, sliding,

little passing collisions

my edges are jagged again

rolling, bumping and jumping

along shifting terrain

no longer settled

scratches form,

minute to the eye

but etched on my skin,

welts left in the walls

holes i made to fill with myself which i could never serve

quicker and quicker, noise builds

my core exposed under the blemishes

a rattling, radiating engine

excited amongst all the fumes

where others would repair,

or dissipate tension,

i burn

turn to smoke

there's no real pressure

but my temperature rises

i raise my heat specifically to escape

attempting to relieve internal density

floating out of the mold again,

where i have collected myself so many times over,

no longer unsettled

i cherish this peace

with the sacrifice of being weightless

unpacked and unsolidified in the wind

seeing the distant commotion

i still yearn to be in that mold

but i know what will happen

that i have

and will

sublimate again

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Itemizing

this spider wraps its acquaintances

into easy packages

constructing webs around observation

its foundation catches prey

automatically

it bites the heads

off its mates

but it loves most

those who defy these expectations

cannot be contained

or predicted

at first they're an adversary

but that maintains a purpose

which this spider chooses to uphold

what truly engages this spider challenges its livelihood

escapes its method

not for strength or validation

but to reveal its routine was not purposeful at all

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Empty Shop

i walk through, seeing all the glass and china

vases, plates

on endless shelves, so tall and so long

priceless heirlooms

in them i see reflections

myself or others

or i see through the glass

warping surroundings, mistaken for substance

enamored with what's within reach,

i need to touch it

reaching as far as i can

tipping it with the ends of my fingers

i can collect its pieces

but its form is shattered

image scattered

dust over the floor

blood staining the room

i need to leave

prevent more damage

snap out of the dream

away from the wares

feeling horns budding out

and a tail emerging

and the pain as they take my body

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The Audition

the stork's beared many gifts

and it's finally come to interact

looking to enlist others

expanding its territory

in the guise of understanding

you copy it, an homage

selfishly sharing in its moment

as if it needs your acknowledgement

the bird ain't here to touch itself

it wants to diversify its flight

mastering treaded path isn't proof of carving one's own

the stork can't fly through a mirror,

it needs a door