Taliesin Herb

Seven years later. Alt: weylan-f-herb.com

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"first and limitless/July 12, 2018" - - - _||||_|||_||_|...

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~~ ~~~ ~ poetic condition

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palpate

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liminal steps

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walkway

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voice pocket

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in the tumble

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perching for voices

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The Interlap

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Lewis Wickes Hine: An American Original 📷 “Power house mechanic” by Lewis Wickes Hine, 1920. http://buff.ly/29ojI79

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Techno reels and dreams of being beautiful. 

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Sympathies/empathy. Queer love should never be the target of hatred.

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Fatima Al Qadiri — Brute (Hyperdub)

On her debut album, Asiatisch, Senegal-born, US-based Kuwaiti producer Fatima Al Qadiri constructed a synthetic vision of modern China that both interrogated the consumerism that some feel lurks at the heart of the country’s economic surge and kept said interrogation at a superficial level, focusing on the artificiality of the new China’s towering skyscrapers and sprawling shopping malls without honing in on the humanity that has made all that possible, and therefore a mass of contradictions. Her follow-up, Brute, is concentrated on grittier realities, namely the new waves of protest that have gripped Western countries, and it emerges therefore as a more immediate and directly affecting work. 

Keep reading

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Core review. 

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Ólafur Arnalds & Nils Frahm – 20:17

Pre-order 'Trance Frendz' on LP/DL: www.erasedtapes.com/store/index/ERATP081 or digitally iTunes: snip.ftpromo.net/trancefrendz Having been available exclusively as the second disc to 2015's 'Collabo

On the same note.

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Family. At this time, when the snow begins to melt, I am drawn into memory. The sun opens the air and the wetness of a new life unfurls at the tip of my nose.

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Detour

My fingers still struggle with twine;

oily, even when I wipe it dry with summer.

Sharp cuttlefish in the centre of my throat,  

follow me as I ascend to those sunlit corridors.

In her offices, I learned to conquer commas.

In his, the book stacks grew taller.

One always lay on their spine, open to the window-light. 

That radiance, distended my static constraints.

It was simple to ask once, the second time a red flush.

Perhaps the emerald pants spoke for themselves.

My dried hands, wedged in my pockets; deep-honey tones in the air.

I turned my eyes towards my own legs,

bowed my head to pale Foucault

and relished in it.

Taliesin, 2015