digital lofi

a chronology of personal vignettes

psychological x-rays
a first-class ticket to ride the train with a window
seat
and a handshake deal with the conductor to ride
the train stowed in the luggage carriage for free
a documentation and an explanation
the cake and the eat
digital lofi

jarrah tokovic
 Dedicated to

Demi Jovanavich
and
Bailey Stevens

Thank you both for your friendship and the lessons

learned by your example. I have no doubt both of your
actions have saved so many lives.
— Kahlil Gibran, Sand and Foam: Seven Times Have I Despised My Soul
 foreword
this volume is the accompanying document to a musical project of mine called digital lofi.
the project is basically a chronology of my mental health from mid 2018 to late 2019.
the project is ten tracks split into four sections, each reflecting distinct periods of time/change in my life over
the past 18 months.

i’ve always loved rap music for its rhythmic, emotionally-inciting flows, dense lyricism, its clever
recycling of sounds and its ability to give anyone a voice or platform through which to be heard.
i’ve tinkering with beats, writing bars and recording for the past 5 years. and although I have progressively
been able to touch upon a more unique sound, i think that for the most part, my music has been an emulation
of my favourite artists. my listening patterns and the motifs/trends of the genre have often outweighed my
personality in the music that i’ve made.

in july of 2018 my anxiety and self-hatred reached a climax and i spent three months totally dipped-
out of my social circles. i stopped responding to texts, calls, instant messages, messages from friends passed
on to me via my family, etc. i hardly left the house, apart from going to work each day. due to the short nature
of my work hours i spent the majority of most days sleeping and mindlessly consuming entertainment media. i
really worked myself into slow spiralling kamakaze.
during that period of time, my only outlet was chopping guitar loops from folk songs and writing out my
emotion to the playing of those loops. i had forbade myself from partaking in any intoxicants (i felt that if i
couldn’t deal with my sober waking reality then i shouldn’t be allowed chemical escape) so the songs that i
made during that time, and the catharsis they brought to me, were really my only release/escape.

the first two songs on digital lofi were created during the time directly preceding my social seppuku.
the rest have been recorded since.
i feel like I’m in a much better place now but i continue to return to the same process of making music;
chopping loops from the folk songs of my favourite singer-songwriters and waxing lyrical about my thoughts
and feelings at the time. they are self-mythologising songs, to use the words of Phil Elverum. they are my
method of diarising.
for me, this creation process has been the only way that has consistently yielded a unique sound; that has led
me to making authentic music that i can truly, 100 percent, stand over and look down upon and say “yep, that
came out of me” as i cut the umbilical cord hanging between my legs. like no IVF required. like i’m one of
those hermaphroditic fish or something.

all the songs on this project were recorded by playing an instrumental loop out loud on my computer
while using on the “voice memo” app on my phone to record myself rapping over the loop. this recording
process is where the project’s name comes from—digital lofi. it’s sort of like the modern version of a janky,
mono, one track, handheld-recorder recorded tape. which is an aesthetic that i’ve always loved (“Don’t Hate
Fuck” by Attic Abasement’s Mike Rheinheimer comes to mind). i also wanted to de-emphasise the
importance of the end product. the value in this project was in it’s making. this project is not for selling. this
project is slick and no value-quantifying number will stick to it.

this is the last fourth-wall breaking address that you will find from me in the book as i want the
content to wash over you in a premonitory, intuitive, visceral way. i feel like art shouldn’t be explained before
the observer asks a question (and sometimes even then, it still shouldn’t); i feel as though explanation often
intellectualises and halts the dynamic emotional experience of the art; however, the hypocrite that i evidently
am felt that it was necessary to give these pages some context.

so there you go,

jarrah tokovic.
 i ching
the ancient chinese book of changes
 Hexagram Table

Upper Trigram

Chien Chen Kan Ken Kun Sun Li Tui

Chien
Chen
Kan
Lower Trigram

Ken
Kun
Sun
Li
Tui
— Jim DeKorne, The Gnostic Book of Changes
— I Ching, The Ancient Chinese Book of Changes © 2012 Amber Books Ltd
this page is not needed

01 homage to the past

—Kahlil Gibran, “Sand and Foam”

it was

like waking up in an apartment so cold that

by the time you’ve crossed the threadbare
floorboards to get to the shower you have
to piss on your toes just to warm them out
of pain.

like sitting on the toilet and wiping ’til you

bleed, having to get up leaving your ass
shitty and raw—you’ll be in the shower in a
minute anyway.

like falling asleep in thick socks so that the

hairs atop of your feet and toes grow
through the fabric and are bent back at
their follicles, so that you feel your painful
feet throb with warmth underneath the
throw.
 the departure

Angry with himself and beating his bosom [as if with the
blow of his hand he could shut out his thoughts] "Ass!" he
exclaimed, "I'll stop your kicking, I will not feed you with
barley, but with chaff. I will weaken you with hunger and
thirst, I will lade you with heavy burdens, I will drive you
through heat and cold, that you may think more of food
than wantonness."

—S. Jerome's Vita S. Hilarionis Eremytæ

feeling estranged
-question soundness of personality
-extensive internet research into avoidant
personality disorder, antisocial personality,
disorder, autism spectrum disorder

addictive personality
-battling temptation, escapism etc.

periods of smokelessness
but often in smoke
-lost months
-the present without context
-not present

constant attempt to muster the motivation to do the

dishes

feeling estranged from support networks

ie. friends/family/etc
-when the people that you love become a major
source of your own discomfort

unconscious self-affirmations of illness

-the healthy insecure become ill

retreat to cave
drink only water
barely feed on stale bread

st hilarion echos
fear drives
and willpower is scarce
seppuku
(sunkilmoon cmarwstb loop v2)

do not (doona) be waiting for me

ay

you will be decaying in spot

an rotting in place

do not be waiting for me

ay

you will be watching the passing of

holding your breath, passing away

i passed on the weight

if i cannot deal with the reality

then i do not deserve the escape

people always asking how you doin man..

cheese on the pre-cooked pizza
i’m great

go ahead an ask me another god damn time

i’m finger licking fine

i do not drink the read wine

i find my full body in the damnn soul recline

i do not know no god

i do not chop
inhale the green rock
i do not partake in body and blood
i do not hail no god

infatuation
i do not know no love

it’s
fucking sickness
love like stepping into a bottomless
pit
compulsive and addicted
i clutch my stomach
im fucking sick
 “playing possum”
Sample from “The possum” by Sun Kil
Moon from the album Universal Themes.

“Lately I’ve been thinking
‘bout the matters that made
me/but that type of thinking
leads to a thought pattern of
self-pity and blaming”¹
“and casting stones from atop
this glass castle I’m sitting
upon”²
“I see them saw and hit
opponent in eye/I see them
saw, heavy in air, and strike/
and as you fall down/I will
rise”³
playing possum.mp3
1. When I think about the matters that made me, I think about my parents; and the
behaviours in me, that they reinforced or punished; I think about my peers and their
many reactions to the things that I have done; I think about the genes inside the
nuclei of every single cell in my body and the parameters that they’ve set on my
size, shape, countenance and intelligence. When I think about “the matters that
made me” I refuse to acknowledge my own agency. I see myself as a dumb lump of
clay that is shaped by the world, devoid of responsibility for the form that it has
taken.
By the function of that phrase I (synthetically) absolve myself of responsibility for
my own situation. I am pointing fingers at the world when I am unhappy with
myself and saying “YOU did this. YOU made me into the piece of shit that I see
before me in the mirror today”. It is childish and it has only ever lead to large bouts
of self-pity and depression because that type of thinking refuses to recognise my
own ability to affect change in my life.
2. I would sit around blaming others for the way that I am, for my own
unhappiness. Throwing stones, pointing out their vices while am perched,
precariously, upon a pile of my own.
The finger that I use to accuse is made but of bone.
3. I use the term “opponent” very loosely. My brother, my best friend, my grandpa,
the ones I love—all opponents. They are the people that I admire, the people that I
view as great; the people that I viewed as superior and whose very existence I saw
as a challenge to my own self-worth. Like there was a finite amount of human
worth in the world and that if any of it belonged to others then I would have less.
I think this kind of competitiveness has been instilled into me during my formative
years (lol there I go blaming again). It’s was like I was stuck, glued to one end of a
see-saw—so that the success or happiness of another was to the direct detriment of
my own.
I think that two ugly emotions fuelled this foul polarised, divided, counterbalancing
perspective: the first, a deep-rooted sense of inadequacy and the second, white hot
blinding jealousy.
Most of the time I didn’t like myself very much. I am surrounded by all of these
gorgeous (inside and out) people. All these fast people who are funny, confident,
socially adept, excited and exciting. All these things which I aspire—or have
aspired—to be but am not. I am a slow person, not dumb, I just like my comfort
zones and taking my time with things. I like the plateau, stasis, consistency; I am a
seeker of neutrality rather than of the peaks and troughs, highs and lows, pleasures
and pains that life offers; I am a slow person. But I am surrounded by the fast. So I
measured myself against their template and inevitably ended up feeling totally
inadequate and wishing that I was somethings else.
For so long, I’ve needed to get FUCKED UP, drinking and smoking in order to
maintain the illusion of my pace. I’ve needed chemical aid in order to be evening-
social—to go to bars, pubs, parties, clubs—because I don’t have the intrinsic
complexion or energy needed for these activities. But chemical aid is only helpful
up to a point as I will still compare myself to these natural socialites, inevitably fall
short, end up feeling jealous and becoming progressively passive (aggressive);
trying to spit in their eyes when they’re not looking. I’ve often felt this need to
bring others down so that I can feel better about myself—more comfortable in my
self-perceived inadequacy. It is totally a projection of my own insecurities and I
feel guilty and ashamed for doing so but I often just can’t help myself in certain
situations.

“But the hangover from
partaking in the pleasure of
others pain/is enough to dull
the light of child in heart and
split the brain/
so I sit here, closed eyes/
crying while smiling/and
crying and smiling/I’m crying
while smiling/and crying and
smiling”⁴
“I put down the penknife and
segment of lemon/salt shaker
and flakes of the pepper/
stepped back from the boarder/
distance is better/there’s
comfort in distance and safety
in discretion”5
“My only indiscretion was the
abrupt severing of connection/
and false reflection of
unrequited love/but the
opposite is true, I have melted
in your suns”6
playing possum.mp3
4. The pains that spoke of partaking in, with pleasure, are two. The first is the
aforementioned eye-spitting, the passive aggressive projection of my own
insecurities. The second is hearing of people’s struggles with mental health and life
in general—this is the the poison which filled me with warmth and broke my heart,
and it is THIS pain that is referred to in this line.
In conversation I often felt like I was playing a game of minesweeper; clicking
blindly, looking for vulnerability; bating, I would offhandedly drop lines about my
own unhappiness in an attempt to coax the same sentiment from the other person.
But I don’t think that I was seeking-out other’s unhappiness with malicious intent.
It felt like it was a way of relating; a means of seeking comfort through shared
experience. So “pleasure” might be a bit hyperbolic. This line could’ve been
written more meekly as “…the seeking of solace in the soft hands of shared
blows…” however, when I’m feeling low and seeking an empathetic response, I
see myself as this disgusting parasite that feeds on the unhappiness of others. I feel
guilty and ashamed. I feel like I’m assaulting the good moods of others. Like a
sadness junky, always fixing for a hit and not caring who gets hurt in the scratching
of the itch. It broke my heart that mutual sadness seemed to be the only way that I
could genuinely connect with another human being. So the tears were for my own
unhappiness, for the unhappiness of others and the shame I felt in seeking solace in
their misery. And I would smile in relief from the consolation that the knowledge
of shared experience brings.
5. I put down the penknife, my tool for opening wounds, and the segment of
lemon, my tool for exacerbating old sores and new scrapes. Devices I could use to
create pain, out of misdirected anger (a projection of my own insecurity) or for the
purpose of finding comfort and consolation in other’s hurting.
Overwhelmed with guilt that the only type of meaningful connection I could make
with my loved ones were ones of pain, I left all of my circles. I didn’t want to hurt
anyone anymore for my own gain or out of my own bitterness. I needed to insulate
the people that I love with distance so that they couldn’t feel my barbs. What’s
more, my mental state deteriorated to a point where I felt as though I could no
longer relate to anyone (or have anyone relate to me). I fled human contact. Tried
to lose sight (and mind) of the reference points to my own inadequacy. Even
though isolation prevents the potential comfort of relation, it also prevents the
distress of self-comparison. Away from others, I found it harder to see my self-
perceived flaws. I found refuge from the reminders of my insufficiency. I found a
kind of safety.
6 I couldn’t stand my CONSTANT self-comparison any longer, so I hid from my
friends and barely spoke to my family. I felt totally inadequate and unable to
reciprocate their love and kindnesses. Which made me feel like a parasite on the
skin of the goodwill. I felt as though I was maintaining my relationships on credit
(with the promise of future fulfilling relation) and with the merit of the past-
strength of my relationships. So I abandoned my loved ones without a word of
explanation and sat in my room for three month, trying not to think. I acted as if I
didn’t love them, as if the love between us only flowed in one direction—but that
couldn’t have been further from the truth; I love my friends more than I do myself;
I admire my friends; I thought better of my friends than I did of myself; and I
melted in that loving admiration and became a useless puddle, unable to act.

“You’ve beamed me down,
Scotty/I’ve become a puddle in
love/you’ve beamed me down,
Scotty/evaporated water, left
me salty”7
“Floating in your presence/
boarders eroded/I’ve lost
distinction”8
“And I can’t stop/I know the
anchor’s hit the bottom/and
I’m still casting the line/and
casting the line and casting the
line”9
playing possum.mp3
7. I loved Scotty. At least I thought I did; in reality, obsession and infatuation are
more appropriate descriptors of the emotions that I felt toward Scott. At the time I
would try to tell that to myself in order to stop my ‘love’ from running around and
spitting in my brain. That kind of ‘love’ reduces me into this disgusting, needy,
impalatable substance; my character evaporates away, leaving only the primal
desire (and urgency) to pair and procreate. That ‘love’ is so hot that it melts, then
vaporises my very being. And because that ‘love’ only affected me, I did not rise up
with Scott. Instead, alone I listlessly drifted away—angry AT Scott and angry AT
the world but angry WITH neither because I was not together with either.
8. Finding someone to love (at least, the way I see it) is like trying to find someone
who has the same ‘shape’ as you. A ‘match’, but it is much harder than making
pairs from a deck of playing cards. People are multidimensional (multifaceted,
fluid, in a state of contextual flux). In the past, I would find someone with a few
similar dimensions to myself and I would fall HARD. I’d graze my knees and
break my bones. Then, while I was healing, I would try to graft skin of a similar
shade to that person and I would reposition the fragments of bone into a similar
shape as my ‘new love’s’. In the past, I’ve tried to MAKE the match instead of just
letting it happen—you would think that I was under the threat of undergoing
surgical species reassignment if I do not find love before some sort of deadline. So,
in the force of the process I begin to lose distinction; I lose track of the parts of me
that are genuinely me in my sickeningly desperate desire to be paired. However,
it’s never been a conscious decision; a process of identifying key traits in my
obsession and then attempting to recreate them in myself. I’ve just sometimes
caught myself, in a calm moment of clarity, trying to think like the other person—
falling into their mannerisms and patterns of behaviour.
9. In my life, it seems like I often pass the point of pause. I fly down the mountain
with my brake-line severed. Snowballing. Gathering speed. This is how it was
when I scoffed at John Donne and made the decision to never see any of my friends
again. For the first couple weeks I felt liberated; I felt less rushed, like I had more
time to spend on myself; I no longer felt the crippling anxiety and clumsiness of
interactions; and I largely stopped comparing my day to day life with my friend’s.
For the second half of the first month I occupied myself with books, Youtube and
Netflix and was relatively content. So for a whole month I was sort of numbed out
to the whole loss. The reality of what I had decided to do only began to dawn upon
me about a month and a half in to my ‘departure’. It was around then that the slow,
dull ache of despair and self-pity began to seep into my arterial system, where it
circulated and agitated every inch and fibre of my being. Frequent fantasies of my
own end. I know now, that if I ever were to do it I would jump to my own death. I
also now know that it is quite hard to find an accessible place high enough for a
fatal leap. I knew then, that I was running on fumes and prayer; fumes from the
care of my loved ones and copious amount of self-pitying poetry I wrote while I
was shut-up in my room (of which these lyrics are just a piece). I got to the point
where I knew I had no more saving grace within myself, and I needed to outsource
its manufacture. Import happiness and the will to live; I needed to reconnect with
my loved ones in order to get past my crippling depression. I had this realisation
halfway through my three-month social hiatus and it took me another month and a
half to do anything about it. I felt that couldn’t just reconnect with my friends
because I had made the firm decision to NEVER see them again. In my mind, I
would’ve been delegitimising the entire reason why I had decided to leave in the
first place if I tried to speak to them again.
“…the anchors hit the bottom and I’m still casting the line and casting the line…”

Filing at the stump of fingernail
that’s the remnants of my soul
I ain’t willing to risk the storm
for stopping too long/better off
that I float
Pubic hair on chest and balls
ain’t no signification that I’m
grown/but oh holy heaven,
think I’m better off on my own
Unholy heathen/wholly lost
compassion/I’ve wholly lost
companions
Forgot the pathway forward/so
I’m only stepping
backward/‘cause movement is
necessary/and I’ll admit it/if
not to you, then to myself/lately
I’ve been scaring me
I forgot the formula for my
transmorphic ability/I can’t
bare (bear) me/cut ties with
homies/‘cause the pressure is
pressing”
These skinny arms/the weight
is too much/cut off all my
hair/‘cause the load to bare is
enough/without it dangling at
my shoulders/overpowering my
neck/and I was afraid that its
unwanted housekeeping/
dusting at the weight, would
give my problems the
impression that they’re at home
on my back
Fucking infantile denial/is this
narcolepsy, always lying/even
believing myself/I don’t even
believe in myself
playing possum.mp3
No wind in the sails or steam in
my breath
Detest the damn question/your
Q-R-and-S-ing/true human
connection eludes me
I need maternal buffer or I’m
aimlessly staring at shoed feet/
but never catch me barefoot
’cause this soul is reclusive
Fucking infantile denial/is this
narcolepsy, always lying/I
realise the weight carries me
and I am not the ride
Is this a conversation in which
I’m participating/don’t bother
hailing the conductor/the train
has left the station
I keep forgetting that I’m a
participatory agent/on this
windy rock/in this silly game
that we’re all playing/and I
think I’m playing god/like I’m
in control/you’re not/I’m at
liberty to just watch/voyeuristic
tendencies, I stare hard as a
rock
Vicariously living through
those I’ve befriended/but
jealousy/in the face of
inadequacy/has a way of
eroding complacency/into a
lump of corroded green sadness
I live like I’m in a dream/y’all
play like you’re in a game/I’m
merely watching the plot
unfold/y’all taking hold of the
joystick and playing
I watch the plot and complain/
the opposite of meditating/and
still shockingly devastated/by
the lack of inner peace
Repeat with me the mantra/
ridding me of rot/conviction is
the answer/oh lord please give
me the strength to get up
And I’m in control and you’re
not/surely this ain’t the root of
the discomfort, surely not
Cut off all my hair now watch
me cut off my hands/snip the
tip of nose from face/‘cause it’s
the sacrifice that spite demands
Which must be paid in full/
‘cause I am a man/I pay my
debts/but I need a seat ‘cause
this debt’s too much to stand/
now watch me write this
cheque, with blade on organ
Whiplash from cast eyeballs/
and the irrational feeling of
performance/neural storms
pouring/pausing when spoken
to
Language is the glue but I’m
always leaking solvent/I’ve lost
the power of _____/often
feeling morbidly awkward/I’ve
lost the power of talking/and
the opposite of that/can’t do it
either
Twenty spins round the sun and
I feel like I’m still teething/I
feel like a button/Benjamin
 playing possum.mp3

Press me for connection and I’ll
recede into myself/no wind in
the sails or steam in my breath
I feel like a button, Ben/born in
my teens/grown to the floor,
I’m falling to feet
Kissing at toes and licking
them clean/I live off the the
mould and cheese I find
between them
Heavens beyond reaching/
and beyond comprehension/a
lack of tension is not only
beyond reach/it is beyond
comprehension
This body’s just a coaster for
my soul
Slow my roll in time
Repeat with me the mantra/
ridding me of rot/conviction is
the answer/oh lord please give
me the strength to give up
And I ain’t in control/and
you’re god, I’m dust/surely this
ain't the root of the discomfort,
surely not

Broke the suspension/decent

ain’t just a possibility/it’s the
possibility impending

Twirling blind/warm and wet, I

was fed by the mainline/time
expired, evicted/
I was ripped from this place in
time

When I found myself out the

womb I was detained in
freedom/Thrown into the sharp
shackles of sight/and the grips
of sound/the roughness of
touch/with the dirty taste of this
mouth

Berated this awful body of

mine/the paperweight on my
soul/that keeps my from flying

In time, I’ll press cracked lips

to the lime/to wick the
remaining moisture/Then i’ll be
preserved and sun-dried
the words of others

“I want to go back across that sea

With my hands out x2
And I will rise from the water
Though I’m cold and wet, I will be clean

I want to come back from this robbery

With my hands up x2
And I will lie down and be handcuffed
Take me, I will be yours
Dripping wet
Just try and hold me
I am dripping wet and limp”

—Mount Eerie, "With My Hands Out”

thank you, phil.
“the chosen pessimist”
Cover of “The Chosen Pessimist” by In Flames
from A Sense of Purpose.

Sample from “This Is My First Day And I'm

Indian And I Work At A Gas Station” by Sun
Kil Moon from the album Universal Themes.
 the chosen pessimist.mp3

(from original)
tell me which side i’m on
approaching constant failure

between love and hate

which path to follow

how can i keep balance in this race

i’m dying slow

(my additions)
why do i need to polarise

why can i keep loving myself

while i’m seeing you

i’ve got so much unlearning to do

11
02 learning the shape of home

Even if you become a master, you have to

realise that your road is only one of many that
lead to god. Jesus once said, ‘In my fathers
house, there are many mansions.’

—Paulo Coelho, The Pilgrimage

to isabella,
but also to myself
You may have been told
and you may believe
That, much like a chain,
You are only as strong
as your weakest link.
This is only one side of the truth;
You are as strong as your strongest link
also.

To measure yourself by your smallest

deeds is to say,
Judge the power of the ocean
by the frailty of the foam created by
its waves.
To judge yourself for your accidents and
mistakes is to say,
Cast blame on the seasons for their
inconsistencies.

You are like the ocean over which you

have flown,
And though ships upon your waves await
the shore,
you cannot hasten your waves.
You are like the seasons also,
And though in your winter you deny your
spring,
Adapted from The Farewell by Kahlil Gibran

Inside you, spring smiles—knowing,

resting, waiting, growing.

I don’t write these words for you to think

“He praises me and only sees the
good.”
I write these words to remind you
of that which you already know.
pt 1
 pt 2
the koi fish looked down with its protruding eyes
and realised that it had hands

it learnt to love with its fingertips

they were what could love the most
of all

outwardly and elsewhere

placed its fingertips

all spread apart
on its scaled chest

felt it’s own blood and bones slow dancing together

in harmony
no surface in between
one small body
a unity of cells that became friends with each other

with the new sensitivity of touch

the koi fish discovered that some parts of itself are older
than others

it’s fins are still limp

they are just newly born

it’s hands love the most out of all

even its protruding eyes
it’s eyes are still learning not to react after they observe
it’s mind is learning to observe truthfully and take in
a beam of light
a red one
sit in it
swim around
understand without complication.

—Isabella Fortuna, The Koi Fish pt. 1 & 2

 i have a new voice
it is the shape of a naughty kid;
you can find me by my trail of spit and saliva-soaking
cigarette tips

i need to leave the path to understand the distance

to comprehend the shape
to make some headway
to make a dint in the journey

to smile at the people and move less sternly

to walk the wrong way without shame
practice turning
n trying again

don’t try to squeeze urself into others shoes

ask their shoe size
and know ur own

youtube.com/watch?v=ZMbnh2gK0Ew

there’s nothing that i am,

just a finite void changing it’s form to accomodate it’s
fill

my foundations are built on the shifting sands of time.

i wake up smiling everyday

and surprise myself by the speed with which i fall from
grace

natural human vacillation

i ain’t grew the roots
to show the leaves
i grew the roots
to pull the nutrients from soil
grew the roots to keep on grow’n
camp
at wye river

escape to write words of love to those out of arms reach

escape to grow appreciation of what is absent
“ahh…have you tried turning it off and on again?”
escape to reset the brain

retreat to refocus
retreat to grow your faith in self
retreat to treat yourself gently
retreat to relearn your edges
ID EGO SUPER
EGO

the angel and your

messenger
 [you want] a dictator Id + Super Ego mediation,
only in times of trouble! “the devil” (Id) is a strong force that can be harnessed for the fulfilment
of the good and just
life. the power of his
impulse is useful
sometimes but only
because the situation
demands. the power

and your strength

of the Id has no value

he is your weakness
he is your weakness

trying to protect itself

in and of itself.

basic self preservation—but he will tempt you with further wealth if you left him.
when known and treated with respect, the devils actions are merely those meant to ensure
“inspecting/accepting imperfection”
Sample from “Air In The Morning” by Mount Eerie from the album
No Flashlight (Reissue).
 inspecting/accepting imperfection.mp3

you let yourself make mistakes in a safe place/

i will,
let myself make mistakes on the stage/
i won’t,
judge you for your lack of faith in this
unconventional beauty/
i will peel off my skin (peel off my sin)
so you can see right through me

i’m holding a bullet

deep in my chest/
ready to breath in
and squeeze out my breast/
i’m aiming for head or the neck

i will breathe deep,

and squeeze out my breast/
i am a beast in last breaths/
i am a beast on his knees

worried about the way/my thoughts been shaping

my reality

i’ve been thinking ‘bout quitting the meat/

i can feel it decaying in me

it ain’t the plug/

ain’t the smoke/
ain’t the drug

worried about the way/

my thoughts be forming me/
terraforming me/
boarders of stone erode to sandy beach
 inspecting/accepting imperfection.mp3

and those around me/

these people often act how i’ve perceived them/
but maybe that’s just the narcissism/
once listened to raps description/
as news of me

an unconventional heathen/
unceremoniously heaving/
lumps of clay into dying flame of kiln

terracotta mane/
slippery, glazed and blue/
aimed arrow true words/
grazed knees,
speaking true verse/
lazy

lackadaisical (lack a daisy, cool)

crown of daisy chain on this fool/

ordained in flowers
and always hopeful
 “i hold nothing but my arms”
Sample from “I Hold Nothing” by Mount Eerie from the album
No Flashlight (Reissue).
 i hold nothing but my arms.mp3

hold your self up flinch in gaze despised

hold your head up it arise
hold your bones up questions of why
never mind you so concerned with
never mind the how, the why
never mind the place
never mind the space
the way we’re sitting

even if the flat of that blade fill your bowl and eat your
touch your collarbones baby own meal
don’t let your cup
son of god said once runneth over
in my fathers house run fast and let it spill
there are many mansions drink only your fill
many homes and smile
many patches of bare
floorboards
many patches of grass in the and hold your head up
back yard hold your self up
so find your place hold your bones up
worry not the other travellers never mind
never mind
be worried not by never mind
others eyes never mind
youtube.com/watch?v=tZjNUORIAUQ
111
03 true love and housekeeping

—Kahlil Gibran, “The Forerunner”

in love and friendship
i need someone to look after,
to look after me;
to put their hand down throat
and grab my heart—
caress my arterial meat;
i need someone to put their lips to skin on breast,
someone versed in the subtle art of indifference
to my days of indifference;
i need someone to hold close
who, themselves, will hold the space
and treasure the distance in between,
whose presence is felt
when absence sits in their place
but who, in thought, will always hold me;
i seek someone to confide in
who’ll also confide in me,
who, with wings of their own,
will tend to my wings—
the bumble beekeeper
and the bee;
i need someone strong as rock
and weak as water,
to fall upon
and keep me flowing;
i seek someone who’ll plant the seed for planting
sake
in soil rich
and weep to me their rains,
smile sunshine
and eat the fruit, grateful;
i need someone to be thankful for
and to receive ‘thank yous’ from,
to spew on and to
and suffocate,
to run around and be circled by,
to be traced by and to enclose—
but both of us, always with key
to escape;
i need someone who’ll cherish the leaves
but love the roots;
i need someone who’ll spit the seed of fruit once
satiated,
someone to keep me cultivated;
i seek someone who’ll stop
and watch time with me,
who’ll hold my hand
and breathe deep
and breathe me—
squeeze the air into my lungs
when all i want is to blow and blow;
i need someone to tie and steady
strings at wrists and ankles
when i walk along the precipice edge,
someone who’ll push and pull,
guide and let go,
who’ll let those strings drag and dirty
when they see the bluntness
of an obstacle on the road,
who’ll let me bump and scrape my ankles
where safe to do so;
i need someone to take seat
and cast fire in chest
with lap of hands, holding their stead;
i need someone who’ll trace the shape
and know the angles,
who’ll sing their mind to me—
unapologetic;
i need someone to teach me
and let me lead,
someone strong as rock and water weak.
and i need to remember
that if one does not love me in seed
then one will never truly love me in tree.
love…

—Paulo Coelho, The Pilgrimage

…for isabella
isabella*

—Henri Charrière, Papillon

the world is my throne
queen amongst queens
ruler and subject
subject to love and nurturing
iron fist
and chest of water
river damned
but tapped and dripping
i’ll hold my care but keep on giving

resist the push and pull

i’ll take and give
feed and be fed
i will be loved
and i will be dead
 “we fall together”
Sample from “Cosmia” by Joanna Newsome from the album Joanna Newsom
& The Ys Street Band.
 we fall together.mp3
pt. ii

pt. i i’ll sacrifice a bit of warmth to dispose of the waste in the

correct way
as the daughter of my hunny’s mother side stepping pleasure and pain
coasts over water i’m a seeker of stasis
i’m under it lust get out of the way
sick of you making me dig all these graves
rain on my head
leaves me lonely
my pouch winnie blue left me lonely
her pouch leather red feel impotent
i have been left but girl you show me…
to play with meat
working in the dirty factory i often find that conversation is a scramble to relate
and after thirty seconds it be scrambling my brain
i can feel the string but girl you’ve shown me
the thread but girl you’ve shown me, etc.
the line
cling to your arterial meat
cling to mine i ain’t found the antidote to my own self inadequately yet
and maybe it’s a question of direction
as the space grows between but i probably need to change
the distance shrinks the current metric i’m measuring in i suspect
a shortening of wire but girl you’ve shown me

hearts tied pt. iii we fall together

squeezed together
pressed breast to breast ive been growing in patience
chests together that’s not the frustration
tied in single noose that’s just the substrate that i’m in

we fall together there’s a sliver of mirror in the bottom of my red bedroom bin

i leak paint out the left hip

orange the colour
anger the dis-position

sometimes
i gotta keep in mind
that i’m
in combat
with myself
keep it in mind to keep the stock of health on the shelf

earl and ocean

super rich flow
try stomach me
leave you nauseous

but girl next to you i am flowless outro

you flawless
sit on the cloth,
rich body to take the harsh edges off the floor
nauseous
you’re gorgeous we fall together
i'm falling we reach the bottom
sit on each other
and we’ll breathe forevermore
but we fall together
 “reverse lanthimos”
Sample from “Lone Star” by Sun Kil Moon from the album Common As Light
and Love Are Red Valleys of Blood.
 reverse lanthimos.mp3
i’ve been dealing with death without the aid of alpine views
and my love ain’t birthed from no hotel room

although i know that they can’t

i let my hands handle my fate
i let my hands handle my freedom
these hands can hand a man his faith and freedom
and i’m bleeding from my mouth from forcibly teething

smashing rock to lip

looking for teeth to spit and give to my father
looking for god in other places
i’ve lost or murdered or martyred many saviours
save hers—that’s myself

i’ve been dealing with death without the help of alpine views

to digest the tail end i need a chaser of you

darling

my love says she so blind to the things she doesn’t want to see
my insecurities ask her what she mean by that
and she says she doesn’t know—that she means it generally

so i hold her hand and walk through it with her

i could be a big brother or big sister

i could be a lover or mistress
i could be a husband or father or something forgiven
forgotten I’m somewhat of a heathen stopped plotting

put lips to my neck darling

put the flat of that blade to my shoulder blades
call me soldier
saviour,
call me servant
hermit
call me baby
call me darling

sprinkle me on your meal like gravy

i’d like to nurture you

provide nutrients for you
be your lover
provide you food

kiss your stomach

and be with you
i need nothing right now
all i need is you
…for zac
 “gardening”
Sample from“Half Moon Bay” by Sun Kil Moon from the album Admiral Fell
Promises.

pick your cure on the day
and don’t doubt it
even when it rains
just wait for the light, its coming
rainbows in the sky stay hidden ’til it rains
don’t doubt your better days
when it rains
if the roof leaks
and needs re-patching
then pick up your hammer in hand
don’t use the arm of your father or best friend
drive nail through corrugated sheet with the
strength of your skin
always remember a few things
even silver tongued
galvanised lies rust
with the way of the wind
words born of sandstone
will eventually return to the dust
lust but let your hands hold your pockets
do not speak unless you are spoken too
this is one context where the idiom holds solid
your right is only to you
always be wary of flawless craftsmanship
and hold your ideals at arms length
but do not go inspecting them for cracks
for that is not their way of deceiving you
remember an ideal has no motives of its own
its purity’s abused or tends to mislead
gardening.mp3
assume nothing
and remember the cranial laws of physics govern
nothing
a mere stomach ache mistaken for a gutting
make sure to regularly clean the gutters
remember stoic man is well
he holds all ’til spill
remember emotive man is tree
weeping leaves and further greenery reaching
sprouts attaining higher heights
build towers from your tears
and greet the sky
with open arms and satin lips
apply kiss to loved ones
to unloved ones, apply kiss
attack hate and embrace love
stamp anger and raise up calm
raise up cup to show appreciation of those who’ve
achieved
raise up cup to those who fail but nonetheless are
still trying
with a dash of retina in your cup
raise it up to those who lead
hold your stead
and ride your steed
breathe your breath
and bleed your bleed
fairly quickly a garden is overgrown
so remember everyday to weed
hiccups

—Kahlil Gibran, Sand And Foam: Seven Times Have I Despised My Soul
self defeating and whatever
whenever

autophage fuck it
whatever matters
whatever the weather
bad weather never phased me too much
self defeating autophage gall bladder full of piss and puss
he graces the stage with his hands over face garbage ass fool
his ragged nails peeling back fine layers of the what the fuck is me
membrane what the fuck is you
and you can ask the damn doctor
cortisol sweat stains the fabric hanging off his what the fuck he can do
shoulders
attached to matchstick arms
swinging a can in one self defeating autophage
a lit stick in another inciting pain
he shapes his mistakes
as he stands in front of you to feel their form and cast off anxiousness
his fallen fingers reveal wandering eyes
and the crowd before him close their own blinds he says
with hands shaped like mine catch flies
or try thanking
self defeating autophage whatever it is that gives you motivation
he stains the page with words he’s made
he bakes the clay with kiln fashioned from the cavern but you can keep looking at your phone
in his face it don’t require that much focus
craving release from the stabbing in his brain
gall bladder full of gall and hopelessness
‘cause blade of guilt
is razor sharp choking on production targets
choking on the harshness of existence
and no you can’t tell shit from the lines on your palms no wonder this strong ass
and no you can’t sell shit without sacrificing none hairy ass man
and no you can’t give half yourself as the whole cried with the dishes
and no you can’t clean your soul in kitchen sink
and yes for 6 months strait i cried with the dishes diving and sinking
replace lies with wishes
chuck me in the yarra life’s a constant battle
i’ll swim with the fishes trying to determine the difference between
but i’ll be spared synchronistic happenings and glitches
cause it’s contaminated waters
so ain’t none in there this shit got me
smoked the fuck down
it’s a river product of our shit and piss sitting on doorstep ledge
and worthless chasing of efficiency and cheapness next to homeless man piss
and it’s translation to profit production i guess i’m chilling now
—it’s sickness
i’ll probably keep this shit on my hard drive and keep and like i said before
wondering whatever the weather
what the fucks wrong whether conditions are defined for growth
what could i’ve done or suffer
we keep rolling
what’s the purpose of son
but seems i keep kicking this marijuana smoke buffer
and yes sun shines watching half-eyed as time fly by
but so does moon light saying goodbye air
catch cunt oxygen
cops watch guys go by you the chem corroding
while crime takes place in noon light rusting flesh
and day time 'spose i’ll ride this slow kamikaze
to the end
 “hiccups”
Samples Sun Kil Moon’s “Australian Winter” from the album Admiral Fell
Promises.
hiccups.mp3
woke up on a friday still
dehydrated from the saturday
night
i ain’t the newsom of rap
music but i surely try
to keep my lips to breast
suckle nutrients and abuse
ignorance
fuck time
i ain’t here to make money
i’m here to make friends
i pick up the iphone
i don’t pick up the pen
cigarettes are made for
talking
in the morning when i dance
the frantic dance of
fried-breakfast preparation
it’s only the task at hand
that rides on the train out the
station
it’s not a lot of souls that
don’t resonate with satan
if not wholly then at least to
certain degrees
below 37 degrees i gooseflesh
i goosebump
this ain’t music
you suck
they ask do you feel the
fullness of pain
no, i feel it in grades
they ask are you insane
no, i am in sane
i am
in sane [repeat]
i am
in sane like i stepped in it
puddle splash up my leg innit
its a constant battle resisting
urge to neglect dishes
its a constant battle to expel
hate and exact wishes
i can feel the fractures in the
fabric
i can feel the stabs in my iris
i can feel my back bending
backwards
this ain’t no backflip
this is spine breaking in half
this is bare feet stepping on
glass
this is a martyr making his
last march
this is a golden last laugh
this is a broken half-truth
this is the remnants of half
absorbed nutrients
fallen on the floor,
spewed
I’m leaking guts blood and
other stuff
don’t give a motherfuck
i been dusting off my
shoulders
every time i fall pick myself
up off the ground
walking
scabby knees
scabby arms
scabby arms
scabby elbows
scabby shoulders
[thats the way i be falling now
but its okay i pick myself up]
im gon’ walk myself to the
coast to walk along the
surface edge
to learn the secretes of stone
erosion
to learn how to keep the
boulders along the shore even
when it wave and storm
 hiccups.mp3
i will stand back from the
current
and won’t let water wash over
me

don’t get, won’t get lost in the

waves
won’t go from tall—abraded
in flow—to falling grain

won’t fall through the hole

in the middle of the glass

i say don’t walk down the

wrong or the right path
i say i’ll be nasty
i’ll be savage
pin my heart to my sleeve
and love madly

eat cabbage
to ward off the scurvy
all this beside the sea walking
shit talking
got me beside myself w gum
bleed

dumb greed
so motherfucking salty
dumb green got my pockets
fuckin empty

incentive to keep working

keep walking
keep sorting left right [x6]
keep system motherfucking die
still functioning
keep working and put my mind down to the
keep walking side
though i keep decompressing ash my mind out in ashtray
keep walking beside me
keep to section as stray thoughts of me drift
keep to task by
keep walking
though i watch the wide lines i been shit talking
i ain’t necessarily walking on shit walking
the path on god
the heaviest father

—Kahlil Gibran, Sand And Foam: Seven Times Have I Despised My Soul
 “my father’s well”
Samples Sun Kil Moon’s “Richard Ramirez Died Today of Natural Causes”
from the album Benji.
 my father’s well.mp3

my father called out to me

from the well
he said to me “my son
it’s dark down here”
he said “can you hear my voice?
my eyes are dry”
and I replied to him
“so fear not drowning”
he hollered to me for the rope
but i had spoken
then he lifted up his voice
and cast it at the edges
but it was slippery, wet
and slid back down to his feet
I know that his frame is weak
and soul is broken
but i had to leave him there
for i had spoken
 Toru Okada

son seed, i am.

and my father is the air up
there.
my father is the air fallen
down the well;
the whistling air.

I’ve played sportsman

I’ve played stoner
I’ve played possum
but I’ve played May
Kasahara long enough;
it’s time to lower the rope
ladder.
forgive thy mother
and father
for they know not
what they do
this is the reason for spontaneous tears;
we feel the pain of the child
that we [have] stab[bed] through the chest
through our chest
this page is not needed

1v



∼like
candlewick
faith flickers∼


quéntar soul-
shakes

apathetic vapour permeates my cells;

my sagging brow melts

and falls into my milky eyes;
my sinew softens and dissolves,
my muscle—shorn from bone—evaporates;
my shaky legs fall from underneath me
accompanied by the loose stones of the
precipice.

now shed,
my blind husk, fallen down the mountain,
collects dust
and He remains up high
standing
arm in arm with silhouettes, illusions
and the ghosts of people I have known
glaring at my imperfect shell

I am an exiled vessel
disdained vehicle

“me oh my,
He is my mind”

weathered traveller kneel beside this desicating

husk
wet my lips with your kind words
clean out my eyes
and rub my chest whole again
embalm me in your love



04 response-ability

—Kahlil Gibran, Sand And Foam: Seven Times Have I Despised My Soul



realise skin (rely,

sink in)

[weakened in gods grace]

i have stood here staunch and dry; i have sweat
and knelt; wept and felt the lukewarm brine flow
through tributaries carved by gladness; i have
placed my feet on these steps, in his steps; i have
drawn breath and whispered to myself—alone; i
have sought to pay homage; i have longed for
belief, been shown no sign and quit; i've then felt
a hand, a net, a throne which propelled me; i have
known no need for the earthly; i have purpose in
the stars, in these bones; i am a man;

[weakened in love]
i have pushed until naturally i came; felt inklings
of unity, premonitions of sameness; i have not
known and been shown by some unseen force the
name of two as one; i’ve sat beneath the sun yet
felt not its heat, for it was overrode by another's
warmth; i have adored all—fingernails, toes, feet;
i’ve doubted, and so have broken, torn and tear'd
myself; wealth is one; i am a man.




 “swallow what i’ve sold”
Sample from“Heron Blue” by Sun Kil Moon from the album April.
 we fall together.mp3



try to watch myself in a less scrutinising way
while i intake the intoxication
aint shit change
i’m still shit at arranging communication
with the homies
i spent three months away
built a mountain out of clay from my chest
on the carpet of my bedroom floor
i felt the cold wind blow ‘round the peaks
dripping nose and rosy cheeked

but i am what i am i ‘spose yes

digital lo-fi and old knees needless to say i needed less to find out what’s
more
often falling to my knees
i clap these sticky palms torching the bridge to know where i’ve walked
and rap psalms amongst other things
i’m done changing my skin i spent three months away
felt three months of love
i am what i am i ‘spose then spent three months feeling the shape
i am what i chose of absence
i am what i’ve spoken
then spent some months reunited
even if i’m fitting the mould with love
and cutting at nose and returned to a space wholly
unknown
even if i’m selling the product
and moving the pawns and planted the my seed
and kept on growing me
built a home
i spent three months away roots
my soul going grey shoots
and leaves
now i’m golden framed and grown
evergreen
cut off the nose to know the shape i ain’t falling in autumn
to know the space that i fit in tho’ I’m often
awkward
ain’t fitting no more
ain’t chucking no tantrums and factory
slamming on doors to further field
ain’t digging a ditch to warehouse
or dealing in shit i’m proudly
wearing my skin
i swallow what i sold now
i own what i own
i open at the close respecting kitty
i’m big dog
i’m growing my sense barking bow-wow
i smell with the nose


 


dream filaments in the bulb of human

soul
conducting Him
into the world

revealing others while remaining bright

hold your own
while not falling into their light

but don’t escape the light

stay inside when nighttime comes
commune with the food and wine
and warmth of your brothers

live with authenticity

there is only one
morality is of the mind
instinct is of the shrub
love
love
love
“The only way to make the right decision is to
know what the wrong decision is[…]You have
to examine the other path, without fear and
without being morbid, and then decide”
—Petrus. (p coelho, pilgrimage p158)