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HARVESTMAN


HARVESTMAN 

"Music for Megaliths"

by Octopi Mills

Droning, primitive thoughts aspire to swarming electric things not unlike a bagpipes sound, yet there is somehow no Scotsman nor true fossils found in the coral lie of this world; coastal and forlorn now, landscapes slide into bent pitch shifting ends...

And this is how Steve Von Till introduces his specimen into the quasi-scientific fields of our minds. How delicate is the way my own mind is belabored into earthy places mixed with the lie of space, and ultimately our own species. The laboratory is a studio affair, to which one is subjected to lapses of thoughts and quantum suggestions, and I cannot find a foothold. Somewhere I think of a foxhunter in the third song, though I know it has no place anywhere and I’m ashamed I printed it. Though this is what it does to me, and words are useless; as useless as song titles and I am in a world without a captain on a sea of sounds that could as well be just as clouds are interpreted, and with just as many  meanings."Oak Drone" could well be the cold welded voice of a wooden, oaken armchair that has taken up a voice inside a coil conductor. "Cromlech" now becomes not a megalith but a  coy artist's rendering of the same, and "Levitation" could just have been as well called "lobster" when I realize I have no business here and feel the numb dementia the demented elderly  might feel, though ever so coolly and in sedation where knobs and levers are like great claws and pincers until I suddenly hear a heavily treated human voice usher me somewhere dreamy but unlike home.

 I wonder if we have a home and hush in the loafers of inner chuckling as I see myself there, lost. "Sundown" plays around with synthetic sunshine with the carpets of velveteen fuzz on some beach of light that pretends to be sand and I sulk to the foam, mentally not far away from a crustacean as I swim, handicapped into what is imagined to be a sea. "White Horse" is there just as your hippocampus is said to be there and serves as an end to the single celled organism of my thoughts. Much like some kind of medicine, I feel things warm and mute. Had one have died in this manner it would make life much less dreadful at approach of death. As Octopi Mills, I now take up my form and wear it like a hat as I leave.