Text by Metaphorest
Postmodern prophets preaching self help
selling narcissism on new street corners
the narcotic of choice
the voice of reason is unreasonably sure of itself
the cure for itself is awareness of the ultimate overwhelming oneness of all things
the smallness of the self and all its wants and worries
hurrying ever to the next big thing
to sex and things that sparkle and remarkable possessions
lessons don’t come easy breezy
beauty is not airbrushed hair brushed crushed by convention
the retention of these lies inside our eyes and burned onto our corneas
horny as teenagers
raging lust for strangers on pedestals
pedestrian loves are hush hush on the downlow
you know you deserve more drama and devotion
emotion is another set of clothes we wear
a brand we brandish for onlookers
hookers all for eyes and ears of prying peers
a modern cabinet of curiosities
monstrosities condensed into manicured mazes of myth and personal propaganda
face painted untainted tailored tragedies unfolding holding nothing but the bland inertia of a staged story
static in its saccharine sincerity, perfected for posterity
the black comedy of being and seeing nothing but a photograph that we believe to be a mirror.
Oh, the horror!
Text by jordyn.myah
On hitRECord HERE
There are a lot of sad dreams in this world, too many, perhaps. Dalkulla doesn’t mind, though; she collects them, those sad dreams. She wanders through this world, her long striped net trailing behind her. She holds it high, as far above her head as she can, so that she can catch the dreams that people have let go of, the dreams that people have let drift away. Those are the saddest dreams, the ones no one believes in anymore.
Dalkulla finds comfort in the forgotten dreams of others. She likes to know she’s not the only one who doesn’t feel quite right in her skin; she likes to know she’s not the only one who’s looking for something more.
When her net becomes full, Dalkulla sifts through the loneliest of the dreams she’s collected and stores them in empty mason jars. Sometimes, maybe after a day, maybe after a year, she finds two dreams that complete each other and pours them into one jar. It makes her think that maybe, just maybe, one day she’ll find a dreamer who completes her too.