Dylan the Chocolate Monk, Thomas the Hardworking Family.
ONE: Tape splatter, magnetic gargles, manipulated glottals. Cartoon waterfowl. Buzzes, cassette disssssruptions, helium-voiced pronouncements, Daffy Duck in Hell. Radio Fuzz Three, sssschpittle, coughs, ferric phlegm, insincere laughs. Pause-botton edits, putting yer finger in tape transports, pinkie spool manipulation, thumb friction. Certain phrases 'reoccur', sounds reincarnate. That bit that sounds like a thousand ducks murdering a human. I watch a spider drag itself across a concrete step, bathed in sunshine, while I listen to the sound of sound coming unglued, detaching itself, deterritorialising itself from the tyrannical surface of throat, of tape, and then entering the air, my ear, rephysicallising itself, re-fusing (refusing?) with the world. "Three!"
TWO: Bass distortion, muzzy shumph! Someone says something that sounds like "torture." "Goo." "Abdul." Answerphone hiccoughs. Hick Cups. The sun goes in while I'm listening, the world grows cold, and I think about tumble driers full of half-bricks on slow-rotate. I'm inside a radio. I'm sound, I'm air, I'm a football match. Whistling, subvocal / postvocal demands, a big baby, snatches of a plunked gtr string, its aftersound, its decay. It hurts to be human, it hurts to hear. Hertz. We're all savages, this seems to say. "Gahhr."
"Free. Out. Door. Poetry."
Where's Bob Cobbing when you need him?