Unspoken Word

by Steven Ball

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1.
05:14
2.
3.
the shape that has held me since my birth has not had hold upon my thought. slowly all my senses fell by the wayside of my thought's parade of places unfamiliar, the pages filled magnetically with the ejaculations of severed particles. i am gathered only in my movements which identify me with this place of eroticism and otherness. darkness is administered slowly and everything is left clear and distant, touch becomes something that has to be reshown. i have felt nothing since i was sixteen, but i continue to see the edges of what can be felt and tasted. i am recurrently blind, but somehow i gratefully fill this page which is every page. the blueness of my eyes reflect the immensness of a clear sky, they are everywhere and without being. i am a notion i search always to find like a small lantern of fur sleeping at the foot of my bed which i carefully avoid waking when i enter the immense collapse of my room. i have chosen the parenthesis i live in, they are the atmosphere split asunder. i breathe the iconic darkness of the sun, its blooms bustling over the plush remainders and tokens of history, the almost yesterday of utterance. i speak without memory. i remember only arrival and only recognize the place it is next to. i am lost amongst the continuance of the habit of my constraints. my life is a song tied to the mast of a storm. i am looking for a shore where the footstep of someone who is approaching is carved like amber light in the sand. i find myself each morning as a carved effigy of memory, before that i remain a plant growing in the fertile dust of oblivion. my dreams forget me. immensity is smaller than a dice. the sun is the eye of a sparrow and flight melts before thought and becomes a triangle. when i awake i am embodied by a hasty structure that attempts to speak, but only cavorts with a few rehearsed jestures. i am near to nothing. and nothing is capacity. to resemble everything is knowledge, but i am filled with only a capable emptiness which is an outline of tense filiaments. air is the only recurrent form. i breathe slowly the immensity of light which drowns form. i am not awake. there is no chart that is not once and for all a fiction. the ropes that hold me are either tidy or untidy. famine is everywhere and i eat convulsively the wind. pete spence
4.
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías 1. The Goring and the Death At five in the afternoon. It was just five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A basket of lime made ready at five in the afternoon. The rest was death and only death at five in the afternoon. The wind blew the cotton wool away at five in the afternoon. And oxide scattered nickel and glass at five in the afternoon. Now the dove and the leopard fight at five in the afternoon. And a thigh with a desolate horn at five in the afternoon. The bass-pipe sound began at five in the afternoon. The bells of arsenic, the smoke at five in the afternoon. Silent crowds on corners at five in the afternoon. And only the bull with risen heart! at five in the afternoon. When the snow-sweat appeared at five in the afternoon. when the arena was splashed with iodine at five in the afternoon. death laid its eggs in the wound at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. At just five in the afternoon. A coffin on wheels for his bed at five in the afternoon. Bones and flutes sound in his ear at five in the afternoon. Now the bull bellows on his brow at five in the afternoon. The room glows with agony at five in the afternoon. Now out of distance gangrene comes at five in the afternoon. Trumpets of lilies for the green groin at five in the afternoon. Wounds burning like suns at five in the afternoon, and the people smashing windows at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. Ay, what a fearful five in the afternoon! It was five on every clock! It was five of a dark afternoon! Federico García Lorca

about

A compilation of sound pieces based on the recorded spoken word. 1998 - 2000

credits

released August 13, 2009

Steven Ball: voice, sound manipulation, found recordings
Lee Smith: voice on At Five in the Afternoon

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about

Steven Ball London, UK

Steven Ball has been working as an artist since the early 1980s, in film, video, sound, installation, and performance, and has been a member of the post-punk DIY group Storm Bugs. In 2014 he started writing and recording songs as a solo project, being particularly concerned with experimenting with which kinds of texts might constitute a song lyric. ... more

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