Comments on: I’ve missed you

By: Sean Orr

Sean Orr — Thu, 15 May 2008 02:23:20 +0000

Actually, that was about El Bajo, me and him man, he had his cool baby blue suit on, I thought I was pretty cool with my hipster jeans and ridiculously white hi-tops, this is about when me an him smoked salvia and thought we died in the back of a cuban farmer’s field.

By: 20jazzfunkgreats

20jazzfunkgreats — Tue, 13 May 2008 12:17:23 +0000

I have missed your letters Sean. I should be having el Bajo coming around for mojitos at some point soon, it’s going to be totally good times of reminiscence and expectation under the Caribbean sun.

Nano, glad you like! I am sure you could fly with this tune, but don’t try it at home!

Thanks for commenting
xx J

By: nano

nano — Fri, 09 May 2008 22:47:01 +0000

Automat makes me want to jump off a clif and learn to fly in the way down. Makes me really believe i can do it!
greetings from Madrid. First time i coment but i read you everyday, keep it up boys!

By: Undersea Community » Blog Archive » Crystal Castles vs. Creative Commons

Fri, 09 May 2008 10:33:30 +0000

[...] while I’m posting — classic 1978 epic Italo-electro mp3 over at xxjfg — Automat, ‘The Rise, The Advance, the Genus’. Imagine a 16-minute long Kraftwerk [...]

By: Sean Orr

Sean Orr — Fri, 09 May 2008 07:14:55 +0000

You never send me those lovely letters any more.

I will die in the world lit by fireflies. I will die facing the sun. Surrounded by bats in the sci-fi twilight. Wash the dirt from my nails in the cola river. I will die at the end of it all, “straining towards the joy of ended joy”. We will win. We will hide in the mountains. We will take our time. At the end of it all, the farm, the woman with cheeks as burnt as the sun, the man with the proud chest. All this joy. But we died there, in Floro Perez. Buried in the roasted coffee soil, where moths drink the tears of dying birds. Where the snakes eat their screams in the tobacco smoked moonlight, and the tired parade of flesh in the beachside resorts eat and drink until they’re full and forget, full of regret.

But not us. Like Marti: the two man charge. A poet’s death is always poetic. By the sea, chiaroscuro scarred village boys and a solitary speaker pushing clamshell shamanism. We are all You Shall Know Our Velocity, trying to hide our cracked lips and Arbutus skin.