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Mystery of the White Flesh

by GANZ

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1.
May all the window lights be mine yet in my house I'm the eyes on the street wishing for my bookshelf and the naked light, wishing for the room's breathe behind it's neck. The perspective, the tiptoes, the curtain, drive the guy in the street crazy. Yet at home I'm the void in between this nose and the shadow on the wall. I wonder how this may sound from outside while I step another foot out of myself From time to time, when I forget to talk, I dress up as a broken mirror and I gush cold bibles over my head. My head's 2 dogs fucking with haste. Soaked I accept to store myself, making little bubbles when shutting. In the end it's a furious stream elbowing because it's running out of air. I wonder how this may sound from outside while I step another foot out of myself There are no windows in the morning There are grey tree dusters caressing the facades And heads stepping on the blood at the traffic lights And too much light to show my hairy words I keep walking the streets a step ahead of me like an inertial hangover that redraws me northeast and knows all the costumes to say
2.
Bruxism 04:48
Teeth hurt more than before and he's going to die Teeth hurt more than before and he's going to die Eyes scratch eye lids so they don't stay in darkness. An idea sparks round and caustic in between holes day has tightened Night greets us sick, naked and snarling. Grids blur, dogs cross invisible lines. Stomach stretches its legs and lets the breeze caress the sweat in between the crotch. With sharp arms it ruins the setting it should be rebuilt again. And then the teeth hurt more than before. Teeth hurt more than before Teeth hurt more than before Teeth hurt more than before
3.
Translation 03:40
I've heard a story about old wooden people with malnourished ideas in between the frown Boiling oil, the guts, sparkling hay Boiling oil, the guts, sparkling hay A log, well combed and maimed, soft, plastic, it was never a tree. A steak that was never a pig it slides much better through the throat A sphere without hair they have wrote It feels so pleasant Then a translator speaks to us from math lights that sprinkle our face in measured flickers. Patient lapses gather up the sighs with artisan hands. Private implosions without hemorrhage. Tears that swell but will never drop. (Go on, go on Go on, go on) That's enough for now We leave the room laying on the bed The money on the night stand and the floor is a mess that won't let us leave (Go on, go on Go on, go on) We clean our mouths and we leave the room laying on the bed The money on the night stand and the floor is a mess that won't let us leave
4.
Someone told me a knife as a stone diving still into the coldest lake. The coldest lake at the highest peak. Quiet waves as a frozen whisper. At the back room of my head sounds a forgotten echo that crystallizes as tangible as a fist But why? And the white flesh waits for the blood. Meanwhile there's no wound. And the white flesh waits for the blood. Meanwhile there's no wound. White flesh waits for the blood and it waits, and waits and waits. The universe through a fault on the flesh Where my head goes in the middle of a song, or when I die a little bit over you. But not a wound, there's no wound without blood. And the white flesh waits for the blood.

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released October 20, 2013

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GANZ Madrid, Spain

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