Sonics of Relations:

a [dialog] between text and sound




A  Space for Sound
(Rena Anakwe) 



two sounds in response










Sonics of Relations:  

a [dialog] between sound and text






Tash Nikol



two texts

 

A dream not alone

I remember the nights when we stopped at each red light—and dreamt of dancing in unity. Our bodies moving exquisitely then abruptly fading away. We drove a long way from the days when a fantasy felt clearer—away from those spaces where our nurturers lived near us, to be left only with crooked smiles on our faces.

Our shattered limbs swept up, dampened mostly by tears. Our tarsal bones blue and hardened from many years. A long way from where we began. Forcefully taken to paths and parting so we could dream again. Sometimes of ghosts and souls unknown and others of things within.

And still, sweet things emerge from our bellowed hearts, not just stones and battered limbs. But no longer were we fastened to old dreams once dipped in gold—just the red and blue lights that pulled us in leaving only hell and coal. Nights like these I mostly remember feeling how our energies would rise.

Fastened to the past, our hearts fragile, made of glass that’s been broken many times—leaving scattered pieces in a thin fine line, laced mostly with sin and thyme. And we continue on lost but not alone because we’ve been broken here many times.

We moved away from the first red light where we dreamt of abundance and more. At least until the brightly lit spores push us onward toward hope and scorn
I long in fear

I feel warmth from the vibrations of a hand to my spine.
Full inside. Bloated for weeks from the salt, sugar and grease. Glowing like the resonance of the sun. Eyes stretch with the corners of my cheek.

There isn’t much to it, but it feels good. Like a tingle inside. Sparkling water— field. From just that hand. That look. Those eyes. Silly laze-a-faced.
Does this even make sense?
Do these things last anymore?

I feel safe. In a place that’s not a place. Within a soul. There’s warmth where I’ve always felt cold.

From fog to mind. The clouds have cleared a vision. All from a hand to spine. Or maybe more. As they’ve reached for me many times and I never took hold. But, I never let go.

And now a hand touches
mine and the clouds are gone. The warmth is clear. A heart forms eyes to see past.

But hurt is what my love brings. I love it more. The force of words brings joy’s torch to hands. To home.

A cunning manipulator, with a tongue like
a knife. Never dull, always sharp, dressed strictly in white. Never real. A figment of every mixed desire, placed together to amuse.
I’m impressed.

The eye of a scholar the taste of
the critic. One that others would dare
to challenge in debate, but do for means of desire and entertainment.

There’s no life beyond your scripted plan.
Fear brought you to me. It’s what keeps you here.
No life in your desires. Those desires were never real. Fear to live beyond the playbook.
Clinging to a life you’ll never attain.
Sheltered fears for another play.
One now out of words. At the end.
With no credits, no applause.
And you remain scarce an empty
force void of wisdoms. Lost like before.
I long in fear

I feel warmth from the vibrations of a hand to my spine.
Full inside. Bloated for weeks from the salt, sugar and grease. Glowing like the resonance of the sun. Eyes stretch with the corners of my cheek.

There isn’t much to it, but it feels good. Like a tingle inside. Sparkling water— field. From just that hand. That look. Those eyes. Silly laze-a-faced.
Does this even make sense?
Do these things last anymore?

I feel safe. In a place that’s not a place. Within a soul. There’s warmth where I’ve always felt cold.

From fog to mind. The clouds have cleared a vision. All from a hand to spine. Or maybe more. As they’ve reached for me many times and I never took hold. But, I never let go.

And now a hand touches
mine and the clouds are gone. The warmth is clear. A heart forms eyes to see past.

But hurt is what my love brings. I love it more. The force of words brings joy’s torch to hands. To home.

A cunning manipulator, with a tongue like
a knife. Never dull, always sharp, dressed strictly in white. Never real. A figment of every mixed desire, placed together to amuse.
I’m impressed.

The eye of a scholar the taste of
the critic. One that others would dare
to challenge in debate, but do for means of desire and entertainment.

There’s no life beyond your scripted plan.
Fear brought you to me. It’s what keeps you here.
No life in your desires. Those desires were never real. Fear to live beyond the playbook.
Clinging to a life you’ll never attain.
Sheltered fears for another play.
One now out of words. At the end.
With no credits, no applause.
And you remain scarce an empty
force void of wisdoms. Lost like before.



Sonics of Relations:

a [dialog] between text and sound




A  Space for Sound
(Rena Anakwe) 



two sounds in response