sunken - close hauled (digital, stabbies etc.)

a laundry-wash of rotating organ and feedbacks and distorted spews of sound, both cooling and fired up. everything sitting on the table in unprioritized glory. one voice or curling tonal hum jets out and falls back within the glob of mess circling and circling, each particular sound-thing jettisoned for the better whole, but they (every tunnel-length twist and turning mechanism) magically re-forms to the mass, like a giant spinning wheel of outsider objects fastened in loose-glow and mesmerizing in its moving magnitude. better sentence: how's it doing that? 
 
screeching blessed shaping, pitched beyond the natural, reverberations self-creating from angled ligature, each crevicular riverbed explored with uncanny aptitude, flexing and peeling beyond initial surface. the cloudy/swamp water-collected earth-spots lining-up and overlapping and turning greener into the darkening pull. despite the wall of constant crescendo, the heaviness is natural feeling and atmospheric and feels like something will grow from the water's hit. it's experimental, it's testing the lengths and widths of where things touch and give way and bounce back. stacking layer upon layer and testing how much it can hold, and tweaking it to see what drips and falls off and levitates and blows away. the pushes and pulls of deteriorating instrumentation and voice and microphone, each exploded away from their primal purpose. junkyard raga with oddball devotional implication.

breathy and reed-like flipping air, brightened and pretty, notation sneaking through in delightful and simplified heart-frame push. introspective too, played in name-place ode, gear-turning back-drop, almost church-like but more playful and sly, like a short film of nature in close-up, then expanded to include faces and mouths singing, with recreational chanting and character, under stuttered flickers of lighthouse lamps. accordion/organ-riffs fading the last hours of shift, deepest night alive behind the depths.