Evocations: Sketches of Style

by Mister E. Menachem

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about

Sketches of Style is the fourth album in a seven-work cycle of art, writing and music. Experimental, ambient, improvisations through an eclectic blend of world instruments (darbuka, frame drums, xaphoon, shakuhachi) synchronize together with original electronic beat loops conceived on very basic virtual drum pads.

The addition of electronic beats offers a new entrance into sound art that differs from the three albums preceding in this cycle of seven works. Three supporting and leading instrumental tracks are co-intoned together with voicing abstract, improvisational language - as in selections from the written form of Sketches of Style (sketchesofstyle.blogspot.com).

credits

released October 15, 2013

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about

Mister E. Menachem Brooklyn, New York

My ancestors are from the lands in and around what is now Norway, Poland, Germany and Greece. They lived above the Arctic Circle, spoke Yiddish, were Romaniote Greek, English settlers during the revolutionary war of America, and from Germany pioneered in 19th century Alberta, Canada where they also took Blackfoot names. They were buried in religious fame; and so I also go by Menachem ben Asser. ... more

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Track Name: Cajoled
Bent twists
Been twisting
Stolen raw

Awe molded

“Cey fanto gul roat”

Thursday’s strange havoc, bent twisted up in a Sunday drool-faded smirk

Levitation, aroused.

Sent me to where my spine was found grated as finely as the churned butter-stone atop the spewed rocky mist mountain foam cloud,

Hovering descent,

Escalations nerve-wracking, lonely murmurs murmuring

Crescent peaks dangling under bums grateful with uprooted membranous petrified and calcified flesh

Journey to roust the kneeling mind, with the desiring missed find, to be missed by nations feigning the patient behind swollen gum-brain awry, with skull-ache

“kinj moduls vrent speen og”

Desiring missiles
Desired missing
Failing nations

Patient fang
Track Name: find Inspiration!
No broken gourd of misinformation,
Cracked on the headless spine of an open carcass
Breeding divine fungi in the tawny mist,
A tempting kiss stolen across the breath
Of a warring ocean disengaged from its godly host

A show of camaraderie between the Algonquins’ shores
And the fragrant seeds of Middle Eastern poverty
Raining hard on the hearse brigade
Who pine for a short glowering makeup
From the old world princess
And her dungeon feet
Blackened with the soot of forbidden
Imprisonment
In the heart of Satan
Bleeding molten lava
From a torn face
Growing bearded
& Poorly aged
Anger in the tempest of religious man,
A cork-bottled nightmare
Emerging suddenly from the abyss,
Encouraging the lion’s stare
To recede from tropical gore
And inculcate the masses
Into a final tour
Beyond the ocean’s mountainous rocky curve,
Into the fathomless deep,
A gone strength won back
Into the human hand
Through deliberate desperation,
& feeling, with fingers coiled,
Giving fruit
To the first serpent’s pure and unclaimed gaze,
The low brush fades behind the artist’s ear
Impressing the abstract wonder of the fearless
And preparing a light
For here
Track Name: Guise of the Beloved
Laughable counterpart
And guise of the beloved,

Faring terror
And the deathless scare within childish pride,

The fostered eyes
That plunge with the strength of the predator’s stare

Into infinity
And the terminal plague of survival

Marching by
Currents stepping like waves over the stone-headed martyrs,

Staved off
From one life inside,

Dry and cruel,
Commotion’s door opens to the streaming gore,

Lush and timed
With solar flare

Love
Over an unearthly rush hour

Painted fame twisting and writhing
In the soundless urban deep,

A rustic, inflamed few,
Whose solemn grasp partakes in the early break

From an inevitable aftermath
Draining the rage from our animal brain
Track Name: Natural Pleasure
A threshed sweat leaf, singled out over the billowing masses,
A high, overstated nocturne

Dreaming in workaholic shivering screams
That transform lightly into breath of song with male weeping,

And her deserted lips struggle to purse
Over the citrus flesh of an Iberian mother

Calling for heart chains to unlock
Yet distressed and of unruly mind,

She dresses timelessly with prophetic sophistry
Beyond the rasped vocal bead of the Roman elite,

Prideful with elegant cheeses to smother their appetite
For lower slavery below the belt of animal sanity,

And still a ruthless tide follows every inhale
And imbibed breast-milk cry

From the middle earth
High season field of waves,

Lashing out on the rickety back of the African skull,
Swollen with wisdom and envy

To oversee the white planetary momentum
Towards entropy

In the blessed
Beyond fluidity,

A seed to match the Earth,
Sown in the deep darkest matter of space,

Holy black soil of divinity
Preparing for the inner sprout

From within our species
Prototypical brain,

The reason of universal catastrophe,
Being heard and seen

To know self through negation
In living dream and daily waking

Into the stronghold of centered duality
Between an atmospheric pull and heart strung desire,

To expel the soul
And unify with vibration’s border

Along the delicate edge of creativity
From subjective awe to atonement with the Creator

In the lawless gray area of judgment
Gone reckless with inhuman brutality,

An uninspired mode of being
Praying to exit from God

In the instantaneous devotion toward self-mastery
And a conscious crawling towards infinite ecstasy,

Vocation of ultimate being
Expressed through the spiritual instrument of Love

In soundless wonder,
The always evident past

Coming along to partner with vagrant forewarning
In the new moment,

A loud, clear sign
To befriend raw, natural pleasure
Track Name: Pulp Massage
Matter disguised as her unfolding paradise,
A genital incision, without,

Brewed spawn all quaking and facing heart failure
With thick-rimmed glasses and a paranoiac daze,
A thin glimmer of repose

Infuriated golden gnome,
Lowered into blissful gardens where human hair is felt as weeds,

Useless triviality
In the maze of Puritanical property and stubborn consensual heavens
Drowned in blue time,

Glowering in the thick mud of some academic panegyric formulae
Wherein tumult and insult meet over lunch to discuss Baudelaire in rhyme -
“And the scurrilous frankincense
Nose of his Biblical haunting awakened
Through a Pulp Massage
Over bellies skyrocketing with future’s ragged predictions”

At the all-night table
Proposing to wed anger and the twelve-headed classicist dream

Paying striptease Eastern minds
To wade in inglorious pain and rush, philosophically insane
Throughout our comedic taxicab drive, breaking through

Oceanward,
Where the thumb and nose meet at the spun wheeling whys,
Whose greed lurched from above the lily swamp and naked,
Pressed their white head to the diamond name,

Giving laughs as praise to the only answer ever
Sought by a young grave, breaking ice and calling for a break between pauses