Maple syrup on my potato pancakes
Don’t you know who I am?
I have never been to Europe
I hear an underlying velvet drone as if John Cale was still playing with La Monte Young
But a line must be drawn somewhere
The swing of a suspended lens
Ideally distant
It’s transparent to a basis
Which has a disappearance of it’s own
Three fine nudes in an evening sky
Each with a different colored ribbon
You’re measuring inches
Paneer ambient. Rice drone.
Reverb through my ears
Reversed drum beats and a small knocking on a teapot of sorts
The crippling sound of Genesis
I might stop now or could go on forever.
— Marta Trektere
