Son has gone out

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/track/son-has-gone-out
That new, new.

Still working on productions on these two albums (Fallen in Line and IBTNYSH.)  Don't know when they will be wrapped.

Also still writing in my journal, currently some soft poetry and a super short-short story collection all about people's experiences with the last eight minutes of light based off the idea that if the sun goes out, we have eight minutes of it still shining since that's how long it takes for the light to reach us.  Here is what I have so far,
:
With only 8 Minutes of Light Left.

Karen leaves Dave to the living room television where Charlie Sheen is counting down the seconds to the "End of Light."  Karen walks out the front door and plans to get into her sedan and drive off in search of others just like her.  But ends up just walking while occasionally looking up into the sky where the light originates from.

A man across the globe is disappointed.  He won't get to witness the last minutes of light because it's already dark where he is.  The night will only stay off, he says.  The Night will only turn into darkness, he corrects himself.

The man who stayed outdoors his whole life became afraid.  The light that lit his sunset was now waning, the heat he once adored was slowly fading.  After his friend Steve told him the news and made him coercisively point up to our Father, he walked away and went inside.  The paths he hiked simmered in his memory, the long stares at coyotes through thin brush stained in his blinks.  Nature was terrifying, The Nocturnals now owned the system.
:
Also Mack and I, formally in a band (our #1) called GoGo and the Coconuts (no material available) have been messing around with a borrowed drum machine.  Been trying to record music but computer doesn't like it.  No name yet, no idea what it will turn into, just fun.

Genre Specific (series)

Genre Specific

Simply Peachy

Your skin is like a white flesh peach
paired well next to top sirloin beef
and if we have to be discreet
publicly I'm impeached
sitting on a beach on beach street
drinking muai thai, reading a juniper leaf
waiting for the corner store
to sell cornucopia's
so I can just hold it firm
for a sinner's birth
under a minute's turn
while the winter's worm
burrows surely for another term.

Fruit flies displace before hands decay
so they can't interface with another oil barrel race
and items stack up, while images get backed up
on hard drives, cursing about apartheid
but consistently never lived it,
pdfs beat spreadsheets in another scrimmage
as the sale today is trimmed, green cabbage
I'll have to take another vacation
as a phantom to just fathom
why my opinions are soaked in broth
served with bread crumb croutons
spiced with thyme and a coupon
cut out from an advert calendar
selling photographs where the booths gone.

The line is too busy looking at screens
to form a circle, lights flash forward
waiting for the next Big Three
jump the line and still wait hopelessly.
Statements, that's my favorite
wonder where the hours went, into entertainment
they absorbed me like the magazines still stale photographs
still absorbed me
and I read and read and read, waiting for the stars story
to intertwine between my capillaries
but they only crawled as slow as a caterpillar
buried by milkweed
grossly disproportionate to it's seed size
while the soil performs sourly
I'm only hourly
so I sit, proud to be.































Simply Compound

Remember when we seemed fine
we laid bordered on a thin line
and without time?

The memory of a back nine
where you shot par, and you shot mine
the placement of a tee with enough sun
to cause misery, the ball teetered unevenly simply.

The grass felt repetitive
wheels spun on edges again
while plagiarism was my rampant twin, she said
and we went back, to the wine and cheese
watched mature men pick crackers from their teeth
and the sound dink made us think one of us was taking another drink
so we glanced at each other, made loud noise,
said capiche in our french voice
we had a choice so we held each other in the rotating doors
around and around
the sound funneled through the town
where the night calmed down,
winter whimpered wishing whispers
street sweep, mind weak, my week.
thighs creak once we hit pavement
and the Darkness left the moon light
nothing but amazing
shining through fog on one hazy street
which left the endless streak of cars a little crazy.
because, you see, each sedan snapped like a photograph
and the next one already sped past before the last one was time stamped
and headaches started to emerge, under false inertia
fell folding facsimile, motion moved me, file denial under M
and watch the watch watching, peak idealistically
waiting for every wedding to end vicariously.

Been Absorbing

Been experiencing life, haven't been writing that much, and I've been doing mostly noise with music.  Art has become a sub-conscious thought of everything I want to do.  Need more room to work.  Working on it.

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/album/fallen-in-a-line

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/album/ill-bring-the-noise-you-stay-home

These are two albums I am concurrently working on at the same time.  Lyrics and softer compositions go to fallen in a line, experimental noise goes to the latter.

If anyone wants to converse on King of the Hill or Infinite Jest, I'm always looking for some font to read on the subjects.

Interview with Mack from Cabeza Twins while on tour.

Because it was just there.

Music I made four years ago and more when I first got my synth.  I'm quite impressed on some of the music that I did on the keys.  I think I have finally uploaded all my music i've ever done solo now so hopefully you enjoy or fall asleep to this.

Dancer

Thank you Don, for the words (Culture)

A New Rise

Its nice to sleep in another bed
Dreamless nights reshuffled again
Spilled wine on the sheets
My neck, where the hot air speaks.

Lights left on
My right eye wrong
twitching to the beat
Blink to pass out, exhausted
After this song
When their feet starting sweeping
And the whole crowd has to play a long

So that's why you dance
Gives you the chance to be an embarrassment
To find freckles in my hair ,glance 
In a chair in my cross legged stance
Waiting for friends
Outside smoking again.

Level three
Lets take it to the Fourth floor
No room in the city outdoors.
Filled the night with smoke
Three stops
Just enough to catch a new rise
Lets float on
And become modest
Help out a fellow
white burns to yellow
And hello isn't enough
Tongues move smooth
When the vibe is mellow.

Hold your breath
Shift over the linoleum
Stairway under us
Moonlight over the metal bus
Shuttle first and layover rust
Walk in, hand in hand
Hold a balance
Try hard but the support is not far.
And just like my birthday, no presents
But the challenge and the present.

Finally Art

Over the last three years I have been apprehensive to post Art here.  I've done it a few times if I had other attachments to go with them such as poetry usually.  I've been looking around for a proper site that was properly free but I came close.

http://eganclick.imgur.com/

Heard you Calling

#1

Hey I heard you calling from over there.  I was just staring at where the blues diminish the grays and the mountains are different shades of peas.  No no I thought I heard your voice but maybe I was mistaken.  There are so many different bird whistles, from the Cardinals to the Blue Jays, to the Ducks and the Snow Fouls.  It was to early in the morning to actually see you.  Only the noises could be distinguished from the monotony of darkness.  Did you not say something from behind that oak tree between the two bushes that produced those thorns.  The one’s that have dug into my skin from before.  The kind that can get stuck into your skin and dig, crawl in between places you didn’t know you had, extra storage, the fleshiest pieces of skin.  Can’t you just come back out and tell me your question.  Was it how old am I?  Or how bold was the Mayans?  I could only pick up the syllables between the whirring of the leaves, the peddling of the creek, the wind just under the horizon.  Only the murmur could come in contact with my ears under my knitted hat, and I was a little uncomfortable at the time too.  But then when I say that orange, blood clotted circle appear, the wisps started to scatter, you know the whispers, and the dew driven gnats passed over the horizon, slowly lifting above our atmosphere, passing into unilateral time, never to be, only, seen again.
***
I saw the words on the other side of the stars.  People usually say stars twinkle but their light remains constant, as an object, and if they are transforming slowly, fading and awning, that means they are only passively entering death.  Stars have options before they die like words have many ways to be interpreted.  Each second I stare, the wind passed over the clouds, usually pearl white, now hardly distinguishable between the midnight purple of space and the blackness of the clouds.  It’s as if the words on a page were being wrapped underneath the spacing between lines, were missed between the message of a sentence, the massage of senses.  It never truly made any remarks, no remembrance of my past, no insight on the future.  Just letters illuminated under my own two flashlight eyes.  Letters I have never seen before, only touched with my hands, only smelt being spoken from chapped lips, from a parched mouth and a salivating tooth.  I thought I saw it again, even when I stare at the same spot, just north of Orion’s belt, after every blink, looking until the dirty particles project into my thin veiled plasma obstructing my lenses.

The Equation

I've been writing a new album and also been working on the music too.

Here is what I have so far.

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/track/pews-through-loopholes

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/track/316

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/track/future-ghost

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/track/two-for-one-beat

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/track/just-look-back

Update:  It's an EP and that's it.  If you get a cd from me there will be an intro track called Drum Core.

Don't Steal My Thunder

Chapter One:  I was born with it

So, yeah, I was born.  I've been born for twenty two years.  I'm sure you know if you have been following but who has the time.  I don't even have enough time to reflect.  Maybe I can find a few moments to retell you moments from my life.  I can't always hide behind these black shirts and black pants with black shoes.  It used to be hair .
Long brown curly hair would cover my face.  I had it long since the 6th grade. Not much upkeep, it would just form by itself.  It started because I wanted it.  I didn't really know if long hair was cool or not but by all means, it definitely was on me.  My hair didn't let it grow out into a bowl cut.  The curls would flow down my face onto my shoulders like a women's.  At work I would mistakenly be called a girl from customers because of it.  It was pretty cool.
It would grow and grow and I would hardly notice.  Teenagers spend all their time looking into mirrors to pop pimples and fix their split ends.  I didn't.  I had my own shield, a mask that served me many functions.  Kept the sunlight out of my eyes which helped me nap in class.  Long, thick hair to look through so I could cheat on chemistry tests. But the more I used it, the more it started to identify me.

T-Shirts

I did this one for my band/site. It came from a design I made in my notebook about a month ago. I've been thinking a lot about what Static Particles means since it's become more then just this blog. At first it was supposed to be a group of my friends, all writing and putting work up. Static Particles was derived as a term to explain us. Static being in place, set in and primarily finished. Particles is the idea that we are all just in our own atmospheres and tiny. But when particles relate they form a community. But then it just became me. It wasn't really a moniker but just a place for us particles to react to. Then I published a book under the site name. I view it now as a different state of being an artist. When writing I go under my actual name, Egan Maxwell Click. That is who I am. Static Particles is the particle I give to. It's a one spot shop for me, Egan. I do music underneath the name, writing. It's pretty much just my publisher of everything. And here is one I made for my buddy Dakota which moved to Martha's Vineyard and Danny is taking a trip out there. Here is there music http://mammothrecords.bandcamp.com/album/for-the-floor-of-your-car . The shirt says Twin Pipes and it's from a design I made on paper from about a year ago. Here is some Twin Pipes music https://soundcloud.com/halucigens/sets/twin-pipes-two-strangers

This is just between the Audio and the Speakers

cigarettes and opportunities

static particles

this goes out to all my bum fucks
post grads with all the talent but no luck
working to jobs just so we can keep ducking
them bills, saving up for some cheap thrills
but my moneys in the bank still
so i can spend it on my saturn
and we used to go by the name lantern
friends forever
artists are better
because we stick round
for all that bad weather
and we experience
this experiment
live by the thrift broooil
outdoorsmen niche
no response
just battered only ever underweight
like a disaster
the paint stays splattered
because art is just art
it's not smart like you're bladder
and the worlds fatter then me
afford the super size
with two sides
and you're still blue right?
because happiness never gets too stick
around for the food fight

bitter like a radio transmitter
during dinner
because you were a so so winner
you're the difference between a heavy binder
and a reform sinner
now your off in the distance
picking pockets, sucking odd dick
behind the laundrymat's kids
but back to business
you can't act weak
behind your egotistical innocense
bend the fender
and i'm just trying to keep ripe like bananas
yellow in a blender
smooth too smooth us over
but the dirt was just too rich for our land rover
now just sand over
because i can't do these bars over
at my own apartment
that last place we almost got charged with arson
and i'll never hit the target



bored like a bored
i am too sure
to be investing in ore
yah poor?
what to expect
yeah i'm poor
and no i can't get blown
i need to stay responsible
so i can pay back my student loans
supposed to be a writer
but i walk to what i love
like a hiker
and use my own energy
like a biker
none of us were supposed to end
up like this
and i smoke between the breaks
between both my shifts
because i just want to kick it
fuck sleep
i'm still dreaming about
all my wishes
and trying to come up with my
life's wish list
is implicit
yah gifted
get back to the end of line
where all the grown kids is

Daedra Got Dick'd

Soundtrack to Daedra Wants Dick (the tele-pod.)  For anyone that likes Glitch porn, has a fetish for Techno, and who also loves sexy Piano love ballads.

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/album/daedra-got-dickd

Wind from Transience

The wind forces us to face these uphill battles.
These simple choices held above our collective heads
like ideas we never got to say out loud.

View it as an accolade, so many notches
on a black leather belt, before so many
piss you away for leaving.

Trying was an understatement.
Not so much could be said about your all
because we all have faced that giant
and we all had to lose at the same time.

Sex isn't fair
because it's always on the table.
Now it's stripped away like that rust
on your car you were made to pay for.

And the loser is the one that gets out last.
They can't see it coming, they lay
in a naked fetal position hoping the world
could be resolved again.

Then it's all fruit fall and over hauls.
The days are long like flag poles.
The direction is only straight
but the travel is pushing down
where growth is uncertain
and the rays are broken.

Before the decisions can alter
a vision, the feeling of defeat
already has preyed
on the level of horizons.
Nothing brings pain
easier then betrayal.

The separation of wood and space
ends up with splinters.
Trying to crash on top doesn't
comfort just burns the feelings
at the end of each nerve.

And each sacrifice to freedom
only ended up being to survive
in between the four seasons.

All this free time masked
by the economies cascade
and the faces, once sad,
weren't made.

Together, only alone
living on a crowded road
on the perimeter of a community
threatened by extinction
when our own hands and eyes
turned towards a projection
of ourselves.

But some of us are still here,
waiting like a child ready to be picked up
after a long day
at a place we never wanted to be
but forced upon through
aqueducts and rice water.

Cold statues touching the
burnt edges of novelty pages.
In a grey crypt
even if it was a stale chick.

Underneath cherry pits
and thin less tits
an insidious gift
by a music player with
Big B playing that Great Ol' Twist.

The Truck Driver Parable

The driver pulled away from Humphert's garage with ease.
This was easy, he thought.
He pulled off onto an inter state and went off.
His truck, white to the wheel wells, handled well.
Cars passed, families focused on the road ahead of them all.
John just drove, shifting up and down but mostly just long, unfiltered, driving.
While the car passing him had a wife and husband laughing, John just had his CB radio collecting dust.
They passed without even looking over.
The road eventually turned into a highway.
The towns of hotels and gas stations passed by, each stop progressing the trip.

The states easily began to blur.
The grass is beginning to burn the farther John goes South.
The travelers pass faster.
The roads become wider, the drive easier, but John is still at the wheel.
Shift, brake, gas, shift, pass, check mirrors, look at cars passing, check gps, sleep.
Radio kept playing the same old songs.
The speakers cracked while riding over overpasses and construction sites with no workers.
It was winter where the snow was patchy and the geese stayed in the man made lakes of yesteryear.

The white mixed with the blue to create a foggy tapestry to stare at.
Over the horizon was nothing but the continuation of this one road.
John began to scratch at his right thigh.
His truck passed over an over pass.
He saw rivers as he went over bridges.
He witnessed the state borders blend into one another.
Homes off in the farm lands where the new barn was placed next to the old one that fell under gravity.

But the half way point began to fade behind John.
It was back in Pepsicola.  A few hours behind John now. About a hundred stops.
Miles and miles that were too hard to keep track.
Construction zones.  City mergers.  Cop cars and slow drivers sleeping at the wheel
when our sun was still so out.

The night began to fade in.
All the landscape turned grey beneath his truck.
The only way to see a sign is from maybe
shifting your eyes into the right alignment
and read the exit signs with those stupid little lights
they pass and each one makes John seem agitated.

In the dark the cars drive faster, the stranger're stranger.
The yellow lights spaced out look lost.
John thinks to turn here.
And he goes for it.
Just to make sure, he thought twice.

The parking was the hardest part.
backing in for the first time.
slow, simple, gentle
it was easy.
It was all too easy.


#2
It was the same trip.
Long roads measured by thumbs on a wall map.
each road shifted to fit in a tetris box
like a sand clock.

The trees would change.
leafs would grow green
then turn yellow
and then fall
to the ground.
rain to heat to wind.
Snow came and went to ice.

John was thinking of scaling as a freelancer.
The truck was his.
And he could invest in himself.
It was just one three day trip a week.
Money floated in.

It didn't come all free.
It had to come to him but he was a step ahead.
Before, in the dark age, taking a trip was always a job.
A sattellite turns it into a chore.
Follow the directions until ending.
Reverse.  Repeat.

Watch the surroundings.  These white lines can hold the road together.
Look through the mirrors
and notice the cars that are following this truck.
Getting ahead of him to arrive earlier.
Get passed and take longer.
Travel in the space of another
only separated by moments of wind
between air and metal.

The grey road began to close in around the Truck
it hardly ever widened and it's growth stagnant
to the surrounding gas station towns.
The space was becoming a much closer world
to the transportation vessels.

The travel still lasted as long.
The roads the same
and the moments still dull
all occurred on the reoccurring days
when the truck needed to drop
a box off.

#3
Then the truck became nothing.  This simple gesture of
convenience and money.
Responsible to bring this from here to there.
John was just parading around paraphernalia
like the next vendor.
But the truck was discrete.  It was just white,
carrying something, and each driver
that drives by tries to solve the mystery too.

No one ever approached John about it.
Just medicine he would tell himself
as he gripped the steering wheel
with one hand and put the other out the window.

The towns were all curious.  Here was this trucker
trucking past them all all the time.
It's like the prairie dogs look in a pack as a fox
is running by.
And this fox has jeans on metaphorically.
But the truck was hooked up with cameras.
The cameras told the truck who nodded with certainty
where the environment was.
The truck loses his blindness.
The truck now follows the directions.

The travel is an event to watch.
John observes the road around him
and only needs to manipulate the truck
if it translates the environment incorrectly.
The chances of John adjusting controls
before a camera is pitiful.

John just went to thinking
as the surroundings around him blared past
him in consistency.
This was just an obligation.
All he had to do was stay in the white truck
and supervise.
But John wasn't fulfilled.

Each time he parked, to pick up or to
drop off was another notch.
The camera's being able to sync
past user data to set history to the Truck's travel
only obliterated any human existence.
John was just a body
with eyes
that engineered this simplicity.

Each trip got him closer and nearer
to answering his thoughts.
A future is in the next word, the next dotted line,
the next breath, but is the moment after
actually change.
John just wanted to be John, not a body
holding down a truck, to drop a package off.