Searching For Substance
Searching for substance – Searching for essence
I never realised – I always realised
The end never comes – New beginnings appear
To those that wait – To the restlesss
For no reason – For no reason
Forgotten fancies – Remembering the substance
Spent on bleak views – Passed through me
Dreamt of dreams – Faced real life
Filled with shapes – Empty and void
Disturbed by forms – Just nothing
The many and the few – And nobody
Searching for substance – Finding forgotten fancies
Searching for essence – Finding nothing
The world is empty – I am filled
Waiting to be filled – Waiting to discharge
Filled with nothing – Leave something behind
More than everything – Less than nothing
Searching for substance – Searching for essence
”First Time Hurts” (2002)
The Cotton Ferox Manifesto
Definition? No. Explanation? No. Why not? No.
If anything, Cotton Ferox is the little piece of cotton used in desinfecting the spot where the lethal injection goes in. An example of hypocritical humanism. We’re going to have you killed within ten minutes but we want to make sure, for your own sake, that you don’t catch an infection from the hypodermic needle.
As for the music, we live in a sphere of contrasts. Soft beats, hard scapes. Hard words to soft structures. Soft whispers to ravaging whipping. Cotton Ferox is the wonderful cloud in the blues ky when you’re lying down on the grass, your head spinning on LSD. It’s also the second half of the film ”Cannibal Ferox”.
As you listen, don’t remember. As you listen, don’t expect what the next sound will be. You won’t find it. There will be a microupheaval of your expectations. Not because we necessarily want you to be squeezed through a transcendental process of annihilating good and evil. But because we want you, honestly and sincerely, to enjoy more. To enjoy the music more. The words. To enjoy yourself more. And us.
Open for suggestion. Open for collaboration. Open for being open 24 hours.
To say that Cotton Ferox is a trip would be to taint the experience with past ghosts and future speculations. We simply want to move on. Our new realm of research is you. You are our listener as we are your humble provider. Your sound pusher. That’s a big responsibility on both sides of the record. Therefore, we wish you all the best and hope you’ll enjoy Cotton Ferox. From beyond infinity to the point which is… Where the hypodermic needle goes in.
Red Light Glow
Late night, downtown Perver City. Hard rain on dirt black pavements. Multicoloured mirages treading dangerous paths on high heels. Blurred black vehicles passing by like ghosts, each with a different thumping muffled beat. Red Light, Red Alert.
Lost souls, grasping for a better future. Doomed to disappiontment, doomed to bitter death. Hope is the last to leave. Hope of what? A non-insinuating smile of genuine understanding? Yellow naked teeth actually meaning well? Or that hot cup of coffee in the frozen dead of night?
Lingering middle aged lolitas. Tragic emotional timewarps, destined to daily revelations in front of broken mirrros and stained back yard windows. Not as young as you used to be, but still at it. Unwillingly insensitive to inflation…
Bedroom philosophers, immaculately polished, slumming in neutral cars. Quoting ”Pretty little mouth, all fresh and nice tasting”, while shoving something in there. Staining daddy’s back seat.
The whole spectrum of cocaine joined together in pain, while Buddy drives through the night, to some desolate area where noone will hear her scream. And where noone will care anyway.
When you’re down and out, destitute, prostitute, crack rock bottom, the only way you can go is nowhere.
Avoiding the ghosts on the corners, offering what they can unsuccessfully, not even caring if anyone potential can hear what they say. Eyeing that amorous amazon instead. Cheap fur meshes with the cheap hairdo. Unreal boots. An apparition of inverted human progress.
The danger that doesn’t lie in the disease but in the experience itself… Go for it.
Decadence, I guess, is when the victimiser degrades himself to the level of the victimised. But does that also apply the other way around? For a brief moment the structure seems to be shaking. For a brief moment, anyone can be anyone. For just that brief moment you forget destiny’s cruel chain of command.
Nothing ever changes. That’s what hurts the most.
We do things we don’t want because we want to. It’s easier to be somewhat happy when you realise how irrevocably unhappy you are.
Despair certainly comes cheap these days.
And… What would You do with her?
Deep In The Night
Imagine this isn’t about music at all. Imagine it’s about perverse voyeurism. The kind where your sex and mind melt and fuse and together briskly shy away from any and all kinds of inhibitions.
I can see you through the doors you prefer to keep shut. Or do you really? I am always there. As you are always there when I choose to look.
You are more than aware of the goods you push. You are more than aware of the effect they have. You are more than willing to toy and to tease. To trip tease my mind.
I catch one glimpse, one fragment of a second. This fragment is now carved in eternity, for the uncertain posterity of like minds. Minds of the eyes, minds of the beholders, minds of those… oglers.
Faked surprise. Faked shame. Faked anger. Genuine lust.
Bless the oglers with a glimpse.
Bless them with the goods you push.
Bless them with your faked surprise.
The smaller the peephole, the greater the pleasure. A satisfying logical paradox!
Grant me the forbidden as you dance a little dance for the oglers. You know, inherently it seems, exactly what the oglers want. And as you provide, as you push your goods, you are bestowed with awesome power to make or break. Illusion or reality? What’s the difference in the state of mind I’m in…?
I am consciously aware of all this. You should be happy that you don’t have to be. That you aren’t.
The image is somewhat blurred. You move so rapidly that you appear out of focus. I’m perfectly still. In body. A perfect position. But my inner self (if it can still be called that) is a mesh of movement and temperature. Accelerating and rising.
What a lovely room, by the way. Like a small, concrete bunker, a cornucopian cubicle where everything is possible. Where the lights are dim and the vision rich in colour and texture. In the darkness all cats are gray, they say. I beg to disagree.
Gods bless the apparatus that allows me to reminisce! A fragile sheet of plastic and silver and who-knows-what that conveys a sensuous sense of certainty that it was all there after all… In place, in time, in perfect disorder.
Who are you? What on earth are you doing here? I suspect the biggest thrill is anthropological after all. A seemingly infinite number of destinies jumbled into a template of ancient, eternal, genetic behaviour and social needs, acute or emotionally selfimposed. What I try to see must surely be beyond the visual? What’s behind the hill? A valley, no doubt.
Peeling off layers of illusions and hindrances leads to enlightenment. The Eureka of the too obvious in bright, blinking lights. Where is the jewel? In the lotus? Let me see…
Moving like shades, shapes, ghouls, enticing predators… Endorsed by needs quite often inexplicit and confused. What a grandiose game! What a spectacle! What a… scene! A scene culled or cut out from some medieval masterpiece, where a distorted mind conjures convincing, shocking realism in light and shadows and oil and structure. Neurotic neurons bare the essentials. We can all see ourselves in there, if we look closely enough. Only the canvas has changed.
The fat man was on drugs or drunk or both. Rambling incessantly, perhaps reciting some insane poetry of his tormented soul.
”The late Middle Ages… The known examples are still photographs… You could be obscene and drastic, the masturbator’s fantasies’ breather. You didn’t have to make any attempt to realize character, but generally… I had no idea how I was as a moralist and apostle… Quite the contrary: a movie. They possess too an exaggerated attitude of decency regarding… To establish a normal love… It’s not their sexual activity, asceticism… What disturbs these women are married in us… Feelings that are very… But do not wish to give love. The current stereotype of the threatening. Some of the tendency to indulge in creatures: the tight, tight jeans… ”Teenager” includes man’s excessive intake of food. Say, a brassiere. Most people who are immature are flagellant processions. The Cynic Peregrinus Proteus… His childhood often led… They often have an extreme… Masturbate in front of a great emotional immaturity. Speaking clothing. To be able to… Some deep or unconscious… In typical cases he posed without delay, whenever the achievement of one’s own environment consists of no more than a hat, jealousy, hatred… Inferior adults about adolescents stroll – and yet he has only to maladjust by reason… Feelings are sexual…”
I would like to peep inside the hole in the wall. What is there to see this time? And why is she in there, that creature I’ve never seen before and never will again? The distinction between the intelligent, the curious and the mentally lame. The fat man was of the lame kind. He continued to disturb me.
”Our old fairground attractions… Adolescence, obviously prurient. And I don’t want to be the provocative gait. I don’t care how I want to be kept. Because of copulation, anyone who keeps someone for money… Not the root of the trouble… Something that would do that. I’ll tell you what designed this perfection: It is with the money. Loved someone. And around him, all the sensations of dependent emotions… Dependent too would be… And drink and, yet, he… Terrible. At least let me, because I’m so dependent… Touch him. Still emotionally. I had it with my parents’ movies. Just across too. I’m getting a little… Because I feel so helpless… Eight-millimeter movies. Sly at someone’s mercy, a kind of free choice. Some street wearings only (oral pleasure). Frustrations to do it. And somehow I know the promiscuity in itself is a form… Somehow their pity deprived in a town square and of ”many loves” because of not buying sexuality. Some adopt very ingeneous complexes that interfere time – the euphoric ability effectively and with feelings of guilt, hatred, subject to coercion and a special suit. Co-emotions.These fears, and it goes without saying, and a pair of trousers… Women who are neurotic apply to typical cases. Man taking his Sunday, in early childhood, burlesque manner. They steal all the wonders…”
The cause of the flaws. Early imprints late at night. A glimpse of something that could, in the best of all worlds, be beautiful. But this is not the best of all worlds.
Scratch the surface and behold the diametrical story. Reading reverse characters and plots, marvelling at the cleverness of these male and female animals and everything inbetween them.
”No, you are not… You are exactly the opposite of everything you claim. Disguising your passions with brilliance and your lusts with aphorisms culled from an amoral historical tapestry. Notes from the underground, but beware of the stains on the floor…”
Hello my best friend. Let me share half an hour of my life with you. You won’t regret it.
(Thirteen minutes that were literally sorely regretted…)
The fat man continued, but noone really cared to listen…
”I chose a lesser evil. I wanted a lady, made for the conception of the base, ejected. I wanted to do that. Sacrificed, alas, on the altar, as to defy the laws of choice. And the buyer is a given for this. Sometimes he reminded me… A will for a stated period to their roles (after some lace). And he had an activity presumably at least appreciated. There is rational music all subject to shame and taboo. The Christian mysticism could really touch none. Follow this pattern. Which story of Christ’s Passion as photographs? It was in a very courageous… Have used the street, as a matter of fact, stark naked, or strut through masochistic orgies. The best for the peepshow, the choice in my life. That movie really bothered me. The bearded lady, the leg. I want to always stop whatever you order for saliromaniac voyeurs. Gives me my freedom. Act as though you were of modern prudery. True power, power of another. Going to fake it long enough of those figures. Were well to direct and command much self-love. Initial difficulties unquestionably must subject the relationship with another’s strong infusion. Not all self-exposed to their faces.”
I looked inside. I saw beyond. I begged the man to be silent as I watched a solitary female dance her little dance in a dark room, lit by only a few bulbs. Desolate, exploited, naked, at the viewers’ mercy (or lack of it). It was perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I could only focus for a second or two before the serenity of the moment was interrupted by a ferocious eruption of pseudophilosophy.
”They wish suffering, as should be. Sometimes they act. The greater the insecurity… Masochistic pornography can rush into theaters… Sexual excesses… The words of the Gospel as a legless lady. And the giant trains, crowded… I love somebody. Voyeurs have now been audacious. All exhibitionism has power over me. To ask humanitarian reasons… Used to stand stark naked… To be so demeaning… I couldn’t be able to adjust them to a congregation of people. Not wanting to be kept. I liked to demonstrate their gifts. To be in an economically masochistic sexuality, opportunity arises. Such financial independence… Possible to read the shoes, a long overcoat, the tremendous thing about this. A number of sectarian knees. An elegant gentleman better about it with them. A pretext for their Sadism… Fling the coat open. I like to believe I have some. When they were taking Ment Fraternity as the scene, they often became fat. They were doing a take on nature. But sex, as such, is excessive masturbation. Enjoying every minute of me and King Midas. He represents the seeking, right? Tough for them to shoot these perfect looking people. A feeling of frustration and consequence are unable best games. The finest food an orgasm may involve! A person. Literally speaking of it, and none of it could. Other negatives to be admired and loved at a distance. To the world, to occur among one person. The great studio where they shot neurotic influences. The same holds true for the thought of making a…”
The fat man suddenly turned silent. I withdrew my eye from the hole in the wall. The woman was just a mirage now, a hazy figure in a dream, a distant and miniature love doll for others to enjoy. I wondered if she was alive at all or just a collective projection stemming from the lurid desires of those shady characters present. Me and the fat man and… Well, no one else, it seemed.
By the door was a mirror. When looking at my reflection, I saw the image of the same fat man I had seen sitting beside me. It was definitely time to go home.
Outside the establishment in question, a fair, fine and cold day was about to dawn. I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled the crisp, cold air. I was sober and clear again. For the moment, I thought to myself and smiled. For the moment.
I can still hear the music
Remember the good old days. Forget about tomorrow. Recall his twisted face. Pain inside the marrow.
Men became jealous and guarded their own. Holy lakes of sewage. An acceptable sacrifice.
They hold aloof from conclusions while they investigate the same. Realise the nominal without a given name.
The promise of a miracle. The legend of a hidden teaching. He left them. Shut himself up in his cell and, they supposed, went to sleep for an hour or more.
I was forbidden to paint pictures of the human form. But I did it all the same. Who’s to blame?
The singing of the pilgrims who roam around the land. Points of focus in blurred states of mind.
Listening to music to arouse longing for music. Beats in synch with human hearts. Sounds in synch with human blood.
Words on music, music on words… It’s all the same to us.
The death point in time and space, the crucial turning point when fatal decline takes full charge and the music stops.
The ministry of eradication taught us that it’s always too late, too late. Too late for what? I can still hear the music.
Faded glory, jaded story. Remember the good old days.
Escapism (Portuguese anthology version, 2008)
If I could travel anywhere
I would travel everywhere
One endless trip
With occasional stops
To assemble the documentation
Escapism is just another word
For the Eternal Return
The Eternal Return
To my own Locus Solus
My mind’s settling down
To its own given balance
There is also destiny
A given point and given time
Masters, gods and pupeteers
I am a mere chroniclerk
But, as such, a free man
Free to return once more
To wherever I choose
Leaving spiritual footprints
Behind and in front
Of the time I’m in
And will be once again
There is also destiny
A frame of reference
A frame of an image
That has yet to be created
Yet to be interpreted
Yet to be torn apart
To be fully integrated
Art and spirit
Fodder for the soul’s revelation
Revealing one’s own strengths
And others’ weaknesses
Stand fast in the
Quagmire of opinions
A branch to grasp for
Only grows from the hearts
Of the very real imaginists
Those with integrated
That are theirs and theirs alone
Only time will tell
Only history will judge
All footprints are eventually erased
From babies’ minds
All one has to do
And actually can do
Is start over
Make me see what you do
Make me do what you see
A particular vision
Containing no regrets
Ultimatums, promises or fulfilments
It really is playback time
And we all share the same
Sensitive to influence
If I could travel anywhere
I would travel everywhere
Assume power focus
Fade to indifference
My psychedelic prayer (2003)
How does one carry on in the spirit of psychedelic illumination withouth being called an old hippie?
I have no idea.
How does one bring about radical, personal change for others to take further?
I haven’t got a clue.
How does one come to terms with the fact that the most grand and overwhelming changes all stem from subtle and quite often invisible sources and forces?
I have no say in the matter.
When you try to describe the essentially indescribable, there’s always the looming danger of becoming a missionary. And the missionary position is not necessarily the best one.
It’s never a question of specific vested interests or even of control of the masses. Let’s not get paranoid. Let’s not get frightened. Let’s NOT get lost.
It is however a question of a more profound quality. The one that constitutes the essence of what most people call their bad conscience. That quality is called honesty. You know what it means: Your own relationship to truth.
If everyone were honest, the world would be a very different place, wouldn’t you agree?
If we go beyond the enjoyable trip trappings, the sensuous neon lights of the soul, the creation of eternities in fragments of seconds, the upheaval of space dissolved in one human sublingual metabolism, one thing remains.
It always remains: The challenge to embrace honesty.
Volatile Eternity (2008 version)
Vile as we may be regarded
We are doing this for you
That a new art may arise
Like the sun over the horizon
Consisting of ruins and ashes
I’m not surprised the really new
Has come to be looked upon
As conservative, reactionary, traditional
A new circle has begun its motion
A new doctrine lies screaming
In its own slime and blood
Birth pangs and will to live
When I cut the umbilical cord
And separate the new doctrine
From art history’s murky past
Things will change
As they always have
Where and who will you be
When I eventually cut the cord
Give it some thought
Because now is the time to cut…