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Ivor Mutation on Sound Cloud Electronic Dance Music

Ivor Mutation

Electronic Dance Music

The Next X

When love moved me
it changed black stone:

psychometric psychosomatic

placebo effect,
synonym, like magic.
Thereafter,
a spice infused mentat sees a blur in
periphery, fizzing by half closed eye, magnified
precisely, high definition of a noun scape, like a parasitic
paradigm, latches upon the concept of a quark, a string theory
mistake, a pattern shift to a parallax view, quantum mistake, relativity error;
Schrodinger’s cat and photons know, they do.
Know they do when you’re looking. Bends it does, when it thinks we’re not.
Magic is true – it is

energy of two galaxies colliding;
They look so beautiful>>>>
joined tonight, glad I know you now,
two stars combining — spangling brighter night—
in a cool blue light — slide inside your mind
moving in your love-gaze, love me, touch and hold me,
it feels so good to me, loving and owning.

Nobody knows me,
Nobody stole me,
no one knows the soul
crackling static loving and rolling.

I feel so good tonight time isn’t stalling,
filaments of silk entwining, helix is growing,
splitting slowly now it’s a confusion,
tell me what to do, I always do it,
don’t matter what it is,
I’ll do it always.

It feels so new to me,
loving and owning,
now you own me now
we’re both entwining,
soon I’ll be yours to keep,
till I can’t stay there.

But once I’m yours: I’m yours
nobody owns me. Just you.

Herlihy’s Reptile Collection

Georgian crowds bound to him, pondering
a vision: rings of people floating in orbit.

His mind died in damp fog – grey as ashtrays;
croaked, from a throat hollowed brittle
by fags and joints
smoked in a bar, in New York, South Tyneside.

Reborn, at four fifteen, on the cusp of light:
a solitary skink in a tank, in a tower,
in New York, South Tyneside.

Hidden under Shields’ sand,
weaned by electric heat: carefully.
A boy, blond, gawped through glass
blurred and twisted, like mutant pink.
In a tank, in a tower
near New York, South Tyneside.
Skink imagined a birth
pressed out in sharp quartz sand
beneath warm tobacco leaves

mottled, like the Seven Stars floor,
stubbed out fag-end burns,
a tracheotomy’s troublesome stoma
his cigarette holder: raw stingers
void his voltage, and scale a suit

crumpled to second thoughts
that scabbed a doubt:
sky is a strip
of electric light,
slung above a bucket.

Autistica FAbularama BiPolaristica

drilling machinery downwards, plunging
needles, pins a brain synapse connection; widgets
welded rivets – smoke, a thought slug, white head
liverish splendour, grinning, clever sly,
husband of black toothed adultress
- anyone but him. Anytime. He leaves,

glistening diamond studded trails, ooze
behind her rubbery slitherer, grins wide
swivel eyed, on stalks, pervay’s the corpse
dismissively, body rippling, past cackler’s
hysterical laughter at the fat hairless blob
laughing stock and cuckolded slob,
“See? Who the fook are you?”