Transgressing boundaries. An aural experience.

Welcome to the Transphonic Museum of Prose

The monsoon is black

water, listen
quiet, be still
apes shriek to the jungle
drums waiting for mysterious design
his mind, at each stellar thought
the sounds of reptiles
green wilted jungles
but no drought
beating wings
the monsoon is black and full of rhythm
Be the storm
go with the eyes, the colour of Egyptian kohl
promising the impossible
are the leaves dead?
Or is the oasis in a glade?
hearing each dishonest skyscraper

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