1. |
Spaces
10:35
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SPACES (János Pilinszky)
Hell is a space-experience. So is heaven.
Two kinds of space. Heaven is open,
we can see the other one down,
as if in a basement room,
we can see it down from above as if
peeping downwards from a staircase
through the door of a basement room
opened (left open?) on purpose.
What’s happening there is exactly what’s
unbearable to me. Perhaps nothing more
than a rag-bag being opened,
figuring out how much a swan weighs,
or talking about something
with the only being I love
thousand times over and over again,
something that can and may never be
either written or spoken about.
Translated N. Ullrich Katalin
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2. |
Shell
04:52
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SHELL (Attila Kalóczkai)
Coprus Invictus
A shell inhaled by light
captures us.
Sticky globe in bloom.
It’s tentacles weave a web.
Arriving through a wormhole
borning spirit tears,
throws shackle
stirring up the peace of
immaterial space.
It dissolves the glue drops of
an invisible clay fabric
woven by thousands of spools,
corpuscula kneaded from ashes
tears the looming net.
Setting goad
stopped by defusing skin.
Swooning discharges.
Welded hiatus filling
skull moves.
Creating chance.
Internal support of sinews,
expansive universe of veins
filling tenderized surface
of flesh.
Soft piles built by
membranes
sticking to each other
pugged bones from dust:
Corpus victoria.
Gobbled flesh, muscle.
Pulverized bones in
the granite mortar of the body
soft piles disintergrating like
membranes.
Rigidity of the crop,
internal support of sinews,
universe of veins,
this much was given without
bone and flesh.
Motionless squeaky shell,
skull-lost cavity,
electrical dischargesthat run on the surface,
stimulate to pow.
Space-filling fermion ashes
thousand spools warp invisible fabric
from clay.
In captivity of sticky drops.
The soul is a paralyzed wayfarer.
Empty substance is twitching
a handshackled spirit.
Doesn’t let to pass.
It prohibits rebirth
through a wormhole.
A net ripped from the inside
kneaded into a sticky dumpling.
Dark substance’s sling tosses
from the peel’s captivity.
Body, you're defeated.
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3. |
Fox
04:28
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FOX (Attila Kalóczkai)
I am a stuffed fox
in my own shop window.
The smoke draws a line between my ears.
The parishioners stand with their heads bowed.
Innocent eyes
creakily demand me back to life.
Tears pervade my skin.
Yet they worship me, yet they believe in me.
I dig no more trenches.
I avoid no more traps.
I hunt no more victims,
and that's enough.
I'm a stuffed fox
in my own pulpit.
Body to body,
shoulder to shoulder.
I seek a new enemy.
I have sold myself,
The souls of my followers breathe new
life into me.
I dig no more trenches.
I avoid no more traps.
I hunt no more victims,
and that's enough.
I am a stuffed fox
on my own altar.
Behind my mirror is mercury
or a door.
Here you are! - I show the way.
The parishioners stand with their heads bowed.
While I was alive I was a coward,
yet in my death I'm worshiped.
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4. |
Mud
04:32
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MUD (Attila Kalóczkai)
When the conserved mud pulls you down
you don't even notice it.
You dig your face in it
rather than see it from above
how we wallow in what
we wouldn't want to experience.
Faceless bodies around you.
Lives stuck inbetween
slowly whirling
Stretchy black sods.
You don't see it yet.
You have to escape,
tug yourself out from
the perverse attraction
of your neon-nylon existence.
You pull yourself out
by your soggy hair.
You temper a stucked digital shitdumpling
and scroll it as a scarab.
Horizon ruling
rolled back arms
roar at you.
You seemingly dominate it,
it seems to escapes.
Your titan prothesis chrunches.
The generated energy
of your vein's blood stairway
doesn't get to the core for you to see:
you only became the prisoner of
yet another nonexistent space.
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5. |
Lament
03:03
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LAMENT (Sándor Vály)
Mother, Mother, My dear Mother!
People come and pile up knowledge.
They build a tall tower from it
to break God into atoms.
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6. |
Pendulum
11:37
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PENDULUM (Attila Kalóczkai)
He saw the factory crumbling,
where among the circle of body-pressed tins
absess-blessed patriarchs
in crimson velvet slippers planed rugged concrete floors.
A screaming mist builds
a forced barrier
between unsecrated walls
uncleaned of creation.
Eyes covered with cataracts,
bodies swaying in a forced path,
servant-gods overseen by
forward leaning tilting foreheads.
The pendulum made a quiet path through an Oculus,
handing out gouty hands,
over the tubs leaning knotty fingers
kneading life from mud and bread.
Existence coiled in soft spasm were born
entrusted to scarfed and sackclothed bodies
leaving depressed reliefs
at the bottom of breathing tin tubs.
Seers emerged
in sloppy aspic.
Their fingers were spasmed
by non-worldly tentacles.
They have been given souls without believing,
divided ways
of time and space,
soulless vision.
Shock, distorted,
silent howls,
parallel
realities.
Pouring
touches,
sound,
images,
smell,
taste.
Unprocessable set of
past, space, future
roasts coiling
brain surface.
Choked breath,
bending up spine,
pendulum-hugging
creation brake.
Roar.
Silence.
Invisible
rope
clinging down
from Heaven.
Pendulum.
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7. |
Landscapes
05:22
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LANDSCAPES (Sándor Vály)
I dreamed with pictures,
with Chinese girls tied up,
tied in knots under their soft, sweaty groins,
with yellow bells on their swollen breasts.
Solar eclipse on their painted masks
The world went dark, or something inside me .
In melting furnaces the white wax-time.
I flee in the landscape bending over me,
wraps me up, crinkles, twists.
I travel by boat, train, plane.
There is a problem with my passport everywhere.
I live in deserted towns, in roadside motels
sleeping on tables in underground bars at nights.
Genderless non-being, silent stillness,
roadless road, dull lights,
a restless soul on the threshold of action.
Passively following my own fate
infinite moment in the shrunken space.
God has cast the Eden out of us,
armed angels guard the gate now.
It is today, tomorrow and always,
the space has become a prisoner of dead time,
this is the border!
I looked at the sky behind my masks,
at the double eclipse.
Melted celestial furnaces'
little death figures heave at me,
no one can escape from this city.
here death is imprisonment for life
I'm stuck in the landscape
I'm stuck in the landscape
I'm stuck in the landscape
I'm stuck in the landscape
I'm stuck in the landscape
I'm stuck in the landscape
I'm stuck in the landscape
I'm stuck in the landscape
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8. |
Tower
24:03
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TOWER (Attila Kalóczkai)
Resurrecting missed,
accidental touch,
loud fuss,
mind-numbing stimulus.
Streets of centuries crumpling towards the sky,
remaining past creates.
An age that never existed
disinterest of gone times.
Conscience shaped from desire
the desire of conscience
suddenly hogties.
Enveloping colourless gloom.
I am controlled
by a device burned into my retina.
Behind the trash heap
door of giants,
hard wood, iron plate resists.
Behind it are perhaps
an abandoned stable,
a sacred place,
proud humiliation,
humiliating clumsiness,
...
creeping shadows of life.
Flayed body looks down with contempt
from the pedestal,
granite pulley winding towards the heavens,
squeaky rusty lawn,
limbs drowning in obscurity.
Hanging from the vault on black chains,
rising from the cauldrons
a fragrant white mist billows,
sniffing in the centre of a winged altar
a swaying worldly gateway.
It is a fog embracing a tower
hides its grace,
its sturdy metal legs spread wide.
Nurturing thermal power station of bodies,
throbbing flesh produced heat,
disappearing world.
Dead-end river, on slimy basalt
shuffling blank stares at night,
crowded, faces buried in books,
coloured lanterns casting no shadow.
Drunken, sweating, silent towers,
scattered blind eyes,
broken giants built from one body,
soundless collective
protest of loneliness.
The arches of whips stiffened into timelessness shine,
bundled pain floats,
you move slowly, touch,
and bypass them all.
You do not know yet that this is
the rising memento of your suffering.
Silence breaks into wheels,
its pain creates anger,
behind an impenetrable wall
is a given up future, a conscience deceived.
You fled backwards to the
sleepy alleyway in front of the
square of Resurgence,
into the filling tranquility of
the certain emptiness.
You no longer need
tell anything.
Experience anything.
Your focus can drag you free.
Tower pulled down by
the mind.
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Sandor Valy Finland
Sándor Vály (1968) is an audiovisual artist born in Hungary and currently living in Finland and Italy. Vály’s art is characterised by conceptual and philosophical dimension, which he uses to operate in the field of contemporary art. His work ranges from music to cinema, performance art and literature. Vály creates holistic works of art that form extensive entities ... more
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