Get all 12 Hoopoe Industries releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of broke body skeletal redeem nothing, Deschooling Society, Effects, Sentences from a book, SOLAR DATA, Broken Utopia (days spent asking why), The Sound of the Earth Turning, Driftworks, and 4 more.
1. |
The Garden
05:15
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To enter the earth between my nails as it passes over my teeth, and taste the worms as they burrow and shit, following that passage of entrails, down and then out to rock, the earth between them, bitter, and full of menace, slowly spreading a disease across the tongue, and bits of living matter, too small to know, but they know enough themselves of the slime of it, or exist within that slime, and multiply, a garden, a hellscape, moist and full of menace, just one or two is enough, to burrow down, or be taken in, through each pore, to multiply in further recesses of wet potential, from which the surfaces draw, stretching upward from the death of the tongue, gone to waste by its own, and, in pieces, drawn into a new form, it had no need of the nails, the teeth and what they prised apart, since the tongue is nothing but a slave to the destruction of something else, fortunately, and will be replaced, no longer having anything else to destroy, and feed, something else, above the surface, which spreads, and eats its own, the tongue long gone, and the thing above bigger, less beholden, doing something the tongue can no longer suffer.
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2. |
Lamplighters
05:38
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The outcrop held the attention of those in the bay, having appeared at first light, with the tide, and the light, shadows passing over the edges, too far to discern precisely, greased still by the wash, and slime, that gathered and swept inward with each wave so that feet were coated, and trod it back to their homes, where it lay, in lines, unclean, stuck to the floor, things stuck to it, so that the furniture no longer moved, and anything dropped could not be picked up, held in stasis, but the feet, still trod, and moved, from home to bay and back, if not usually to see the outcrop, but something else, like the colour today of the slime, and the dead fish. On the second day the outcrop was gone, a drain appeared at the mid water mark through which the materials of the bay had sunk, the sand, some other things, the feet yielding against the pull, the ground below the feet falling, shifted by particle, the tide no longer rising beyond that point, the drain had no destination, through which nothing fell back out, the sea itself retreating, with the sand, the outcrop was sought in the middle distance, with houses vanishing down the slope, undercut feet, all materials travelling about them, as they stood, and watched, so it slid away, a partition wall, another staircase, the bedrock ground out, the feet set against the fall despite each collision, the undertow, cows, other livestock, drawn inward, their attention unyielding, standing against the draw of it.
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3. |
Terraqueous
05:04
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Across the slime at the edges of the water, legs hauled over the other, to flight in hours two years in the swamp margin eating smaller ones, my children sit, no people sit, I have no people, look and look I say, they look this great emergence from the swamp not horror, or terror, just is and just continues, I hold each child my love above to relieve themselves the water falling to a centre, seemingly, nothing without us, or nothing with us, feel the extent my children drawing desire, I live outside myself these days in each child, regarding the insects, each carapace empty in the nettles, leaves, dry, stalks, dry, lined with dead discarded skin, in flight to breed lay eggs and fall to matter, they look, the thing with wings keeps crawling to the other side, stand still my people, I have no people, I am no person, and see the traces of effort legs against slime pulling tails containing wings into the bank, lifting themselves, the extent of which, look my children, the children of people, there must be people if I feel myself in my children, but then, if so, people are no longer people, but something else, see them rise, the vastness of their effort not just here but there and all along, the entire reach at the edge of the water alive with emergence no person sees, but there is no way to make them see, or see myself I decide, not properly no, do not force it a dream state that will not come, or something like it where magnitude and awe, we are never struck, except rare moments before my mind closes to sleep comes and the vastness draws at the innards, uplift beyond guilt, the stupor in which I lived that day becomes apparent, the potential to have lived otherwise appears outside space and time, a black hole at the centre of every galaxy spewing out experience no gravity well will capture, but my people I rarely feel as we walk, a persistent stupor, my life, not my life, my children, at this swamp, stand, look, these insects, their cycle, their uplift, their pointless insectile movement, that stupor, not stupor, just living.
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4. |
Collapse
06:42
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Down through the pines from the lake, shards, unevenly distributed, and the odd nose, of wood, as the caterpillars rose from their dens and began to grind at the things they found above the surface, we sat, and watched, looking through pines, and said, do not emerge, but they did, and gnawed, and so we said, go back, to which they raised a head and looked at us with that look they have, so they carried on, and we looked on, and thought about the pines which they ate, as the sun began to filter through, with the gold bar that we left alone, having no value now that the world was done, right through to the bone, each bone without its marrow, hollow and whitened by the glare, our eyes long gone so that we looked from pits at the destruction of the pines, no wind, just destruction, from the entrails, water rising as vapour through the trunks that were still left and surrounding our knees, such as they were, that fell to pieces nonetheless, as knees do, eventually, nothing to walk for, just caterpillars and their dust from the tombs they made, hanging from each bit of wood remaining of the pines, that did nothing each year the earth warmed but fall, slowly, to pieces, the tombs hanging so long as they could, until there was nothing to hang from, or to emerge for, in flight, as the dust gathered, and we, or those bits of us, rolled slowly to the pit that was once a lake, and that we looked at, through the pines, as we wondered, when we could still wonder what would happen to this place now that nothing could be done, and our knees had no further reason to propel us, about, because the caterpillars did not heed us, and we knew, as they rose, that nothing would replenish, or grow from these woods, once the last great feast, of caterpillars and the like, had taken all that remained, and was still good, and turned it to shit.
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5. |
Crossbow
05:25
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Truncate and return, the argument that was not made, and take the argument that was not made to return it to its place, of absence, to the bird that died and returned last week, having hit the window, in the face, or beak, stunned at first then dead, or just dead outright, having no audience to hear it, or listen to the thud, I drag the thing in and across the pavement, too small to pull along but there is no lifting dead things, eggs already laid between each eyelid, a small corpse between my fingers, truncate and return in peace, of gravel, feathers, and eggs, laid by flies not slow to land, another one does it again, days later, the same flies land eggs between the lids, too small to bury, pulled across the grass, there is no lifting things like that, she finds it sad, I feel nothing, but that nothing feels more strongly than feeling felt before, gravel, feathers, no feelings of any kind, still, but the feeling of no feelings, and reluctance, to lift the thing, and truncate and return the argument that is now dead in me too, like all writing written dies and then I feel nothing, if I felt anything, in suspense, a dead space between the doing, with eggs between the lids that surely must hatch and say something different, only, I cannot see it, but raise the thing I cannot lift, to the wall, without feeling, another dead space, this side and the other, where I drop it out of sight.
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6. |
Vapour
07:40
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[-death state-]
Sea mist, great falsifier, sit and gather, twin turbines, twin wings, ancient entrails of man, of pride, national pride before nations and the love of nations, split flints, shards in the eye, of states that drop death fire and food parcels, that give aid, erect plinths, and patrol their coasts with craft and aircraft, of drones, white cliffs, of pride, no pride, punctured, houses, white houses, no walls to speak of, nothing to be proud of, no state deserves pride, the glorious dead and the love of state deserve one another, let them, and the state dead, and death in state, state funerals, state monuments, stately conceit, the man, the man who kills, the man who is loved for killing, who says killing was necessary, or denies the killing, limbs from bodies, bodies from their earth, and earth from their bodies, save our way of life, please, bodies gathered up and exported and said to, not here, because here is the place where the price of admission, so drown, and so, do not ask, thank you, thank me, thank them, just say, and swear on it, great falsifier, that thing you swear on, your symbol of destruction, false engines, twin propellers, death below wings that flew, and declared, this is glory, strength and glory, or just suggested, battle on, nothing more, great sacrifice, back there, back then, thank them again too, glorious past, destroyers past, destroyers present, make amends, bring buckets, and bury one another in the sand.
[-state death-]
Death at the edge of things, the sea, its furthest reaches, turned back too thin to be in, but they stand nonetheless, perpendicular to the wedge, sometimes only by one leg, turning what become flat, upward, what turns upward flat, stood there, in this new plane, standing upright, reaching upward, and feeling as wrong ontologically, but right in feeling wrong, angle set, the jaw of each, sublimated, a world flat, always been, defied, reaching, extending by spread, doing nothing, nothing doing but extend, outward, to the mudflats and into the deep where state death, and state funerals, meet funeral of state.
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7. |
Cordite
06:36
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Tracer fire makes no distance along lines of plastic, held tight around each knuckle, and placed, in anchorage, by the pyramid.
Do not judge them by what they breed, it reads, but by what they eat, and what eats by what it rejects.
A drip, and code, of refracted air between people who forget, and remember, how much it costs to hold themselves in wire and ego, or ego skins, skins that mark the extent of the ego, to peel before light and cordite.
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8. |
Foam
03:10
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Spaces between fences and wire irradiated by sun, the sign of a break, each tide of man bringing in something worse to lay upon the mark of distended appetites and cyanide, licking the foam of the last frenzy that was lived before the spaces opened up again, between walls and bridges, for the wandering to start before the wandering stopped, and the spaces closed in for a spell, the foyer empty, and the hangar too, its chains drawn out to sea and down and away to those places where feet still sit in concrete, a sign of the times they set out to conquer, or simply survive, against evil, our own, theirs too, the sponge is a creature that lives in calm waters, she said, and besides, heightened emotion will ruin the mood.
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9. |
Mountain
12:16
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Everything they ate frozen, hard on the tooth, stored in vats, visitors in vats, arrived and saying it so, the break between this time and that, making those who ate turn to wonder, and wonder turn to revulsion, lingering in rotation, vats in two with each half lived under, the protection it gave to a people that, with no vats remaining, life frozen, grow weak and starve, as planned, or by consequence of their revulsion, the kelp or something like kelp holding them down, and the sawing, where they sat, or lay, below crust, for want of places to store their food in bulk, and horde it, oceans of filth, mounds of solid, making home in liquid that solidified before dividing pieces into morsels, with foodstuffs gathered in mounds instead of vats, of mince, of lard, the salt, and everything else they ate, but food in mounds does not keep, does not divide, but falls as prodded, outgrowths at the peak of every mountain apiece, they did not emerge, in any case, from the vats, a structure sawn in two, destroyed by the things that travelled, and reported, which is how they were found, those others, who do not store their food in vats, or mounds, but ate food as it was encountered.
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10. |
Island
06:41
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The last floe to visit against the cenotaph, of manners, protect our glorious, sir—open jaw—rain dirt—friends, and tell the master gunner, that monster, george, as you slumber and thank you for your services, madam, kindly, flee, and off my porch, and mind your paw, except the facts, of minds, the truth this history, of deceit, left window to the bar as an ice cold summer gnaws at the base, and freezes, and thaws, and breaks the culture, non-culture, non-people, people who stand below their flag bloodlines set in chalk, chalk ribbons, the ones without are worse, their flags inside their bodies, of refinement, wet cotton a twisted gut, the gout of them English befoulers of the island, traces of beer and war memorabilia, empty shells and glasses of, we don't do that here, and say, thank you for your pennies too, fine sir and forgotten words of class, and hold my stick because wood must do to conquer the world in lead caskets, stout or ironclad dignity, warship recliners, squalor, carriage lies, sugar, the queen is a roach and the media her, seven foot long and still too short, lines of degraded tar, eat the rich, ah the rich, and then, the middle regions, between the suburbs and because, why, pigs no longer roam the streets or eat the offal, thrice something is thrice something else, seek work, work seekers, eat my offal, flee for the last boats at the cliff, last flight, last orders, fleece England, oh England, I destroy you.
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Hoopoe Industries England, UK
Hoopoe Industries was founded by Emile Bojesen and Ansgar Allen in 2020 and is a home to music of a variety of disciplines, often implicitly or explicitly relating to written work.
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