Bra Moth and His Blues

the moth. no biographies exist. nothing exist for a person like this. he is beuatiful & kind. he is there.

Bra Moth and His Blues


It was now in the night and he hadn’t shown up. The pollen dust is blindly floating and folding in the room. Though now it is hard to tell the difference between the market’s dust with it, the ashy drops of moth’s presence seem to be everywhere—on the table where sketches the moth and a lover made of their naked selves now clustered on crumpled papers, on the room’s chest and the hurt caused by the legs of Moth’s anger and wing cuts when dancing, on the bulb—where the lady-moth had threatened to flow with the circuit.


Later in the night, the house is calm. A first for the time Moth has been here. He doesn’t think of his friends—a pigeon and a snake who went under when the city was turned. There is nothing else that exists in the world. Nothing else but the muffled sounds of distant automobiles either their doors being slammed by late night touts, sleepy or sounds that have nothing to do with this house of the dead, but they are here alright, as a forced soundscape like unwanted static down your eardrums, an OST for your subconscious to jam to. The house is dead. The silence of a beating heart, together with time they now echo each other silently. It can’t be heard. This conjured up scenario also can’t hear. There are light and white walls and stairs of fingers on the edges to the outside or the way back to the Opaque. Dogs bark somewhere as pages flip on their own. He thinks of playing Ewonee on his phone. But that’s also how he will murder this here calm. He then runs his hands across the face to affirm the calmness emitted from the coolness of his cheeks. He flaps his wings. Meanwhile, beeps from a dying power meter are interrupting the hang-out. The electric beeps run loops around his hazy head that it takes him a while before he realizes that it’s not in fact from his head the sounds pierce from but Kenya Power’s calls for attention.


Happy Easter.


The Moth had inscribed on a piece of regret—you shouldn’t have told ‘em about your family. He had an interview earlier that might have blown his cover and now relatives and predators keep on blowing his phone up for a contact, they wanna sky dance with the god, they say. I just wanna chill, he says. From the outside, the full moon makes night dogs to bark. These breeds from the valley nearby have their canines out glaring to the night. At night, day dogs transform into night dogs. That’s how the wolf ghost takes over. The night seems to have gone and grown to a promise for the other creatures. Cockerels of the Opaque city seem to wake up before their time. Night night night. Moth is tired of all nights because the daylight seems to be moving on into them. Sometimes he wishes to stop the invisibility. At night, the only life he ever knew, or at the slightest provocation of the darkness, wings flap, timely, untimely—the movement seems linear, oblivious of the wind currents.
Unable to control the addiction, Moth reaches out for one more drawl. From Darwin’s insanities, he had learnt about another one of his old relative with a long-ass proboscis that suckles nectar from a wild tobacco flower. Then says of how this Easter’s smoke will be his last. Moth hopes this much is true. Thoughts then hazily drift to the reflection of the dim bulb on the panes. It shows two – a shadow and an echo.

Luna Moth’s winged adults will appear in late May or early June.
When you were barely winged, as a baby… for you were an infant then, though you saw but you swear that you don’t remember the tragedy. Life was happening, strangely. Things happened. They happened so fast in his short life that the army matching in Thugu never appeared anywhere else in his memory until series of photographs were extracted from his brain then paraded in the Moth’s room for his seven year old self to see. To remember. He didn’t remember. But the photographer caught him on his mom’s wings, green. Luna. Her eyes were all over, lost, transfixed into nothingness. Luna Moth wore a floral skirt, dark red or a different shade of red with dark brown flower patterns that disappeared into panels to appear again as the fabric in another flower pattern. Legs dangled on the side of her hips.


The hearth is your womb. Your birth is fire. That night it rained. You cringed to the earth. Your smell not that of petrichor but ashy. Wetty. Base. You smelled of death. When the daylight came, it found you breathing for life. Some of you had gone with the foam, the mucus of the first flowing water. The ones left on the side waited for the sun to dry. Then it dried. And then the wind came and took you away. You fell everywhere like subjects in The Parable of the Soils. You then became wun with pollen and with the wind and dust. You must have been a tree once. Your leaves canopied the below, now their place taken over by aging And Town’s spheres, like a dwelling you created. Insects like bugs camouflaged on your bark.


moth thoughts of simulation\\oscillating love\\rain also fell\\felt\\from the skies\\wings unable to hold their source\\kundalini serpent that disentangled your spine\\voice from a radio\\1982\\coup formation\\how moth flew\\across in the dark\\fingers felt touchy\\pollen on the fingertips\\spectral wind brushing your cheeks to home\\calmness lulled to a rhyme\\he walked home barefoot\\i can’t fly\\he says
Petrichor had condensed, piling up in moth’s misty eyes as he walked home. The room was in color of the dark web and this ghostly hue that emitted from nostalgic haunted corners.


DMC World Champion 1991
(From the YouTube comment section, Moth lifted this up for a cut-paste study practice, unable to edit some for the authenticity; the proclamations were left as they were uttered to the reader)

‘That dude’s name is David Fascher and his father was the owner of the legendary club where the Beatles started on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg – Star Club!’
‘I wonder how much amphetamine it takes to mix that fast’
‘See that pro needle drop at 1:10. Try doing that on stage live.’
‘Strong beginning 0:04, unusual set up, moves so quick that people just can’t look away, unforgettable ending 5:49!’
‘the year is 2991’
‘No one with such a fast ultra handing expected. Many performance ideas from FASCHER (also of DJ. Q-BERT) were then copied years until today. D. FASCHER wanted only FUN & showed everyone where it went long (wrong)..!!! DJ. Q-BERT wanted presents & more than ever as a living legend & absolute as the No.1 CULT Old School Master. So he’s always professional (and) present.’
‘uma vez o dj Q bert disse que o david foi o melhor dj de performance da historia do Dmc. nan boa , eu sempre concordei!eu ja conhecia o torneio por causa das fitas em VHS que conseguia na 24 de maio e pra mim a apresentaçao do cash money era a melhor que ja tinha visto em 1989.quando esse alemaozinho magrelo apareceu sem usar fone, canhoto e com uma musicalidade fudida eu que na epoca tinha 15 anos mas ja era envolvido com o hip hop no metro sao bento, fiquei sem entender mas depois de rever centenas de vezes me tornei um fan numero um desse cara. o DMC de 1991 apenas confirmou essa lenda que ele e hj’
‘Q-bert seen his last part spinning on deck.Q just turn back and leave..i can feel his down…yes!!!’


Old tape compilations of Sun Ra’s oddities resurface to Moth’s knowledge in obscure bootlegging blogs. Some carried in broken links. There was also a Cortex or something else he had never heard before. The other day Daniel Johnston discog zip file lay dead. Luckily that shit was on mega.
LeRoi screaming on Black Mass, a dark A Guy Called Gerald remix of something some blog had put moth on, the listening feels like a mourning performance, a past that’s really gone.
Outside: defunct Mariga’s Jubilee posters, bets and due dates, hacked iebc systems, cambridge analytica dartboard of a Kiruma-man’s drone mugshot now a kichungi of a million tiny pricking.
Sand particles moved to sound in an experiment of visual the creature had heard, it thought of Space Base reenactments of beat soup bass caressing your face like a lover with wings but now softer—that tenderness. ‘It blew me away.’ Electrically shook, shocked—through the wire— sometimes the bass shocked the sound system into a bereavement of some sort. The dead man’s music sounded like an exotic leso proverb. This psithurism of bare branches waited patiently for some rains of sorts. Soft rains or not, leaves against wind one day when their time is done they will hurl themselves lightless against each other and branches that held them to a decomposing lake of dead forms and worms which might reflect each other eternally. The worms fed on the warmth and sound of morbidity. The creatures gnawed through the earth’s electric currents to the barren land where mourners’ feet had stomped, getting jiggy with it, on their dance of the dead—for a fix.
We don’t loop that here! The woman screamed to the man behind a sampler. His gaze poured down to a silence. Moth banged his head on the walls to stop these conversations of imaginary human objects.
The voices say:
Where are you going? Come back here! You think you can just desert these voices just like that?
The wings are tired for being still, they flapped endlessly to a motion. Moth didn’t return. The fading shouts bade farewell to the room into the outside. Moth hadn’t been out since… since birth, but the birth was a trauma Moth never wanted to revisit.

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