Century Of Hands

by Victory Over the Sun

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with every passing day i watch a red nose grow upon my drunken house. plunging in its cavernous enclosure i try to find the light but drown in mucus and in bile which gushes out in rivers at the sight of unfamiliar angles, a leg askew, a lonely ear, a drooling eye, another running heart. running into the stubbled street, my soles adorned with razor blades, i scrape the chin of every highway in this city without walls or towers. broken glass still reflects quiet room, heart still pounds endless rays unaligned begging for answers broken neck reaching out without hope or a cause silent songs are still songs if you listen. in my dreams i see my face, a nacreous disc suspended in space. in my dreams i know your place, a hole in the wall and a vacant embrace. underneath the city’s skin i grow, a genital network of roots, blind and swollen, slowly absorbing forms and phantoms. "we shot the past." "is anything left?" "not a trace." "is the void profound?" "it ventilates the whole city." i am a living book, listing lamentations, moaning, and woe. i am a city without walls or towers.
absolute isolation of the one you tried to be so absolute in your last isolation of the one sound you knew could summon god’s throat that you forgot to sing. i think you’re a bore. if only you knew... quiet, empty, walled all sounds the same
century of hands that reach from a burning point in time. in each crease a flock of birds nests. on each fingertip, a grove of palms in blossom, swathed in the scarred scarves of holy words and cradled in the wet arms of your tongue, contracting and turning, demures. where the sun should hang, above the manifold of salt and sulfur respires a symmetry of hands collapsing into three vertices of light. on each crease a flock of birds nests. On each fingertip a grove of palms in blossom, swathed in the scarred scarves of holy words and cradled in the wet arms of your tongue, expanding and bursting, excoriates and signifies in forms the isometric etching of its lost song: “torn asunder by thorn and thunder born a hart and died a hunter.” comprehending this, i glimpsed in my own hand the flocks and orchards fading now but still alight with bastard wings and pinnate branches sloughing off my skin to grasp at what i could not know, as the hand said,


released April 20, 2018

written, recorded, performed, and produced by Vivian Tylinska

featuring Zachary Beadle on soprano sax (track 1)

album art by Emily Zetkulic

with special thanks to Grace Moon, Martin Wienc, CJ Davis, Chace McNinch, Quinn Spencer, and Val Dorr


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Victory Over the Sun Portland, Oregon

a girl who makes noise

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