1. Tony Touch – Just Be Good To Me (Buy)
2. Major Lazer & La Roux – Colourless Artibella (Buy)
3. Major Lazer & La Roux – I’m Not Your Lemonade + Heroes n Villans Remix (Buy)
4. Sapphire Slows – Spin Lights Over You (Buy)
5. Patti Smith – Redondo Beach (Buy)
6. The Cool Kids – Gas Station (feat. Bun B) (Buy)
7. Emika – 3 Hours (Buy)
8. Technotronic – Take It Slow (Buy)
9. Willie Rosario – Shining Knight (Buy)
10. Carl Bradney – Slipping Into Darkness (Buy)
11. Young Marble Giants – Brand – New – Life (Buy)
12. The Rapture – It Takes Time To Be a Man (Buy)

Featuring artist Rupprecht Geiger on the cover.

*BRING THAT BEAT BACK MIXTAPE

*INTERVIEW with Wilfried Huet

In The Grace Of Your Love

Rain Of Blessings

Everything Is Over

Star Light

Like A Stranger

Lucky Cloud

Are You That Somebody

Two Suns

Little By Little (Caribou Remix)

A Dream of Travel, Exclusively Recorded for Dream The End

An Event About Which No More Need Be Said, Exclusively Recorded for Dream The End

Clear in the September Light, Exclusively Recorded for Dream The End

You again, of the singing wound
here again, lost and found and lost
trafficking in metaphysics and eternity
as the nearest hopes

where to, pilgrim
outdistancing chasms
rationing emotions
seeking sustenance

for the self too subtle and proud
for words
nocturnal flower, nurtured solitude
watered night

there you go, restraining the impulse
to say it all at once
even surrounded by silence
still filled with noise

now, having stirred some thrumming
hour when the moon throws
her full-bodied light
over all, like a silver screen night
of silent films, the whirring
of the reel.

A pile of white towels in the corner;
a duct-taped X on your bedroom floor.
The backdrop is pitiless, like a late Rothko,

the Marlboro smells belated—
and I grow nostalgic
for absolutely nothing.  I want more than your little

lash marks, your vulgar watch.  More
than art school.  More than the greatcoat
in Tom Ford’s last Gucci collection

(“I’m stunning”, the mirror lies).  I want lust
as cold, precise, and prescriptive
as the en dash of a dead man.

I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything,
even your ears.

Happily may their roads back home be on the trail of pollen. Happily may they all get back. In beauty I walk. With beauty before me, I walk. With beauty behind me, I walk. With beauty below me, I walk. With beauty above me, I walk. With beauty all around me, I walk. It is finished in beauty, It is finished in beauty, It is finished in beauty, It is finished in beauty.

look look look
until you become so sheer
that you allow swallows
to nest in your breast Touch
my tiny fingers so you can float
in the air over shades
With eyes closed balance barefoot
on the rough hemp rope
Under the palms of your hands
over the night my whispers gather:
I will never sleep again
You will never visit Africa

To say how much I’ve missed you, I offer this,
at most mist, at least assorted letters, lists,
numbers I insist tell stories. I kissed you
last, Dad, in the casket in which you passed on,
to some next place, but last listened for your voice
last night, these long years after, will listen next
when next oppressed by blue-gray, as I am now,
as I, thus lost, am always by your absence.

Light creates space.
Darkness is richly filled volume.
Light is empty space.
Colour is the meeting between the dark dust of the earth and
the light from the gold of the sun.
Their collision produces indigo if dust dominates, red if light
wins, green if light and dust are in balance.
They are the colours of the forest.
There is a moment in which the trees and the colour of the
forest are at the centre of man’s culture.
It is the moment in which man’s religious beliefs merge into
the things which surround them, the moment in which man
starts to think, to calculate time and to write about it with
the names of trees which harmonises with their vegetative
cycle. Through observation of the forest we sense the rules
for calculating and understanding the passage of life, to
articulate the timing of things.
It is the moment which witnessed the gods of the seasons
engrain themselves in the trees.
The names of the divinities thus contained in the wood of the
trees?
An alphabet of trees?
The writing of forest letters?
It is tempting to think that the sound of a word or of a name
is transcribed with forest letters.
How sacrilegious the Phoenicians were.
It was they who destroyed the sacredness of writing, who
corrupted poetry with the prose of writing enslaved to money.

Far away from everything, here I am,
sitting by a window.
Gloomy and sad,
I am troubled with words.
I knit my brows.
The sun is shining through the window and is warming me up.
I have just finished my lunch, I do not know what to do.
I take a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that are running
over my face. In all seriousness, I also wipe away the tears that
are running down my neck.
I am so tired.
I arrived at this hotel by taxi,
Just after midnight.
I was completely disoriented and could not sleep, I was afraid.
While I wanted to look like the sun, the moon,
shining in turns,
I was there, deprived of too many things.
I remember having been happy, and now I am sad.
I evoke my past sadnesses, and I am sad.
My mind is like the memory of my sentiments.
This morning, I took a bath, but nevertheless I feel hopelessly filthy.
My hotel is situated outside the village where I work.
There is water only twice a day.
Except for this morning, it is raining all the time.
People say that on the third day of Creation, it rained so hard on
earth that the god of mankind went up to settle down in the skies,
so as to be closer to the sun.
People also say that as far as art is concerned, reality is somewhere else.
The question arises of how to save oneself.
I would very much like to leave this evening.
To settle on the moon,
to proudly crawl like an eel on paws.
To go and restore my reality.
I would love the flowers, dresses with flowers.
I would write like people wrote in those days.
With lots of symbols, spaces filled with meanings,
filling the typographers with joy.
I would lie down on Récamier couches.
I would read stories about the delights of laziness.
I would evoke with another woman of my life,
memories as delicious as can be…
I thought I had lost everything,

My name is Marlene.
When I was small, they called me –‘Kinnie’.
Because I always pointed to other children, with –
<<Look at the Kinnie!>>
My daughter’s name is Helena.
When she was small I called her – ‘Goggatjie’.
(In Afrikaans it means a very small beetle or insect.
A ladybird e.g. is a goggatjie.)
Mam-ma
Dad-da
gag-ga
gog-ga
It feels nice in the mouth.
Light and round, it pleases the tongue.
But she’s growing. Now she’s ten.
She no longer looks like that.
Still we miss it. Gone is that time, with that name.
When I say it now as an expression of love
it is to convey closeness, not resemblance.
Soon new loves will name her anew,
without asking me.

I’ve heard that the name of God
is whispered into the ears of a Muslim baby.
The first words that he hears at his birth
are the same, he hopes to utter
when he dies.
As a teenager I bought records for their covers
I drank wine for their labels
I painted paintings for their titles
But
what was the name, of the first man, to go insane?