#surrealistic

psychedelic and indie music from Winterthur, Switzerland.

Capturing the dreamlike warmth of a summer evening by the ocean.

The song builds to a cinematic, strangely calm post-rock climax. Recorded alone in a basement.

Stream or buy:

The Face of Mae West Which Can Be Used as a Surrealist Apartment"

gensou no hi

A blinding flash— The sun strikes black top. A brass cymbal crashes. Screaming. Shouting. Plastic slides melt. Midday glare. Tag! You’re it! Laughter rises, A bubbling fountain. Twenty paces away, Chain-link rusts. Cardboard collapses. Concrete beams press. A frozen world. A forgotten breath.

Smell that? Mock-orange blossoms, Heavy, suffocating. White petals spill. Bumblebees whir, Drunk on gold light, Past razor wire. Yellow shorts flash. A runaway ball. Sneakers thud. Under the overpass, Elderberries swell, Bloated to bursting. Purple juice drips— drip. drip. Sodden synthetic. A sleeping sack stained. Spine bent in a crack. Petrol chokes fruit.

Look closer. Neon billboard flashes. A luxury watch glows. Brilliant, expensive gold Over a hollow cheek. A cough of rust. A grey hand trembles. A suburban dream floats. Pastel chalk clouds. Lace dress swirling. Strawberry ice cream. Clean linen scent. Lavender, fresh lawns. They step over green. Glowing chemical puddles. A castaway shivers. Ruined winter coat. Toxic heatwave bakes. Pristine white sneakers Glide past like angels. Dandelion seeds drift, Whimsical, delicate, free. Soot and engine oil.

Listen. An ice cream van chimes. Warped, childlike melody. Ethereal echo. Post-industrial hell. Screeching metal. Hydraulic presses stomp. Iron demons crashing. Acid-bath fumes hiss Into a lilac sky.

Clang. The school bell fractures. Sharp, manic joy. Juice box wrappers. Littered green grass. Stagnant canal gleams. Oily rainbow sheen. Overburdened clover Fights through gravel. Dead zones painted. A trolley for a bed. A discarded lottery ticket. A losing number flutters.

The air thickens. A sudden pressure drop. The sky turns bruised blue. The ice cream chime screams. Hydraulic presses double tempo. THUD. THUD. THUD. The playground laughter sharpens. A fever pitch of screaming joy. The mock-orange blooms explode. White petals raining like shrapnel. The neon billboard glitches, blinding. GOLD. GREY. GOLD. GREY. The bloated elderberries burst open, Bleeding thick purple into the chemical stream. The heatwave snaps. A catastrophic gust of wind.

And inside the poet's skull— The grey conformity cracks wide. Like a living burst of technicolour Shattering a static, mid-century screen. A silent, spectacular psychic detonation. No fire. No violence. Only release. The mundane architecture unmoored. Look up.

The sky becomes a slow-motion museum. Plastic dreams float in a lilac haze. A pastel wardrobe sails overhead. Glossy magazine pages flutter like wings. Television sets broadcast silent static. Boxes of breakfast cereal burst into neon. Loaves of bread, designer sunglasses, chrome, An entire empire of manufactured comfort Dancing in a kaleidoscope of weightless debris. The provincial grid dissolves.

The eyes track the debris expanding outward, Past the factory smoke, past the lawns, Spinning into the black velvet stratosphere. The consumerist junk thins out to dust. Revealing the deep, terrifying vastness. Stars burning through gaps of broken plastic. A sudden, blinding awareness of eternity Swallowing the petty noise of the market. A cosmic orchestration of light.

Then— The hammer falls.

Silence.

A single dandelion seed settles. On a frozen eyelash. Suspended in heat, Winter’s ghost waits, Sharpening its teeth. Ready to bite. The left-behind.