The Lincolnshire Poacher

by Yagi Beam

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about

I suspect the sound comes from some place off shore, broadcasting on a frequency that closely matches my current coordinates. I pray beneath a slowly spinning satellite, the patchwork sheets of its concave form stained at the corners, brown bolts bleeding slowly for the cause.The room around me becomes unfamiliar, cold and insular. The distraction of my imagination is at once set to whirring upon the discovery of these endlessly sinister clandestine transmissions. A voice that never falters bleating calmly the correct numbers in the correct order. A tone that warbles on the waves echoes ricocheting off the craters of the moon.The monotony rocks me in its cradle. I reach for my cigarettes and find them without looking. There is nothing visually demanding about it but there I am glued to the murky fascia of my shortwave radio, unable to shift my focus for fear of silence. I nudge the dial slowly and eventually detect a shrill spike in the static. I have to it turn back ever so slightly, my thumb and forefinger working at a slow pace to uncover the all-important bump in the road. The signal is at once illuminated as between ghost white noise and the rapid chatter of foreign tongue I settle upon the steady pulse of the numbers station. The world outside my bedroom darkens as I recline into a universe of audio constellations linked by sharp lines mapping out untraceable secret instructions that only I can decipher. The fuzz of the baron seas between broadcasts serve to cancel out the interruption of silence, silence that would surely bring to an abrupt end the apocalyptic lullaby I have come to depend on. I have been banished from a world of conversation, of twilight barks and televisions competing in flashing tower blocks. I tune in...Banished from the world as you know it, my ears begin to spin slowly, ringing with the sound of each dying star, each dying cell, every frequency at once causing the anvil of my incus to crumble between the malleus and the stapes as the great white noise of my transcendence finally ceases and all around me the silence of pure blindness is unleashed. The infinitely ascending noise of new life caterwauls in the catacombs of humanity demanding silence from the counterpointing death rattles of the dying.

The transcript is up to date. I have reached my final rhapsody. I am the last to hear the broadcast.

credits

released October 23, 2016

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