Ashmore Transmissions

Radio SilenceFunghi on my SkinA recovered transmission.Single-voice audio.No return signal. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years. Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years. Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years. Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Rauhnacht are the twelve nights between years.Stories are spoken. Silence is kept. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Jane Dougherty wrote a poem as a response to my note.I lost my breath, and it didn’t return until now.There is a dark, quiet magic in her words. Something that reminds me of what I have lost. What was taken from me, she carries it.All I could do was read back what she created. If this were a battle, she won with the first three words. But it isn’t, and I am proud she wrote these lines that mattered so much to me.Please read the original work on Jane Dougherty’s Substack.If it reaches you the way it reached me, reply to her post. Then forget my echo of her work, and ask the hollow dusty dearth. Who knows? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Edna St. Vincent Millay lived in defiance of the world. Her words offer no consolation. She did not bow to death. When she heard his calls, she sang a dirge stripped of music.No heaven.No comfort.No surrender.Edna St. Vincent Millay1892 † 1950Dirge without musicI am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. CrownedWith lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curledIs the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.Down, down, down into the darkness of the graveGently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.Do not approve. Do not resign.Leave an offering †Join the secret cult.Original photos by Julia Kadel and Carl Van Vechten. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash License. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

César Vallejo was beaten by life.He knew hunger, prisons, and exile. His blows of God meant the world itself.The fascists and their wars broke him.When they reached the Mediterranean, cutting him from his beloved Spain, he died in pain.No salvation.No glory.César Vallejo 1892 † 1938The Black HeraldsSome blows in life, they’re so heavy . . . I don’t know. Blows as if dealt by God’s own wrath, as if, ahead, the rip of every single thing we’d ever suffered had pooled inside our souls . . . I don’t know. These are few, but there they are . . . They carve dark trenches in the toughest faces, the fiercest backs. Perhaps they’re the racks of barbarous Attilas, or else the black heralds that Death has sent us. They’re the steep fall of some Christ from the soul, of the laudable faith that Fate can make foul of. Those bloodied blows are the sounds of bread crackling in oven doors, turning to charcoal. As for man . . . woe is he . . . woe. He turns his gaze, as if answering the call of a slap on the shoulder: his expression is wild and all that he’s lived through is settled, like penitent pools, in his eyes. Some blows in life, they’re so heavy. . . I don’t know.(Translated by Yvette Siegert, Public Domain)Los heraldos negrosHay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes. . . Yo no sé! Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma . . . Yo no sé! Son pocos, pero son. . . Abren zanjas oscuras en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas; o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte. Son las caídas honda de los Cristos del alma, de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones de algún pan que en la Puerta del horno se nos quema. Y el hombre. . . Pobre . . . pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como cuando por sobre el hombre nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido se empoza, como un charco de culpa, en la mirada. Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . Yo no sé!(Written 1918)Leave an offering †Join the secret cult. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

I Am The Demon Of The End contains the final words. Nothing more can be said.Mystery, Babylon The Great (Aurora Gamourtian) summoned this voice, the last to speak.It reveals the ultimate truth. The last truth we need to hear.You shall enjoy no longer. The enjoyment was always destined to be mine, for I am the demon of the six rhythms of Hell and you could never hope to know my depths.Everything crumbles after these words are read.If you dare to accept yourself as you are, listen, and read:Leave an offering. †Secrets.I am dust.Background images by Kunj Parekh and Saya Wonder. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

A Hunger speaks from the depths.JLG Noga summoned this demon.It shows the way to Nirvana—a place that could have been mine. But I turned from the light.Now, show them the light we see. In slow gorges, if you can. The slower, the better. It’s more tender that way.I know this hunger. My memories have returned.Read all the words here:Leave an offering. †Secrets.I know a way out.Background image by Marius Gerome. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Kenotita has spoken.Katharine Kapodistria summoned this demon.The demon of the void drank my moments I should have lived. Am I good enough? Am I enough? No… no. Oh gods, I am so hungry.Have you forgotten you’re a child of the universe, that you’re stardust,That you have an animal body and an eternal soul?Kenotita tells me of the slow erasure of what I should have been.Read all the words here:Leave an offering. †Secrets.Background image by Dan Mayer. Modified under the Unsplash license.Have you forgotten your animal body? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

RUIN: has spoken.Edward.Marlo.Ruiz summoned this demon.The altars of madness echo with the many tongues of RUIN:A demon that shapes even the voice of Ashmore.We are the shift between the sands of time. The darkness between the grains. Don’t you feel them between your teeth?It is you.It is me.Look at us.Read the words of RUIN: here: This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Kasra of the Cracks, has spoken.JR Phillips summoned this demon.I promised myself not to surrender to the lesser.I would have welcomed it if Kasra called me back to the sheets and named me darling. But my demon was not like Kasra's.My demon left me alone in the dark—no words that made sense.Others are haunted by Kasra’s love nightmare. But for me, Kasra is a loving mother.No price,for you have already long since paid.I do not wish for any of you to meet Kasra. Or my demon.In the end, they are both equal. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Marasme, Demon of the Lesser Evil, has spoken. Saint-Lazare summoned this demon.So long have I summoned this demon, day by day, year by year. I drowned in mediocrity. I became a master of excuses.And to thank you, I will not let you feel any pride.I forgot the taste of pride. I will never remember, not while I live beneath Satan’s sun.Now Marasme has named himself. I know what he is.It is time to discover who I am, before my life is wasted utterly. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Dagavik, Lord of the Unseen, has spoken.Bradley Ramsey summoned this demon.Dagavik tells a story I’ve lived myself. One, I thought I could silence. But I know that scream in the dark:WHY? WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE!Drowning Dagavik didn’t help. I tried. Reasoning didn’t help either. I tried that too.He didn’t leave me.Now, I know the breathing behind my shoulder. And when I turn, he hides. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

A letter to my father. Read aloud, before the silence.† This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

I was told a story was waiting for me.So I looked at it.It spoke in a tone I don’t often hear—outside ritual. The language was casual. Modern. But the story had weight. It pulled me in.I’m not an e-book reader. I don’t aim to become one. But I promised to read it. And I did.The Chiroptera on the Ceiling works because of pacing, voice, and the feeling that something deeper moves beneath the words.It surprised me. And for that, it remains rare.One of the few modern pieces I’ve chosen to voice.Thank you, Pablo Báez, for writing something that summoned my voice.You can read the full story in the Zine where it was first published.†There is something on the ceiling .It watches still. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Edith Söndergran died young. She knew she would die. When the illness broke out, she was transferred to the same tuberculosis asylum where her father had died.Knowing about her nearing end, and still writing. No matter what comes. Not searching for glory. No fame. Poetry, because poetry needs to be born.Edith Södergran * 1892 † 1923The StarsWhen night comes I stand on the steps and listen, The stars swarm through the garden and I stand in the dark. Listen, a star fell with a clang! Do not go with bare feet in the grass; my garden is full of shards.Stärjorna(Original Swedish)När natten kommer står jag på trappan och lyssnar, stjärnorna svärma i trädgården och jag står i mörkret. Hör, en stjärna föll med ett klang! Gå icke barfota i gräset; min trädgård är full av skärvor.† Leave an offering. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Not many poems strike me like Liv Ramirez Tornado. Out of nowhere, she wrote of a secret part of my life—dragged it from an old, dusty desk drawer, a note I always hated.I know she speaks of a different Tornado than I.Still, the piece stirred memories I meant to bury.Liv wrote one of the most authentic poems I've ever read. Her work doesn’t chase the right words. Or the wrong ones.It is a ritual past—hers.And now, somehow, mine.Smiling–to conjure yours with mine.The story of my life. In one sentence.You can read the full text on her Substack. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Content Warning: This transmission contains vivid depictions of ritual violence, demonic presence, and psychological distress.This tale speaks of ritual.E.M.R created a dense atmosphere. Claustrophobic. Choking. A downward spiral into mankind’s deepest fears, unburying rotting philosophies.Reading it aloud made something clear:“the reaping of your flesh is this world taking its course.” –E.M.RRead the full text on Substack:More rot? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Stephen Crane wrote an immortal fragment in 1895.It touched me. A creature, not named a demon, ate its own heart. As I eat my own heart every day.This poem has a truth that only a few will ever touch.It is one of the few I carry inside me.† This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

This is not performance. It is ritual. This piece is a reading of Aurora Gamourtian’s bloodletting i. A compact drop. A spoken curse.It’s a work of transcendence. Of fulfillment. Of realization. Few works of modern poetry have struck me as profoundly as hers.Every word is a nail.i hold the little ball of blood in my hand, and i ask it: drain the life from me.Read the full text on her Substack:https://gamourtian.substack.com/p/bloodletting-i This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Georg Trakl: Verfall / DecayRead by Ashmore This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

The Stalin Epigram by Ossip Mandelstam (1934).Read by Ashmore. Recovered Transmission. Ashmore Archive. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Ashmore reads Emily Dickinson.Ancient words, spoken through the Aether. Poetry, lost texts, and transmissions from the memory—fragments of what once was, reaching across time.A voice in the static. A signal returning. Listen. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com

Ancient words, spoken through the Aether. Poetry, lost texts, and transmissions from the memory—whispers from the edge of time, carried by wind and shadow.A voice calls from elsewhere. A signal returns. Listen. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cicadacult.substack.com