le monde moderne: September 2006

Cool at any speed...

The Yenko Stinger

http://www.yenkostinger.com/

Should A Cloud Replace A Compass?

Elephant 6 logo by Will Cullen Hart

Circulatory System painting by Will Cullen Hart

Circulatory System photo by Kelly Ruberto

Cloud Recordings

Days

(C)She wakes up in the morning,
opens her eyes to dawning, she's still
(Em)sleeping.
(C)Sleep walking in a dreamland stew,
She drys her eyes with morning dew,
still (Em)weeping.

(C)She blushes her waking nights
sadness awakens dusk twilight
darkness (Em)creeping.
(C)She's looking her perspective's outside in,
dimensions inside out forever
(Em)seeping.

(G)Into and (F)out of, (G)into and (F)out of..
(G)into and (F)out of, (G)into and out of..
(C)days of (Am)orange sun(D)shine
(C)days we've (Am)left be(D)hind.
(C)days (Am)lost in (G)time.

(C)She walks in the clouds
lightly steps on solid ground
that comes up (Em)meeting.
(C)Silently she speaks out loud
loud and clear without a sound
(Em)peeping.

ladies and gentlemen...

the Apples (in Stereo)

http://www.yeproc.com/news.php?articleId=3438

If you hurry you can get an EXCELLENT live set from this GREAT band at:

http://www.southernshelter.com/

http://www.elephant6.com/sound/apples.html

http://www.applesinstereo.com/

Malcolm Riviera's photos...

Malco23 Butchwax at the Free Advice 1979.

also visit Malcolm at:

8-TRACK HEAVEN

Reverend Horton Heat - Raleigh NC 9-12-06

http://www.reverendhortonheat.com/

The Woe Damners - Transition

A numbing concrete chill permeates the steel city night, followed closely by the faint click-clacking echo of metal-flesh jackboots. Singing fog ever so lightly kisses the street, leaving a moisture print. Windy ice blue winter night with beautiful northwestern clouds, a walking fantasia. The transition has been quite comfortable. It seems to get easier.

Birds light on bright bold metal branches and then fly away in search of a warmer perch, unaware. They go higher and higher until all the air is let out. Ghosts, the shadows of heroes command and haunt my every thought. My all too human dreams lie empty and shallow. I see a stranger from my past. He removes my face and takes it as his own. In the alleys shadows walk and the humanoids follow. There is starting to be a flood of an unknown milky substance flowing in the street. Even in a few short minutes there has been considerable erosion to the soul of all mankind and to the soles of the metal-flesh jackboots. On this night, with the wind chill factor that draws blood, something ominous is afoot.

Seven million dead souls wrestle with sleep in cold and lonely beds throughout this city of Myrth. Astral bodies comb the sticky streets with their sad eyes dancing. A living sarcophagus with cobra armpits wails into the frosty darkness, with hunger, pain and confusion. Ghostly breath tingles on my skin, or what apoximates skin and I turn to face the stranger. In a fluttering wisp he is gone. I can only remember his dull useless eyes.

Tiny spikes, (acupuncture needles?) are being driven into my head with tiny platinum hammers. I am blinded by a darkness that can only be described as an absence of light. Suddenly two intense rays are penetrating my conscienceless, the red ray of all consuming hatred and the slow dazzle of the ignorance ray have left my body motionless and my mind staggering blindly into itself reflecting only rage and stupidity.

Mean bitch thrills wait at every corner. Crumb would’ve liked this place. Lovely sisters, bitten by the chill, dance nightly. Femme snake slithering hot writhing quivering murderously close to my lips, dripping salt. Torrid flamboyant dance, rhythmic heel tap, gold and patent leather strike out laughing as I lose the last vestige of my human self. On the table is a highball, it’s olive and cherry punctured and crushed. I go back outside and step lightly into the toxic paste that now covers most of the urban limits.

The sickly sugar fog rests heavy, interwoven with small pockets of clean fresh air. The razor wind has died to a gentle breeze, rearranging the smoky fog patterns. Neon stars beat down their near silent buzzing song. At least there is some vestigial light.

The gass eye is awakened at midnight, terrified by the humming of the tone deaf tune of death. A million dead souls laughing and chanting like insects. The glass eye is broken, the bubble has burst. Dream scenes flash by so quickly I am unable to focus, cobalt blue eyes suck and haunt. I am failing the test of composure. Just to sleep, to take the pressure off but timpani heartbeats, molten metal taste, rapid fire geometry, a zillion no thoughts storm desperately, refusing to allow slumber. I am perched at the edge of the phantom zone. I need only to breath to confirm my omnipotence. Fantasy and objectivity fuse in unity. Silken crystal smiles, sombre sullen sneers, atomic moon junk fingers, a faitless contraption that removes the pain of forsaken souls.

Stalking the sidewalk, pace quickening at every step. A crowd is gathering. These people knew without even suspecting the shocking events that will mold the world anew. Who sets the stage, who commands the rage? The Woe Damner, or in the nomenclature, Cyborg Alpha X-ray; miles and miles microscopic tape loop intelligence, tattoo memory, the finest audio sensors. Metal-flesh man with the costume of a warrior, made from gleaming pig iron with a fang of blue-green toxin, with eyeballs that project the clear plasticine stare of cold focal accuracy. Surveillance of 280 degrees. Eyes that collect even the dimmest light emission, video eyes that react instantly to headlights piercing the inky black night, pupils shrinking to pins, recording every detail. Eyes that swell to saucer size as the head lamps recede into the vacuum of darkness. A nut and bolt sardonicus, both arms and both legs infallible bionic structures built to withstand Armageddon. My finger tightens around the trigger of the needle laser death ray. I go stark and raving, mad and monstrous, my witless storm circuitry, inhuman calculation, memory banks of uncoded white noise explode. In a fit of outrage and boredom I squeeze the hair trigger and a city block is reduced to hot smoking concrete rubble, the air is bitter with the brassy taste of brimstone. Locate target. Destroy. White light, white heat with a lunatic silence.