Ligeia of The Limbic System


Summer's left me totally undone...
"Something's Passing Through You ," said a fellow freak.

The first cold day of September,
The month after AUGUST,
she wears fishnet stockings and
a black dress, very consciously,
and she very aware
that this is provocative,
Requiems of summer:
"This is ME" declarations, gestures
like your roommate's newly pierced
nipple and clit.

This is the word that's out in Clubland:
the ambient crew is asexual.
Who was that who said,
I think it was Moby,
that if you take away
the sensuality from house music,
what you're left with is techno.
The ambient crew:
they are amoeba.

They notice how she
ask everyone for a light: longingly,
like those "hot glances flashed"
in a Garbo or Dietrich movie,
she wanting to be a paramecium
to avoid the problem of the need:
to have an itch scratched.

Finally we are all the audience
and we are all the show.
It's an Avenue B autumn.
Plastic, nylon and mylar.
They all tell her that's she
hasn't moved from her weekly throne
in this room done up like
her 3rd grade clubhouse.

"Yes, I've decided my look for the season,"
she mumbles abstractly.
"Bouffants and hairflips, silver eyeshadow,
long dark nails, fat platforms,"
she thinks concretely.
Yes, then the cold won't hurt as much.
We'll keep warm wich accesories from Star Trek
and mouths from Mary Quant.
She reminds herself to stock up on blue-green algae,
Spirulina, nature's anti-depressant. That and
Abstract Wave, a Sunday night ritual,
Tim Sweet is Mr. RV Park.
This will not be the Eternal Letter That Never Got Sent.

Here now are requiems.
She is surrounded by very tall women
and very small women
dressed in FUCK YOU polyester.
The first night back at Abstract Wave:
the women of Byzar are dancing with the women of MMM.
It was a summer of wanting to touch.

Here now are requiems.
She is surrounded by shaved-head boys
dressed in backcloset clothes from last year,
they smell of club sweat, old raves, and horny musk -
excitement, they're breathing music.
It will be a winter of not fearing black.

Here now are requiems.
Incense is burning,
Delmar is spinning.
Everyone's thinking:
I need some shoes for autumn.
Everyone's thinking:
I'm gonna have so many projects,
at least 8 different collaborations
for events which sound fresh from some sci-fi consultant:
Abstract Fusion at the Kitchen
Domain at Robots
Minimal (hypnotictrancexperimental) at Babyland
Floating Point Unit's Extremely Refrigerated Show at the Meat Market

Enter Dan from Collective Unconscious dressed as a crab claw.
He embraces her in his giant pincers.
Everyone's evolvod in the heat.
"Can I be the starfish?," she asked.

DJ Sheldon Drake passes a trustly bowl.
and his music tip of the moment:
he says she should check out
Towa Tei (formerly Dee-lite),
his new CD, "Future Listening"
at Norman's
near Domino's on the Bowery.
Sheldon, a DJ. Modest.
He says, "It's hard to glow gracefully."
Sheldon, totally positive in the way he talks,
but not in the way he thinks,says he.

Enter DJ Carlos Soulslinger of Liquid Sky.
the man who always looks different.
"Looking too cool, Carlos". she says.
Handshake. She can't see his eyes
behind his wraparound silver shades.
Great T-shirt. She reminds herself to go to the store.

Enter DJ Spooky aka Paul Miller.
Nylon parka and halo of a bleached shag of dreadlocks.
Her fishnets are itchy.
"So good to see ya!"
The airkisses are buffered with the fluffs of shag.

Enter promoters Owen and Gabriela of Vapor Action.
The gentlemen kisses my hand.
In 4 hours they're off on a plane to Mexico,
a vacation well deserved for
the organizers of one of this summer's coolest parties
on that rusty boat, the Frying Pan, in July.
Owen tells me the Pseudo webside is going up this week
http:, with CU-see-me.
"Your picture is on the front page", says he.
Here now are requiems.

"Hey", says Soulslinger.
He says she should pay attention to his set.

"Got new stuff with me".
He'll play freaky shit for sure.
You see, Soulslinger spins dreams.
Vinyl is smoke of incense.
Revelation: Soulslinger uses spoken word in his mixes.
There is hope then for the Teckno Verbal Assault Team.
Suddenly he throws salsa onto hard house beats.
Now it's mellow Pendergrass ambient.
(On the contrary, no offence meant at all).
Then a jungle breakbeat is stretched,
stretched like a psychosomatic itch.

She tells Christopher, noise saxophonist, who sits beside her,
"Carlos looks like he should be wearing tap shoes.

Christopher also agreees
when she say Spooky's gone through a growth spurt this summer.
Christopher says, "I thought I was the only one who noticed that.
I thought it was just a stoned subjective revelation."

Wave goodbye to a certain prolific multipseudonymous DJ
on the scene told me on the Orb concert
that his cure for food poisoning was ginger ale and sex.
His summer than has not yet faded.
Here now are requiems.

I have all I need.
Sheldon says yeah.
Sheldon tells me he's visualizing
giant gummi bears glowing inside a cathredal.
I close my eyes and see only a wall of monochrome bees.
I have all I need,
I have all I need,
I have all I need.

But she doesn't need this itch that wants to be scratched.

copyright by neid, den künstlern und autoren