Warm and softly lit,
the big room smelled of defiance
and black leather trousers.
There was an old man on a bench
at the far end,
he was just sitting there,
in baggy jeans and a sweater,
holding sawdust
carbon dioxide
faint sounds of tape-recorded jazz mutter
tensed his body,
shuffling the muscles together.
His hands his feet
large and broad,
she recognised the tension
his ridiculous jealousy.
But she relished the sweaty rock gigs,
and the thrill of being
amongst a number of individuals
who would soon merge
into one heart and mind,
fused by the crowd’s lust for pleasure,
But this was no ordinary rock band.
They had aged with breath-taking swiftness,
growing jowls,
turning grey and then white,
they could have been a single body
but for the protruding awkwardness of their legs.
Years later,
Mike tried to remember his first emotions,
the prominence of her nipples,
jumping up and down
with stamping feet and loud whistling.
That press of bodies all around,
the screams through the thin mist of night.
I grabbed the flash-light from the glove compartment.
A raucous rhythm rattled out.
Beneath my fingers
curves and crevices of her body
were spasmodically pressing against me
in a plain language of desire.
She hardened, her body twitching
“This is dragsville, man,”
she sighed, squeezing her eyes shut.
Outside the afternoon had suddenly become light.
The rain running down
and saturating her second-hand clothing.
almost totally disembowelled buildings
and piles of rubber
.Remorsefully, she added,
“You know something, mister?
Two years ago I was a girl in a pair of horns,
Spock-shaped ears and legs wide
to give her eager lovers free access.”
They were gutter punks trained in countless street brawls
and the kind of predators
who were turning the city into one throbbing,
thrusting love-machine,
every part working in harmony.
“Amazing,” said Mike, truly amazed.
Flicking first one erect nipple and then the other.
He increased the pressure on her love-bud and intoned.
“Try Channel Eight.”
“Sieg hiel, mein Fuhrer!”
“Don’t let the stars get in your eyes.”
“Come on love, it’s a cold night.”
He realised too late that he had made a mistake.
Then there was silence.
Line noise from the occasional street lamps,
coughing and spitting onto long strings of beads.
His eye stung with sweat.
The city thundered, vile and cloying,
involuntarily gargling,
drowning, meshing in an infinite gloom.
She was a small, thin girl,
her face pale
as though some giant leech was feeding on her
in the neon lights.
And above it all was the music.
Emboldened by the sound,
life would be a circular autodialler,
an exclusive design,
a blob of cream on a rug of artificial grass
and no mucking around
There is line noise
probing pressure and vibration
blowing away the minds of millions
Now there was silence
but for the shrill piping
caused by a problem in the telephone line.
And somewhere a bird of some kind was hooting,
human breathing,
digestion, the shifting of bodies,
distant sounds from the darkness,
speaking with a strange accent and a wet lisp.
Each person’s eyes are closed
as he smells the one object
and takes a pinch
of each of the other two items
for applications to every orifice.
Press the Return key
for a final interlocking answer.
Building to the point
where three possible explanations
stirred the folds
of the newly privileged demolition crews.
Her white dress was stained
with a beautiful symmetry,
name and password,
decay and death,
the shadows getting closer,
the sweat of her frustration
dabbled in her labia
and her brown arms glistened.
Bend your left leg,
grasping a bad telephone.
Painted on tendered parts
marijuana and incense
and an amber disc rimmed with gold,
spiralling towards
displayed on her broad forehead,
the high-boned cheek,
her whole body shrieks.
But she had beads –
the shining box
that might have belonged
toher great-grandmother.
I felt suddenly gripped
by the distant rumble of line noise
that grated on her dying nerves.
As I sit fully relaxed and breathing deeply,
visualising my left hand,
I feel it move imperceptibility
somewhere between your computer
and the other computer.
The structure,
snake-tail red,
floating gently,
gets lighter and lighter.
It rises slowly from my lap toward my face
I know that when it touches my face
burned out flashbulbs
may not be everybody’s cup of tea.
Behind me the sirens screamed to a stop
and the bright astral body
gliding in the form of a human limpet
had learned to Frug and do the Monkey.
Green with the redhead
and black with the God knows what.
I stayed on the telephone for three more hours.
Darkness had fallen
and the street lights
were throwing a menacing lens
changing images,
amber letters,
trembling patterns
and between them a thick pall
falling.
Smell the artificial flowers
that winked like molecules
that are connected by electrical forces
to dust that can’t be swept,
vacuumed or beaten.
Follow directions,
thrill to erotic chastisement.
Discuss the temperature
of the pink latex mini-dress,
the heartbeat of the dead saint
with fire in his guts and brimstone in his soul,
and then, if symptoms persist,
press the Return key.
Nocturnal Emissions' Nigel Ayers has continued to work with a strong underground of cult support, avoiding music industry fashions, and following his own creative path he concentrated on creating a strong sense of a wilderness identity through sound.
Pure enjoyment of sound, never knowing what will happen next except for the fact that it will be even better than what you just heard. I love this one, thanks. saimonix
This ambient pop album from Chute Records label head Jan the Man captures melancholy, contemplative moods simply, and without words. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 15, 2021
