Lid EMBA | Decibelia | Hearsay | | TeleZygote |
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Born in Morgantown, West Virginia. Moved after one year and never went back. Lived in Sierra Leone, West Africa, when I was eleven. Later, Ghana; then, Spain — buried innocence under a scrubby tree, met Lid Emba in a dream, and saw the aftermath of my first car wreck replete with panicked horses snorting and stomping and a bloody faced man pulled out of an over-turned VW. However, my primary iceberg was the Hell on flat land of Florida, North America's sun bleached dangling dick. Tampa and Miami. White cheek ridges topping salty brown legs. Disco. Drugs. Doom. First drum kit cobbled from African drums (wood and goat skin) and mixing bowls. Educated on both sides of the tracks. Lid Emba muzik is the product of early years playing and listening to the wrong things; middle years to the right things; and now, everything(s).
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Light in the Sunshine State. No warmth, no comfort. Instead, photosynthetic venom. Burning, blinding, shafting through red ant moss. Dawn illuminates the chilled hearts of crack heads hiding in palmetto groves but can't penetrate the chemical depths of 55000 swimming pools and the skulls and fetid feathers beneath. |
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Too fucking early, blinds drawn against skeleton-branched sun-gloom. "You were talking in your sleep again last night," she said, sipping her coffee. "Actually, more like shouting." His eyes strained to focus. He tried to ignore the smeared bird chirping outside. "You said: STOP WALKING, YOU FUCKING CUNT!" Too loud. Words black as rot. "You almost kicked me too." "Sorry," he sighed, knowing that she was well aware of the context. Ever since he'd married the woman sitting across from him, he'd had recurring nightmares involving the possession of her form and shape by the tormented spirit of his dead ex-wife, a Nancy Spungen-spiked-with-Bette Davis train-wreck of a woman who drank herself into oblivion. After he'd escaped from their mutual self-destruction, she'd gone down with the ship, disconnected from life support in some hospital in Texas. And now, like vengeance from beyond the grave, she would visit from time to time and remind him of the ugliness that had been his past by warping his second wife into an impassive instrument of random sexual cruelties. Still, he had to admit, the startling violence of the demand made by his sleeping lips, words he very well may have rained on his ex-wife in some debased confrontation, had a disturbingly alluring echo. A harsh, loud ring of creepy perversity. Maybe a good title for his next CD. |
The most awe-inspiring personage, however, perhaps even more beguiling than The Queen herself and likely destined to assume her throne, was the High Priestess of Irreversible. Idly waiting for red to go green for the 5000th time, I was blessed to witness her ascendance. She blustered over the radiating rise that straddled the distant highway, her determined, drunken stalk backlit. Stumbling closer, she saw The Queen, eyes squinting in contempt. Cracked lips curved in permanent disgust for the living and the dead, her blue bird blouse flapped open from belly rolled navel to stretch marked breastbone. She crossed the intersection as the light turned green, snarling and undeterred by the honking cars. I was enthralled. My car moved slowly forward while I tried to keep her in frame. The Priestess stepped inside the towering shadow of The Queen and looked up into the impassive, factory molded features. The car drifted further and I was forced to switch to the side view mirror, then the rear. The Priestess turned, faced the boiling street, and reached down into the wrinkled crotch of her shapeless, drawstring workout pants with an annoyed grimace. She groped, grappled, then with great effort pulled free a large, milk white diaper, waving it above her head like a trophy. Throwing it down triumphantly, she swiveled back to The Queen and began dancing wild and beatless. As she disappeared from view behind dented fenders, pocked tires and double vision blur, I glimpsed the diaper arcing above, gleaming and unblemished. |
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Copyright
© 2010 Lid Emba |
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