SUMMER VIRUS NIGHT - LIVE IN GERMANY 1990

I had never heard of this album until last night, but I'm very excited to know that it exists! It was released in 2009 and consists of live recordings from Algebra Suicide's 1990 Germany tour. I can't find/can't afford a copy at present, but I can paste in what I have from the other albums now and edit to match once I get it.

If you have this album, I'd grateful if you could send me the lyrics to the tracks unique to it!

1. Cerebral Dance
2. Somewhat Bleecker Street
3. Please Respect Our Decadence
4. Friendly Manifesto
5. Verbal Blunder
6. In Bed With Boys
7. Praxis
8. Waiting For Delmore
9. Amusing One's Self
10. Summer Virus Night
11. Beguine
12. True Romance At The World's Fair
13. Connoisseurs Of Lightning
14. Agitation
15. Tropical Depression
16. A Slap In The Face
17. After Charles
18. Tales Of Brave Ulysses
19. Mantic Sway
20. What Rubs You Up
21. Sub Rosa
22. (A Proverbial Explanation For) Why No Action Is Taken
23. Seven Song
24. Tractor Pull
25. An Explanation For That Flock Of Crows
26. All The Young Dudes
27. Little Dead Bodies

________________________

Cerebral Dance 

Somewhat Bleecker Street 

Greenwich and Chungking and Johnny's got a girlfriend.
Dumb blonde in loose pants, too big to be Miss America. We wave hello.
It's here, even in the rain: the heart, the heart, the simple spin,
The audacity of colors and heat fucking up from the sidewalks.
If you strut, if you wear pretty slippers, see how hard your feet can get.
[??] shakes me up four flights and I don't feel like peeking in.
The lavish halo, innocence in parentheses,
Inside me, five girls shout in Italian, wanting life to be one long vacation.

Please Respect Our Decadence 

Everybody's dying, so we send them flowers.
After their funerals, we go out to dinner, and then we try to forget about it.
We're all committing suicide, and everybody points it out to us:
Is that a coffee you're drinking? Is that a cigarette you're smoking? Is that meat you're eating?
Is that air you're breathing? Have you no self-respect?
No, but we're having fun, quick, before we drop dead. We don't mind your great concern.
But please, send flowers instead.

Friendly Manifesto 

We girls, we have to mature, create an instant past, a hairline incision
Into what was once called [?]. They say we'd lose our heads if they weren't attached
To our spines by ganglia and nerve tissue and stuff called effervescence. Because it's pink.
Oh, it's not enough to be ringmasters, bachelorettes of knowledge, [?] queens of the world.
A sign must be put on to study, to be ignored like that doghouse on fire out back.
Father once warned me that I'd explode, and I did. It was a painful way to spend a Saturday,
But I think it built character. You, you'd do it too, and hide everything that's [?] be inside
Until it becomes a secret known by you, only by you and a soft sweet liver.

Verbal Blunder 

No slip of the tongue could cause this misunderstanding
It's your head and its wicked working that's led you to this awkward pause
After blurting out that vicious clause, which brings those [?]s
Which say, "Drop dead."
No slip of the tongue could cause this misunderstanding;
It's your head that controls your flapping jaws and dictates all those things you've said.
Don't claim that your meaning was misread or twisted by perception flaws,
Because no slip of the tongue could cause this misunderstanding.
It's your head.


In Bed With Boys

When I was small and arthritic in my crib, I knew Spaniards wanted sleep,
While Americans merely needed it. Now, on warm summer days, boys nip at my neck,
Their hands too sweaty to hold and their backs wetting the bed.
Boys in bed, boys on the bed, their heads roaring on pillows
And their feet twitching in sleep.
I got boys who speak Latin in their dreams; boys whose faces land in books,
Who must be coaxed to the covers. I got European boys who like cold rooms
And those that like the bushes. I got boys who think they're famous,
And boys who call me "Sir." Boys who are shaped like Z's
That snap straight when an avalanche of sun comes in the window
And in winter, they're rolled in sheets that unfurl in the morning and fill the room with skin.

Praxis 

The opposite of green unleashed a new animal
[?] calls where liquid lips were just released from lockjaw
A pale boy grabbed my hand as I walked by
And thinking his left eye aglow, spun it around to show me Germany,
Land of husky women and beer, and thought I was impressed.
I seem to remember chatting with an unskillfully dressed girl
Whose first name meant a lively Polish dance
She described how sometimes, an unborn baby will press its face up against its mother's womb
Thinking it a window. It must be why children look like distortions of their parents.
Each time a voice is raised or a skinny black tie is flung romantically across the room
I cringe like a sensitive plant.
There was a largeness about this place which makes people abandon their silence
In (and?) their clothes, and those (no?) such things should only be discussed in telegrams
Many photos are taken, and soon we find ourselves guilty and inflated
Between pages of a magazine.

Waiting For Delmore 

It's like brushing your teeth in public or being kissed in a dream by a stranger in white shoes.
I get so confused. Delmore's no longer in the shower, no longer on [??], no longer making a fuss.
Telephone calls come, asking if he is home. They hang up before I can answer.
I get so melancholy when I think of his good points:
How he knew what each piece of silverware was for;
How he could light a match using only one hand;
His talent of grinding his teeth in his sleep,
Clacking out a calypso rhythm that would send me tapping into the living room.
Oh, Delmore, Delmore, your comic books still come in the mail.
The oatmeal I make for you each morning turns green well before noon.
The shoebox whimpers when it recalls your feet.
And I miss you.

 Amusing One's Self 

A fever crawls into you. A colorful one. Scarlet? Yellow? Too soon to tell.
Restless and itchy, you grab any rumor that's lounging around.
Blame it on boredom or the position of stars. Perhaps the good weather has made your brain crazy.

You write "Warsaw was raw" in lipstick on your old lover's letter,
Hold it up to a mirror, and delight in yourself.
It's easy, like sending a card to yourself on your birthday
And crying when you get it, 'cause "someone remembered!"
Like when you empty a bag of groceries onto the kitchen floor:
When the last apple stops rolling, you call it still life.

Summer Virus Night 

This velvet feels like being drunk, mixed with lazy flower with big stink.
Pumped and coddled (cuddled?) and then disassembled,
The last petal falling on she loves me not. I sever myself from the world
With a fever which I blame on you and your crazy mouth,
Which can kiss my heat away tonight, now that the moon has entered the sky
And is outing [??] dogs rub their ribs against fences and cats pulsate like [?]s
Yowling with desire for doo-wop.
What's inside me is rampant, wanting ice-bath or alcohol sponge,
Something to extract and into a test tube. Glowing in the dark like Madame Curie's lover.
Nothing will end, the [???].
What's inside me is rampant, wanting ice-bath or alcohol sponge,
Something to extract and into a test tube. Glowing in the dark like Madame Curie's lover.

Beguine 

We all want to see the sight that makes us goofy with desire.
[??] wearing a bikini made out of an American flag. A gun, a car, a nun.
The skyline of Manhattan collapsing or some very pretty art damage.
A movie star, a Spanish fly, a shining eye, a mirror. Whatever it is, it will impassion us.
It will impassion us like a big fat [???] impassion us. Like a lovely war (roar?) can impassion us.
Or like an African [?]. Like a six-pack, like Andy Warhol's rolodex, it will impassion us.
And then we want it to dangle before us like some crazy constellation,
'Cause we know that if it lingers long enough, we might just get to keep it all to ourselves.

True Romance At The World's Fair 

A whispered remark changed a girl's life.
Make no mistake, there was a difference. She had a war job and mother-in-law trouble,
A jitterbug wedding, and an itch that started quick.
Dressed in the most attractive of rubber suits, posing as a girl, unmarried and unkissed,
She set out to answer questions: "How red is Hollywood?" and "What brings out the beast in men?"
By the seaside, by the bandstand, she sighs and says: "Too many blondes spoil the crowd,"
As sound systems loom over the city. Electric, anesthetic, and that mad shine is drilled into the moon
Which is masculine at night, but this ain't no musical romp, no screwball comedy.
This is just dog-collar loneliness.
The world -- the world is not a wild place.

Connoisseurs Of Lightning 

It never thunders in Paris. I can see us there, small and polite,
Waiting for someone to offer us a cigarette, waiting for a street child to pick us at random
Present us with a flower. A tulip, perhaps. So out of context.
Each time we enter buildings, we are greeted by groups of violinists who adore us.
And we love it well.
How wonderful it would be. No time for revolutions, we'd laid down our guns.
Too much fluff to enjoy, and we do.
No time to think of dead parents, no time to write our own epitaphs,
Which in any case would read: "Had lots of fun. Thanks."
We would glow and sweeten the air, more brilliant than any Manhattan neon.
Oh, Paris, Paris, I know you're there. I know you're there like heaven is there.
Not very lonely. Not dying to see me.

Agitation 

Not afterglow, but overglow. Not moonlight, but spotlight.
The crooning has grown cold, while I have shrunken in my old age and gone soft all over.
Give me the morphine sleep I crave, that slap in the face for hysteria.
Replace my bones with plastic joints; remove my breasts so I can slip through gates.
Give me knees so weak I have to roll and boys (buoys?) that make suicide impossible.
I don't want to have to go out in peace. No talking, no snoring, no dreaming.
And my lungs collapsing in unison.

Tropical Depression 
I'm tired and hungry and about to get wet. Today has been too tight, too heavy,
And it's not getting thinner with this downpour. Everyone runs for cover,
Avoiding the bookstore and lingerie boutique.
We all huddle in the coffeeshop and it seems like it's forever.
I see a mother hit her son for the fourth time since my cigarette's been lit.
She's hitting him because he won't stop crying, and he won't stop crying because she's hitting him.
We're a hundred miles south of [?] already, our sweat licking our skin.
[?]ing our clothes in one of those ugly silk fabric kisses.
We're a hundred miles south of [?] already and we know it's not gonna get much better.
Everyone is crabby dealing with this heat. They're [?] each other
And everything else that's out of their control. And now, the wind is picking up.
No, forget an umbrella. I'm going out there, head naked. Let the typhoon take me somewhere else,
Somewhere clear and cool and void of any emotion.

A Slap In The Face 

Night descends upon the city like some rusty red woman and rubs its breasts in your face,
Reminding you that you're not gorgeous or immortal or swell.
Reminding you that it's September, and you haven't been bad enough to go to hell like you planned
When spring erupted and bit your cheek like some rabid diva.
This evening sky was made for you, wraps itself around you like a luxury stole
And yanks you through the streets as if you were a stilettoed girl late for church.
Fear that you can set things on fire [unclear] inside you as if it wants to dance,
And the smell of roses is so far away, and windows are shut so we can't hear your yelling,
And those things called trees are turning colors, dying a pretty, pretty death.
That sweat we're making is not of hard work, or heat, or sex, or the desire for much,
But of nerves that buzz beneath your skin.

After Charles 

I have stolen from you the floor.
Every evening, I remember [unclear] the rain fall on the city
And wondering if the weight of the water is heavier than any dirt in the air.
Then, I remember: hats -- my aversion to them, since my head has gone red
How I'm forced to look the heavens while pinning them on.

Tales Of Brave Ulysses 

You thought the leaden winter would break you down forever
So you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun
And the colors of the sea [?] your eyes with traveling mermaids
And you touch the distant beaches with tales of brave Ulysses
How his naked ears were tortured by sirens sweetly singing
But the sparkling waves are calling you to kiss the white lace nets
And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise
And you wanna take her with you where the sky loves the sea
And when your fingers find her, she drowns you in her body
Carving deep blue ripples in the tissues of your mind.
The tiny purple fishes run lapping through your fingers
You wanna take her with you to the heartland of the winter
Her name is Aphrodite and she rides a crimson shell
And you know you cannot leave her for you touch the distant sands
With tales of brave Ulysses, how his naked ears were tortured
By the sirens sweetly singing.
Those tiny purple fishes run lapping through your fingers
And you wanna take her with you to the heartland of the winter.

Mantic Sway 

Something will erupt. Straining stockings, aching chains
The dress that pops off from too much affection and bursts, busts, breasts that swell
In a too-tight brassiere. A fist muscle growing as a hand tightens.
A perfume called Volcano of Love... in French. France is waiting to erupt.
Painted nails scratch a surface, scratch sin off so something can erupt. Something will.
Oh, the beat of our blood in our necks. The flutter of blood in our guts.
We know what that is. We all know what that is.
I have a good ear tonight. I have intuition worth your weight on my lap.
I am nothing to put to rest. I am nothing but a fireball. Take it.
Take it and something will erupt.
Tomorrow, no noisy mournings. Tomorrow, a collection of regrets.
We'd wanted them for so long. They can ruin our lives.
We'll read about them in our biographies when we're dead, dead, stone-cold dead.
A paragraph about what we never once mentioned,
A paragraph describing how we managed a secret.

What Rubs You Up 

It is silent. You see some kind of pretend debt caught up to you.
A universal language causing holes in sidewalks where flowers pop up.
It is not yet spring and already you're snide, although nothing old is looking up to you.
Talk to me about this bleached winter, all I know is that miserable fish are swimming
In the frosty lake and your lungs are very warm.
You've forgotten too many things. Barflies have gathered and are singing.
I have too many hearts when you're looking at me. Remember, pause, then go away.
You'll be happy, oh so happy, doing so.
 
Sub Rosa 

All the stars clustered like rashes
[?] on a cheap woman's neck.
Reminding me of nothing as subtle as a tongue slipped into an ear.
Condensed laughter streams in from the wings.
I've called for it to distract you.
I hear you sing a song of temptation and wonder if you wrote it for me.
You'll never tell. You only give me big, big dumb juicy eyes.
I become obsessed with all sorts of omens: birthmarks or plagues or glints in the eye.
From closer, I see your hands are sweating, flooding their wrinkles.
I see your hands are nervous now, begging to be clutched.

 (A Proverbial Explanation For) Why No Action Is Taken 

Because nothing ventured, nothing gained, but better safe than sorry.
And when in doubt, don't.
Because we look before we leap, knowing a stitch in time saves nine.
And we try to make hay while the sun shines, because he who hesitates is lost,
But slow and steady always wins the race.
Because too many cooks spoil the broth, but God helps those who helps themselves.
And if you want something done, do it yourself, but two heads are better than one.
Because where there's smoke, there's fire, although all that glitters is not gold,
And you can't judge a book by its cover, but clothes make the man.
Because idle hands are the devil's playlot, but we fear burning our candles at both ends.
'Cause the only place success comes before work is in the dictionary,
So we keep our nose to the grindstone, knowing all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Seven Song

Last night, the tide was high.
Seven women dressed in white swayed seven different ways (waves?)

While a boy at the piano played a pack of hearts. We were tired of being mild.
We wanted tornado, our lips painted red.
Was it the night that was barking? Only the Buddhists were sleeping, dreaming
Of the Orient [??] itself.
Seven naked boys carry seven yellow candles into the darkened fields
While I stole a box of father's hair and set it to the wind.
We arrived at the party dressed as water, eyes slick-red from thinking,
Waiting for a nervous twitch, a steady hum inside our bones.
We were tired of being mild. We wanted tidal wave, hurricane [line unclear] 
Seven nets were cast into the water, pulling seven older women up (out?)
Bruised faces in the moonlight. Was your (her?) sister among them? 
The one with the slender hands; the one that wanted nothing but music all day long.
Bowls of water set out for the deadpan-faced gangsters in the funeral home.
The casket flipped over, the corpse on the floor. We were tired of being mild.
The ominous blur nestled in the motor [?] at sea and obscured.
Seven cannons were shot cross town to honor seven modern lovers,
While a sailor sung a hymn to [??] our shoes.
A burst of pigeons pierced the heavy summer air, a burst of gunfire.
Dressed in bullets, we were tired of being mild! We wanted disaster, the taste of [?]
Pumping [?] into our throats.
Seven oily children spoke in seven different tongues.
And they slipped out of church, backdoor, with handkerchiefs in pockets
Just enough to gather one before the eyes 
[Multiple unclear lines]
Where through the window she is there. Faces tame as milk, we were, we were cooking,
Our blood thick inside our veins.
Seven falling stars pierced seven empty arms and the saddle caught on fire.
[Unclear line]
A harnessed giggle, an eerie caress longed to be exiled,
To be the thought of the pearl gleaming.

Tractor Pull 

This evening, upon waking, I saw [?] saying, "I'm going to a tractor pull."
And I didn't understand. Outside, it was dusk enough to make things invisible,
And I heard a car swerve as it skinned the elbow of an ugly child.
It didn't make the news, though I did wonder how hard it would be for a tractor to skin anything,
No matter how impulsive it was on the open fields.

It was an hour before I fell asleep again and dreamed I was on a soggy bed,
While Mom ironed linen curtains in the other room, saying:
"Isn't it awful here with all the heat and the fever blisters and no trees to block the tumbleweeds
From coming in the windows?"
I looked up at the open prairie skies and all its stillness and I forgot that the TV was silent,
Letting us remember all the loud colors of the world.

An Explanation For That Flock Of Crows 

A thread of birds has settled outside your door.  Spring is coming, and you lean back,
Waiting for its root-juicy kiss. Politely, charmingly.
Once, during a summer, you came without shoes, without any maps, and settled
Into my elbow while this hemisphere turned blue.
We were urban, unkind animals and I never once thought of champagne.
How often you'd want me to tell you your future. Show me your palms, the lumps on your head,
As if I knew what my mother knows best: how to inflame things at a distance.
Now, you think of me with a casual chuckle. Now, you save me like an auctioned-off bon-bon:
Brought out on a doily for guests to admire. I know, and it's all in my pocket.
Just press your ear against your back door. There's a sound I've sent.
It's there to haunt you. Like a cello. Like a buzzsaw.
I hope you're enjoying yourself.

All The Young Dudes 

 Little Dead Bodies

How right you were, dear Paul,
That we hear of famous people's deaths while on vacation.
Perhaps it's so their funerals are not too crowded, with their loyal fans being out of town and all.
Those celebrities are pretty clever.

I've heard that someone's born every eight seconds,
So I presume that someone dies every eight seconds just to keep things even.
It makes me feel shortchanged when I read the obituary page: someone's holding back information.
It also prompts me to flip through the telephone directory on sleepless nights,
Saying over, and over, and over again: "Yup! You're all going! Every last one of you."
Wow. Heaven must be a big place.

I don't know too many dead people, but folks tell me I'm young.
When my grandfather died, he was laid out in the Bogg funeral home,
And I was secretly glad Mr. Bogg didn't change his name to something more romantic
When he went into business. I just wish it was less memorable.
My high school locker partner, Ned, worked part-time for a mortician.
Imagine dressing dead people, straightening their ties and fluffing up their hair
So you can afford to take a girl out to the movies on Saturday night.
Well, that's love! That's adolescent desperation!
I would've been honored to have Ned take me to the movies and let him buy me popcorn.
Instead, I went out with a boy who died.
The hardest part was knowing that his body didn't just disappear on the bed the moment he left.

I think that's what keeps me off of suicide:
The idea that there's something left for someone else to clean up. How rude and inconsiderate!
It's a pain to take out the weekly trash, let alone figure out what to do
With over a hundred pounds of flesh that's about to go bad.
It'd be even worse in India, where there's a religious cult which believes you shouldn't desecrate
Any of the elements with the dead. They can't be buried or burned. They can't be cast out to sea.
So they're taken to the top of the Tower of Silence, where they become the vultures' problem.
How's that for passing the buck?

No, when I go, I want to go clean, convenient, leaving no mess.
As if I vaporized while taking a shower,
As if I moved to Antarctica, leaving no forwarding address.