Sunday, May 6, 2012


Alpha Cue and Swoon are almost always grouped together, but I've decided to give each album its own entry in order to reduce the overall bulk of the postings.

I do have the liner notes for this one, but unfortunately they're pretty badly damaged and difficult to read.


1. Blush #102
2. Too Often
3. After Busy Summer
4. Lazy Sweat
5. He's Famous Now
6. Tender Red Net
7. Charming Twilight Haze
8. Jealous
9. That Small Convulsion
10. Sonics
11. Coup De Grace
12. Mantic Sway

Transcription for this album is complete! There are still a few uncertain words marked in italics -- feel free to post additions/corrections!


 Blush #102

Pristine? What does that mean? The rumor of hell for this sin is dim,
Bland as the bark of a deaf, meaty nun.
This crime, this vice makes vibration thunder.
The salty steam swells from me like a skirt above a subway grate.
Oh you brutish itch, your teasing turns me into scarlet fever.
Oils the image of Adonis, of Adam, of Valentino with urgent sweat. Oh, I'm in a tizzy.
Sweetling, all evening I've been lit on and off. On and off.
My patience growing thinner than a playboy's grope.
The thought of you irks me the way the world worries God.
My wimpy, tiny, little heart has become explosive.
[?], inspired by roses, by embraces of angels. My pristine self is melting,
My old whore halo glowing bright as nirvana.

Too Often

Too often, the thing goes thud and you like it moving away from you
Like the last glacier of the Ice Age, signaling something coming but you don't know what.
It doesn't really matter, you say anything is more party than this mess around your neck,
More kick in the gut than this pat on the rump.
Your image is covertly plotted. Pretend you're jaded to seem intriguing.
Don't twist an eyebrow, reveal no marvel, let the common thrill someone else.
You go to the ends of the earth to prove there is an edge.
You don't step over the limit but feign that you always do to seem smoother than you really are.

After Busy Summer

As autumn leaves are falling down, it's time to reap the fun we've sown,
Cash in on all indulgence blown due to business that was at hand.
Hey, drown that urge to work today! Let's rumble into town.
Big-lipped, hyper, with body-tone as autumn leaves are falling down.
It's time to reap the fun we've sown. Let's be the adjective and not the noun.
Ticking while the others groan, and dance a samba to their drone.
Let's don a restless cha-cha gown as autumn leaves are falling down.
It's time to reap the fun we've sown.

Lazy Sweat

Murky tavern air and heat kisses strip the trees of any sap that's clinging.
And junkyard dog licks sloth today.
Snow is on vacation, has nestled in your head,
And you can't recall how rude it was when it swallowed your November.
To be cool, we hang out of windows like some bad joke we keep forgetting.
We're spoiling faster in this heat; sheets are torture against our skin.
The thought of braille repulsive. And nothing can coax us into sex, not even that starry evening sky
Smeared with what looks like a million tired sperm.
All our dreams are wet ones. We're clinging to a buoy bobbing above the water line
Just to keep our lung-beats going. Every breath becomes a new surprise, newer than the last one.

He's Famous Now

He's famous now, the boy of the hour. His photo hung on every girl's door.
He's famous, and you read all about him in those tabloids that he used to read:
He had a fever in Paris, he danced in Berlin, he collapsed on the stage in London.
He is waging a lawsuit, he is dating a model, he was seen in Miami with the broadest of blondes.
You were never a blonde,
But you helped him up the stairs the night you brought him home to meet mother.
You have all his records -- he gave them to you that Christmas that you were expecting a mink.
You have all his records in the back of your closet, his face on each of them,
Smug and well-kissed. On Valentine's Day, you were expecting a diamond;
He gave you a ring from a hotel in Jersey.
Complaining about your letters, about his writer, and how his roadies have been just no good.
He stuck to the wall, a flash in the pan; it's guaranteed to take its toll.
You saw the way up, you'll see the way down, and ignore his calls when he comes around.
He's famous now, but if you squint into the distance,
You can see him lumbering towards the horizon like some big, painful animal.

Tender Red Net

(Thank goodness this section of the liner notes is relatively undamaged! This song would probably be near impossible to transcribe accurately if you didn't know that each line is palindromic)

Sex alert relaxes
Stops, sir, in mad telephone men. Oh pox as damn iris spots.
Deb gals, damned as nuns. A den: mad, slag bed.
Murmurs: you bat at a baby's rum-rum
Riot: tab abattoir.
Oh, who can go cognac, oh who?
Snub-nose vile dude lives on buns:
Epic err recipe.
A dog, a Panama man, a pagoda.
Go bop, meter us, ma'am - sure tempo bog.
Sun evasion, "No!" is a Venus:
Tender red net
Tense semen parts madam's trap: nemeses net -
No sin, unison.
Raw as is a banal luna, a null anabasis, a war.
Yell amid a dim alley.

Charming Twilight Haze

A festive posture, a tiny nap, and a loud smell is all we need tonight.
Sexy fog, thick enough to choke on, has draped the streets, but if we wear white,
No rain will touch us. An orchestra is playing in a tavern where
Orientals dream of meeting famous blondes and everything in this
Whole wide world seems drunk... and burning.
I am being called dangerous. You're appearing to like it.
We feel like celebrities, we sway and the crowds scatter.
We'll go home when the birds start singing. 


Jealous of the human heart: so ugly yet exalted. Jealous of the blood it keeps. 
Jealous of fast cars and not-hot colors of monks and their vows of silence,
Of leather wrapped around the skin of silly boys.
Jealous of sex and all its power, of romance and how it makes you swoon.
Of men who can grow beards of/or knots, of women who can play the cello.
Jealous of love and how much it's desired.
Jealous of hair that comes and goes as it pleases, of weather, which no one can control.
Of infants, who can sleep all day, of lacewings, that don't sleep at all.
Of houseflies and their zillion eyes, the windows to a zillion souls.
I'm jealous of saints and their tickets to heaven. I'm jealous of birds and their simple brains.
Jealous of people who are naturally prompt, of those who have too much money.
Of those who are younger and more famous than I, I'm jealous of those who are older and wiser.
Jealous of good liars and lotto winners, jealous of the vast sky above me,
Of the threat of hell below me. I'm jealous of the world and the beauty it holds.
Jealous of the color green: so fresh, so moldy. So much the gorgeous god of envy.

That Small Convulsion

Something's kicking in our bushes, something with evil fizzle.
You can hear it's close in giggles, its shimmy in the shrubs.
A war may be raging. A market may be crashing.
An earthquake may be brewing; a volcano, erupting.
A planet is stammering. A zoo is on fire.
And somewhere else, a country's exploding.
But here, in fear, we watch something twitching in our bushes.
Trouble's twisting beneath our window, crashing in our backyard.
Too shady to deal with, too close to our core.
We're too spineless to see beyond it, around it, or through it.
We can't beat it if we don't know quite what it is.
We're sure it's not a dog. We're sure it's profoundly ugly.
It seems small and tight. It seems strict and smart.
It keeps us up all night with our timid, lazy hearts.


This morning, you were whistling while shaving,
And it drove me crazy as my knock-out drops faded into a dream
Of a thousand canaries engaged in one-upmanship.
Cupids were noisy all day. They were wanting attention.
And my gold tooth picked up signals fron the frenzied radio station;
Haywire salsa filled the room, foreign lingo wrestled with my tongue and won,
And even my pulsebeat was unwelcome. I turned the ceiling fan off,
And it was like the world tumbled down a staircase before it stopped, heavenly silent.
Now, I put my head out the window so I can hear nothing for a while.
You see me and you begin laughing.
I'm wanting to hit you and wondering what sound that would make.

Coup De Grace

The lump in my breast is now growing visible. I keep sleeping and saving my money.
Bathing and being polite; it's the cruel hoax that I play on myself.
The lump in my chest is now invisible. I keep waking, becoming transparent.
Counting and recounting the stars, one of the jokes that I play with myself.
Brave up, come closer, and give me your number.
Give me your passion, your tempo, your zeal.
If you're good, I'll will you my charm and point to the sky where the night rubs its belly.
Look there when I leave for a trace of a glimmer, a soft lucid shimmer too lofty to see;
It will be what's left of me after I'm gone.
Among the darkness and calm and the burden of night,
My ghost will sneak back and stink up your room. You won't wash me out of your system.
You can't vow to never call out my name as your tongue lies heaving in your sleepy dry mouth.
You won't forget me. I'll be warm and wet in the thin winter air.
I'll be the murmur, the secret like crazy.

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.

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