BOSTON/NE BANDS, Fresh Stream, Music

Phenomena 256 Meets The Representative (Psychedelic Dub Plate Vol. 1)

"I have nothing to say. And I am saying it."


Phenomena 256 Meets The Representative (Psychedelic Dub Plate Vol. 1) by Phenomena 256

Cover of Phenomena 256 Meets the Representative


It was a kindly port. A place of cool breezes
and dense sails. Bustling with life. I obser-
ve strange enchanted scents curling over mos-
s covered stones that wind up ancient paths
of black soil. Orange trees bearing their b-
ulbous fruits sway in currents of air.

I sit reading a book. It depicts scenes of a
similarly entwined fabric full of obscure ma-
gic. Tones of lightly burning lamps casting
distilled shadows onto burning stucco leave-
s folded in time. I have a purpose in this p-
lace but presently I am resolved to an into-
xicated, blazing, fortune.

A jade merchant stands crooked beside the d-
oor of a junk shop fondling a golden amulet.
Next door a collapsing beaten rug unfurls t-
o the curses of the proprieter. His face le-
athery and burned by the ageless sun. Dense
moustache cured by tar of tobacco smoke. Ey-
es voided by maladroit task and battered si-
lver flasked liquor returned solemnly to br-
east pocket.

A crone walks up a hill carrying a basket. A
young lady accompanies her. The girl stops a-
nd stares into the sea at orangey reflective
sails. She crouches to pluck and flower from
the earth and eats it. Laughing she addresss-
es the old woman with indiscernable tones wh-
ich echo against the walls of an alley way s-
tretching off into obscurity.

A sound projects from the port. Many voices
clamoring with metallic bursts and thundero-
us might. Birds caw and wing through air. A
great iron whistle sets off in brazen atona-
l churns. An explosion. Fire streams from a
hidden ground accosting azure skies. It’s b-
lack smoke chokes the scene of vitality and
soon I hear the screaming.

A group of black clad men rush past me curs-
ing in alien words. One looks me in the eye-
s, scowls, and continues up the path. He tr-
ips on a rock and falls. When he looks back
to see the damned thing we reconnect eyes. H-
e spits, standing, and rejoins the blasphem-
ous parade escaping into the horizon.

The people on the streets disappear though,
like phantoms, I can feel their eyes looki-
ng out from occult recesses at the calamity.

Several guards appear bearing batons and wh-
istling shrill, evil, siren calls. They pas-
s me and rush into the horizon as well. I a-
m alone on a now barren street. The air gra-
y with poisonous smog. Bits of ash spiral a-
long invisible paths and pox cancerous black
splotches into blood red clay roof tiles. T-
he scent of burnt hair fills my nostrils.

A child with a black bag over her head and
an automatic rifle hisses to my left. I lo-
ok over and I’m greeted by the gun’s barrel
pointed to my forehead. A phrase pours fr-
om the child’s mouth. I hear a deafening n-
oise and I am consumed by darkness.

Set out on an adventure against a fuzzy space rock collage with Phenomena 256 on Bandcamp.

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