Album: Skin

an album of spoken word from Linda J. Albertano

Skin, an album of spoken word by Linda J. Albertano

formerly available on New Alliance/SST Records
a limited number of CD’s are still available: request  info


Buy the album in high quality (320 kbps), play anywhere, mp3 download format…
[purchase_link id=”647″ text=”Buy Now” style=”button” color=”blue”]

(01) Skin of the Western World (10:39)
(02) The Death of Kong (2:12)
(03) Jazz and Jurisprudence (1:57)
(04) Valentine’s Day with Lucifer (6:18)
(05) Being History (1:17)
(06) Shame (4:05)
(07) Nero at the Barbeque (7:10)
(08) To the Pacific (7:56)



“The continuous flexible integument forming the usual external covering of an animal body.” The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary.

The tangible manifestation, the glorious breathing conduit of desire. Two surfaces lovely and warm for wrapping up mutual limerance. Bodily boundary, the touch of which can unleash oceanic passion. The skin of the western world.

“To strip or deprive of the skin; to flay; to peel…to remove by drawing inside out.” Ibid.

As when the organ whose cells ache to devour those of the beloved runs amok and eats itself alive. Like cancer. Like Dracula. The dark and delirious part of romance. The death of Kong. Valentine’s Day with Lucifer.

The flick of the same name. An abasement of the sacrament of holding and being held. Carnal flippancy. The depth with which we view the world. The film over things vital, wet, and primal. The Pacific. To the Pacific.

To consume human bodies as easily as TV dinners. Or something more deviant. Something breeding shame. Shame.

“To cause skin to form or grow on…to heal over in this way.” Ibid.

If thin, indifference can thicken it. As when we become (or are being) history. Or when said history, yawning, repeats itself, weary and impatient. Nero at the barbeque.

Wounds do heal. Skin does rejuvenate, pink and perky, with some kind of fingerpoppin’ joy. Some kind of jazz and jurisprudence. But mostly

is the stuff that when you lie around on it makes you feel like front teeth in the gleaming grin of God.

Oboy! Do we ever hunger for it.