2010 CDR Sampler

by The Communion

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This is a compilation of various splits and unreleased material.

Each copy is one of a kind with handmade collage work by Nick and Jimmy.


released June 6, 2010

Nick - Vocals/Noise
Lee - Guitar/Noise
Billy - Guitar
Jimmy - Bass/Noise
Joe - Drums
Gary Gennaro - Drum Programming on "Crib Death Foghorn"



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The Communion

"The Communion (Long Island, NY) don't linger in one spot long enough to be easily defined or categorized. The metal/hardcore quartet can create angst-ridden explosions that make most power electronics bands seem "light," then on to black metal shrieking and blast-beat takeoffs that are just as easily swapped out for classic hardcore 2/4, and swinging sludge riffs akin to Eyehategod. -Wm. Berger ... more

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Track Name: Funeral Home Marionettes
Somnambulist screams into the carrion black reservoir. Edited to medicine, pain-living preferred to the unknown. Atypical reticence that leaves me to wonder what I ever wanted from them. Botfly tumblers up from alkaline wilderness. Fallout shadows flirting with lover flesh. Stared at but hidden like a concert hall crematorium. A crane left in a gelatinous skeletal state, distended belly in a lake of entrails, arsenic like sea-salt caking the doors of a river bottom pick-up. A doll head plucked off a wallpaper of ball gags. Check our hemoglobin for Aboriginal art. Caterpillars in bullet-cocoons that only mature through exit wounds, their flight patterns leaving a trace. Now painted in the smolder of a burning widow, Cloud-pointers damn pedophilia with their backs to the machete capes. The controlled wrath of cafeteria-pleasantries fooled you into a toll-free dream scape, orifice the one thought-barrier left to breach.
Track Name: The Masochistian
Reborn with flies on my face. Woman to the whimpers of the unreformed paroled. Mind webbed in the ribs of a neck-securring halo. Hung on nails a decade wide, sentenced to an unweaned infancy. Peeling in the zone, the organ flaps like clipped reels of film. Burlesque images from a leper colony. I've had nothing but future since then, anoited by icepick, mad and naked under the kissing flags. we listen as their souls crack, chilling indentations in waves that make the hinges hiss. cleansing hands casting shark-maws over lacquer-bathed features? The tagged, overwhelmed with rumored heavens, operate until the tract lights hum.
Track Name: Divorce Meditation
Confrontation via retreat. Rain ghosts along the graveled ribs. our flesh hung like crushed velvet off a battered starlet’s shoulders. the mocking cackles were as rich and right as an insubordinate’s tased nape. Grease paint leprosy impregnates the bubbled horizon, elongating the lip that will kill me. Cornered mid-vertigo by your disapearers, fingerprints desecrating their vernacular. I can’t deny the vacancy, only camouflage the epilepsy generation organs instigate.
Track Name: Clock Halt
Someday you’ll show us all. I’ll be sure to watch the clock halt, reset itself in a vain attempt to catch up with the genius you swore was dormant. Well, where was I when planets realigned as to position themselves over your brow? Something tells me you’ve never known and the shadow-boxing finally got the best of you. Skulls would've been leveled if you were subjugate to a fraction of our undertakings, but now you're championing the former collective where once a whisper barely made it to crest? Well your past is failing to impress, as my present hasn't warped around me to appease your alleged relevance. Don’t tell me the future is in novelty cancellation anthems or workhorse minutes on the set of a movie no one will see. Naked cousins crossing eyelid horizons once she's been detailed in severed arm spoils, telling yourself they'll substitute in time. telling yourself time will finish what you start.
Track Name: Hypnagogic Caregiver
I wake up back first. Thrown out from laughing at the idea that I meant anything to her. Twice before she wilted; a counterpoint to my gorging on sandpaper grains. Smoking under umbrellas so the clouds her lips shape will yellow all skin but her own. Overcast peels back. White suns appear like kneecaps crowing the wounds of crouching legs. We were no heads, just faces with necks mingling in garbage tourists have blackened with value. Why wish for your love taps when time will batter the shingles in?
Track Name: Mobile Of Syringes / Crib Death Foghorn
Mobile Of Syringes:
The chains are pulled through holes in their wrists, tow truck hooks dangling from their cuffs. Slug mold furrows like a field of pine neeldes, halting acid sentences. TV cables braided into their muscles, amphibian-throated and ectopic in the red chairs. Fiber glass grows in moon bleached attics, opening fight minds to their oblivious chacanery. Settling debts through the eerie cosmos of clarity, forced to endure the atmosphere's philmic incisions that make the skeleton known. We are the excrement of all the burrows. At the neck we idle like baby teeth, so strike your air-bravado outside the fictiondrome and see where your pure bloods will lie. Once the cage and rack factor into your empty malice, my eternal quiet will be welcome on your behalf.

Tunnel vision anesthesia encroaches on all the right worms. A Kabuki understudy in a white oxygen mask kneads cobwebs into a drop-net over my open chest so my entrails won't stain your holy ground again. Albino vultures fixed in potato bug coil gather crucifix twigs at the sight of a stomach acid brush fire. Boneless braided fingers echo limbless reverb. Souls are mud when held against a skin pulled off in one piece. Roman decadence with slaughterhouse efficiency. Rainwater has been pumped through the bridge of my nose, skull lost in a gore-violet riptide, exhausted by words being my sole brush with the meta-beyond.

Communication has failed my age. I know the pattern all to well. These ether contortions. Flat reactionary. No more no less. Scanners pock the grid with ballpoint lice. Clouds lactate amber, informing mosquitoes of their environmental autism. honey spiked with hallucinogens from a pig's head turn graves into tracheotomy tubes. There is not one pound of you that will elevate penance beyond piss-elegant punishment, so sheath your contusions then blame the seamstress behind your veil.

Something kills me about teenagers on power-strip tightropes... slaying each other with harpoons, telekinesis, and vague body art. The snow smokes pencil lead nightshade, warping a curve into flat-earthed sinisters. From stem to sternum the charnel dolls go up, their spirits revealed not in the smoke but the soot it cakes on blue concrete like oil-geyser wakes, stretching their voodoo intestines across a crowded surf, muting the steam rising from the prophetic ganglia as not to give the end times away. but how do you hide Armageddon? obscure it beneath creamed veils of flayed abdominal walls, sun-baked pink and confectioned with sea salt? Look down and whisper "No". Spare the recourse. They'll never change. Not even in the face of twin death's heads, fire cracker string nerves shortening with every dismissive stare.

Crib Death Foghorn:
Sunlight glacial snakes over migraine eyes, waiting out blindspot arraignments. Numb to a tape loop’s happy accidents, now even the spawn are having their say over the crib death from where their bodes have pooled.