1. |
Graft
02:07
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dimpled and clorox white. powdering mounds under grilled lamps. pickled in glove. black jelly brewing in a bagged stomach. drowning victim bones mockingly tied into rafts. naked children with their hands against the wall shaving meat in the back of a chipped shower room, balmed scalps buttering spheres of prick. the infantile rancor at the nerve of all outrage replicates a debutante's volunteer malnourishment. blowing up these phrases is like accepting a skin graft from the ass whose produce you willingly imbibe.
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2. |
Volunteer Widower
01:03
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finally a laugh, like nature at a five year plan. phosphorus concentrate smearing a worm-jeweled brain. in this sound of dirt such ambassadors will scrape them off before risking a clean. florescent planks light up an inquisition of greenflies; bukake-bleached and sour as grey eggshells. clasping in silent prayer under faucets of honey.
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3. |
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crash log hospice. the sliced wrists of nature. child abuse is the happy ending of being born. stop pretending this doesn't entice you. the mania of diplomats. BCP like vacuum attachments mossed in fiber glass. submission is the most cunning of all resilience. i want that final braid of innocence to unravel and fray.
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4. |
Hymen Balaclava
02:04
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"i am awake in the place where women die"*. touring headshots marked by holocaust anonymity. thrown to a floor we pretend is a mass grave. beauty is collapse minus the gratitude of immediacy. accidentally eyeless. burn unit plasticity. dangling at the head in the roof of a hamster cage. a hymen where my mouth would be might make for a more obvious scold.
* = Jenny Holzer
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5. |
Gallstone Seedbed
14:06
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answer to this. only to this. inherit my dog shit eyes. legs were bleeding from where the staples were pulled. it was two weeks before we began to crack up. white hemorrhaging. a masturbation that shreds so good. pines for a lack of appetite. when the rush of nightmares was a more than sufficient binge. circumcision sheaths in flaky totems of powdered mold. rolls of gauze balled into a globe. a long brown straw so you can breathe. band aids crossed over each eye. sheets of scum like a hood. memoir reliance crabbed into scales. throw the sheets over the rail. whipped afterbirth. a set of human furniture. aphasia as a code for her genitals. i'll never get old because i've been treated like a child all my life. having sphincter thumbed while lips whisper "you deserve it". one that pretends there's a metaphor in putting a fuck to words. uprooted by pus. haystack dolls boned with worms. spots of the floor bleached pink from pools of urine. clamped by bear traps to a running engine. throats a plastic shaft from a disc of sun. sparks the fillings in my teeth. thousands of wet splinters in a single blot our sex will hold in place. a traffic cone of mashed slugs. hairlip like a labia drawn and quartered by coat hangers. filling cracks in their lips with the caulk of tunnels, haze deliberate as a script. thorned scrotum clacking against scalloped taint. volumes of pubis ripe and peeled. leave me with experience. ridden with memory of foot-prints on a ledge. a foamed swirl like storm tracks on a broken TV. were they led down before they were pushed off? cleansed with air before being hosed off the walk? a monolith in excrement. cubed skin browned in its vapor trail. every pore dilates at once. naval lint quicksand. in my dreams it's my green teeth towering. taste unknown if not gastric. oily chum licking the creaky knees. petri dish humidity. denim molded to skin. sewage curvature. cigar ash on dark vulva. a second stomach has grown between my shoulder blades. tied down with varicose veins sheered from the back of her thighs. fingers curl backward. nails slide in and wind around the bones. cauliflower pinhole moistens scat-chapped lips. gunning varnish to rid the buds of stain. smoked vomit and plunged with a child's femur. clients widen to be drained at the gash. poured until fish-hooked inside out.
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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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