Split CDR with Taste Of Fear

by The Communion

  • Streaming + Download




Split CDR with Taste Of Fear
On Lifeless Mind Records


released June 6, 2009

Nick - Vocals/Noise
Lee - Guitar/Noise
Billy - Guitar
Jimmy - Bass/Noise
Anthony Biscuits - Drums on Jester Axis and Cult Machine
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: Jester Axis
Certain smells stay with me. Paper mills and their burn-it-down metals. Time rides skin-heavy serpents, the accumulated sheathes weighing them down. They require a hope that only serves to build a symbol's promise, referencing ills with enough romance to make them remedy. Chemical-burns bring the circus out, dismissing escapist-thought in migration times. I've been here every night, with voice and spiral, tails and weeds connected to the same rat-cast. Defeating the purpose with postcards of our "camera shy" poses. To feign the acceptance of affairs when "ghost" wasn't an option is to lay out a prayer rug in hope that their memory wont invite. You're nothing longer than you exist.
Track Name: Cult Machine
Practice my last days pose. If you can’t see the end then it has always been over. Send the matches to those who don’t need crude decals to know burning men from wicker and burlap. Trailing the oblong towers of a face I don’t recognize, the shuffle inspires guillotine to betray the Salome that humors me.
Track Name: 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.
Track Name: Mobile Of Syringes
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.