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by ABUSE

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released March 13, 2011

Recorded by James Faix

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Abuse Orlando, Florida

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Track Name: It's What's In Your Heart That Counts Down Your Death.
I will never take to you
the mouth you run,
sucking up balled fists
—laid you out to drool your graveled teeth.
Your opposer,
I rise against you.
Bite the shit
behind your lips.
We don't need dictates from you,
you tail-turning rat.
Stand to me and your
pride deserts you.
This is to be respected;
I hold myself above all.
Armed with strong blood at my back,
I, undisputed, won't concede
what my will prevails.
Hard feelings spat on the ground—
I don't care
for your lying stance,
you two-faced bloated leech.
I will tear the breath
out of your throat.
I've got no respect
for your boss get-up;
you don't belong in this outfit.
One warning left:
you're all out of chances.
Half your heart;
no spine exposed.
Run away,
don't bolt doors,
abandon your home, flee.
We hunt here now.
Wounds fester like you,
plague in circles.
You're poison!
We will not be consumed!
Look down on me and
miss what counts—
I'm the shadow
of your death.
Track Name: Would You Consider This Crying?
Your echoed musings complete me.
I'd forever trace your form
for love of what wherewithal
fain glints hold.
I've ascribed to our affair
mackled conceit of past selves
no longer less present,
which did despoil quixotic idylls
at hands of sincere megrim.
But in surrendering artless confessions
I've resigned veracity
and so I intimate words of candor.
Day's spells cast scoured luster
amaurotic; I forswore myself.
Life lessens lying in the flesh;
truth scrawled to save from face to face
beheld in you another one and only.
Take back the inconstant moon,
our precious etchings
but brittled stone hallows.
Leave me rapt in framed symmetry;
my heart quivers in reflection alone.
From what, undisturbed, remains,
let the world turn away.
Feebly unprepared.
Pallid.
Empty.
Vain.
Would you, self enamored, take one so
overwrought?
Loss scars the longing,
sundered into haptic woes.
Solace in blood refracted
heartens, “Go on,
loathe what in wanting became.
Cherish long-gone shortcomings,
for we make endearment
remembrance.
Will mourning eclipse obsidian
labyrinthine ways
you remorse?
Drawn anew, your eyes disclose
all that has been shed
to the brilliance
of awakening skies.”
Track Name: EVERYDAYVALUES!GUARANTEEDSATISFACTION!FORTHEPRICEOFALIFETIME!
Today I can't wait
to fling myself
from yesterday's booster seat
to broad roads where
wheeling cogs clock
every day's petty deaths
spent for change, bound by
buckram necks tying knots
with sunless empires
dying to breed
within the living,
milk within glass;
Little Boy yellows,
succeeding The Conqueror,
mouth sedate running gallant
red strophes to chemical clouds
lying in wait.
Track Name: In Loving Memory of Missing You Deeply
There were or are, remember, oceans. So long since I've seen ourselves, though but horizons apart, paddle rippled distance, leaving. Hissing quenched alpenglow, sand rivulets the cresting froth buries. Departing waves engulf our wake. I have been all ways; before me, everything that was is, still. Sometimes there she calls to mind:

“We are worth less,”
to last tender, tossing,
“to me than scrapped linen
I've, past night, laid bare.
My last laugh, you're refuse,”
he declined so austere
as before—he'd plunged first—
“Intrepid, rushed through our chambers—”
the big splash.
“So long frisson!
I, on laurels, lying,
lost face to blue crests enfolding.”
Then, resting on palms,
“Let fly their pinions.”
Gorges and apogees
cloud each other.
“How content is this
nameless vessel's lot?”
Bequest forgotten
by one begot.
“Sunshine, resign to bolder sea;
the dawn you promise will,
has never, come!
But for one
littoral, sinking,
swims, parting distal currents,”
cried dammed laughter.
As all doused hearths and
longed-for dry peaks'
mementos lost,
everything that was is
sanded, swamped, deserted
in diluvian wake.
“Then hear their wails:
'where once we, ere seeking,
recall a sunken voice, iron knell:
“so reaping crescents fall,
as before to bounding main,
embark derelict waves.”'”
Track Name: Fast Between Us and On Top of Each Other
I've forgotten how you don't want me.
Your cuspid leers dismiss.
Your blinding glare burns up the choir of courting shadows
down to jeering scowls & narrowed looks,
the spearmint sweat & murmurs choke,
the sexless throbbing air & bitter perfume rot.

Don't you see, turning back, my shallowed
breath's falter rattle, “collapse”?
Does the surfeit taste my spit,
bathe in sputum cisterns where you
whet your lips? Drown.
Don't drop your crown my belle lettres,
stooped to sniff septic paddock calyxes.

Your saccharine shades of tulle undressed
feed flies strychnine smiles from manure mouths.
Plattered carcass speaks in silver tongues:
“What I want flutters forevers & elsewheres,
if not to wither smothered in arms clasped
then to molt at stake upon a lovelorn pyre.”

What cloven whims entertain wile away from nubile romance.
Thusly so, since Demise forbears your fawnings
take misery as your paramour.

Don't bend boughs to curtsey; simply pine,
kneel lest you fall hopelessly from yours evermore.
Were we to, in clouds, weave bodies supine,
I'd worry my starry Tarantella would awaken homely.

You lock eyes with shallow water
standing in your vitreous.
Since my dumb swan's warble begs poesy,
descry these alms; a serenade I descant:

This verse is yours
to dovetail, resound,
All I've left to lay upon:
Atropa Belladonna.

Yet dance effete, in throes of prosier thrums.
Cavort with want of grasping my largesse.
Naught but boorish trials nigh dogmatized,
now divan recumbent, my retched apple, spitted sati.
Is my budding tongue so sour?
Quite the telling snub from one so omphacine; it's just insatiety.
Track Name: Violence Aint a Resort.
They call her labes,
vernacular twaddle aside
for she sits splay-legged
(poolside)
day after day defecating posture.
Peephole peering, cabin thirteen,
makes her the muck flood
that tramples vats of
children's urine;
vacation seascape now
brown, sour, drowning.
All holidays die in screaming tourist tempests.
Cocktail trail to
swollen lips,
from her deckchair,
above eleven beers on ice,
she tells me how
toilets flush
backwards in this hemisphere

(Succumb to profligacy).