outpost dissonance feedback no.2

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vivisection of the insect… cut apart, probe, dig out, dissect… ideologically climb inside… behind actinic-guts fallacies cannot hide… bible-belt philosophies doom-disseminate… cut-throat bishops porn-propagate… murderous fantasies… elegiac effigies… childhood cut-up, damn those fables of lore… convicts plot and rot behind the person-prison door… and the wardens keep-a-spying… poems putrefying… verse and word to testify… against the catatonic lie… Quonset up in flames… barbaric body-games… gas-station miracles …obliterated vehicles… fields of desolation… cattle-grid castration… evidence of violence in the outposts of law… chanting ‘fuck those pig-bitches raw’ …priest fingers choking slender milky throats… petal-stained sodden counterfeit notes… welcome to the currency of crackpot dissonance… meet your mutant-progeny of insect-existence…

– bianca laleh

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reindeer now officially part of the anette records family

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…a hissing a buzzing over the valves, switch-boards coming to life, tape machines whirring into activity… it is with much jubilance and gladness that i am today able to announce that, after years in the wilderness and after much behind-the-scenes communications, i am now officially part of the anette records family…

i can scarcely word how much this union means to me, nor can i scarcely contain news of what lies in store from this point on… but how i do want to extend my deepest gratitude to the almighty strizi, for seeing me fit to join the ranks, but also for keeping an eye on me during much darker hours…

…anette records is a wonderful DIY enterprise, which already features a roster of such talented artists, many of whom i am already deeply honoured to be acquainted with… please do be sure to lend your support to the cause, investigate their releases and stay tuned for forthcoming announcements…

all the love

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hallucination dreams from the abandoned desert camp no.2

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visceral and vile… how these sordid icons smile… nun annihilator… death-cunt violator… rabid wolves lunar-screech… hypocrite madmen poison-preach… religion burning at the stake… theoretical gods myth-vacate… under skies of Mary’s acrid blood… rise the unholy fleshly flood… water-torture terrorise… Lucifer’s languid lullabies… where are all the pilgrims now? they no more shrine or temple prowl… ghost and journey, field and foe… let sin-surrenders seed and sow… hallucination wrapped in reason… servitude exchanged for freedom… thorn and flower cut my heart… honey-dipping dream-depart… flagrant, vagrant, beast and bride… desert camp threats override… crematorium parade… birth-baptismal serenade… inside the imperial sarcophagus… wide-eyed cannibal populace… dead-end horror of the centipede… upon my roses let the vacuum feed… dead-end horror of the centipede… despite the roses the bullets breed…

– bianca laleh

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by the bitter lake we sat down and wept… no.2

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…and what of the vacant broken women? walking tombs of sodomised sin… temporary male-wreck salvation… intermittent seed-excavation… neon-sexed lipsticked radiation… whoring their way out of heaven… sucking death-licked number ‘six six seven’ …they make cold catacombs warm and wet… they won’t let the metal weeds forget… spent artillery, rocket fire… drones of dark demon desire… here little girls are the undusted mirrors… tomb, womb, ecstasy-pillars… ‘get them!’ shriek the dirty boys… make them our wind-up redemption toys… beyond rotting carcass scattered far… beside battered building, burnt-out car… against the ivy-coated nuclear wall… watch how the women open and fall… by the bitter lake see their lilies weep… the last messiah, sordid, cheap… menstrual madness wretched, sore… battleground, graveyard, suicide, war… here, outside the demilitarised zone… watch the broken-blistered girls die alone…

– bianca laleh

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by the bitter lake we sat down and wept… no.1

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another suicide in the financial district… grim politician masks stare lifeless from the podium… roaring drone of helicopter gunships resonate through the catacombs of the mausoleum… child soldiers bleed to death in field hospitals as the markets expand… wallowing in the economic filth and writhing in the blood and fuel… detestable actions of the few…

a series of blurry images from the field… snapshots within the turmoil of the western lands… meaningless days and nights filled with harrowing images coming in from the still… spectral torment tumbles and sets in a series of numbing waves… artillery and rocket fire. shells pounding the old town as drones glide in insect tones high above the demilitarised zone…

concrete tower blocks cast long shadows over empty lots as flames dance and rise from burning cars amidst the chaotic swarm of rioting… extending patterns of grim intent drawing themselves out into a vast mosaic of guilt and surveillance, distrust, abuse and callous calculation… scratching ‘six six seven’ into grey slates waist deep in the dead river…

poisoned well-water, blighted crops failing in the dead ground… the river winding on through the war-torn lands as bodies litter the ruined villages since abandoned… board members picking at the rotting hollows of broken lands and distant lives… we ride the train-lines and bathe in the radiance… filtering the signals down to nothing, worshipping our ornaments of servitude…

futile lives lived out within a nightmare world of worthless action… bleating in the pit… narrowing our worldview… stripping language of its meaning… seeking calm and escape in mindless soma abandon… falling over ourselves to be free… weeping into the reflecting pool and trying to describe how it feels to a fading reflection staring back from a mirror left undusted…

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