The May/June issue of Cryptic Inscriptions has been posted it contains the following:
Reviews all by Joe:
Cystgurgle "Regurgitant Slurp of Mashed Embryo" EP, Encounters "Houses" EP, Khanate "Clean Hands Go Foul" LP and Painkiller "Guts of a Virgin" EP
Poems by Joe:
Sensations Uncontained and Mindless Melodrama
Poems by Masami:
Den of the Djinn, Intuitive Improvisation and Fevers
Until the July/Aug issue enjoy.....
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Fevers
Fevers
Fevers! You
are a paralysis! Lying on a languid mattress, strayed as idle hours at an opium
den..... & the fates eye has withdrawn in a prosaic fashion. For in her
womb there was a fear of birth, but that taunting ghost of arousal lingers...
Like the baritone croak of a toad belching bubbles of black liquor & these
nostrils drip... For theirs lies some aches a round of poison can't pause. So
strap on a gas mask to purge a clear channel of breath. Longing for the
nostalgia of that light spring air sequestered in a monastery by the closed
shutters of winters brittle bones, & only a sober gentleman could deduce
such a string of cowards, crooks, & tragedies, but that wouldn't happen to
be this funny fellow. For notes of madness melt this mirage of modesty! For the
touch of sensation is a pendulum swaying from the cool brush of elation to a
caress coarse with thorns, & quietly I whisper to these numbed naked
nerves... Where am I?! Sweat... Shivering fevers, this news trembles in my
shaken gut... Sick?!
Intuitive Improvisation
Intuitive Improvisation
To
type a sobering recollection of these prior nights subtle agents of memory
would be a puzzling
blackout of confusions. Filled with forgotten conversations taped on stat icy recorders,
& Amass with empty bottles of liquor lifted through broken pockets, & A
litter of strange letters that have little meaning to none but those enamored
by these secret affairs of violence..... Raiding the medicine cabinets of those
questionable merchants & guzzling gourds of gremlin wine! Oh how we'd ride
off on vacant drives.Deranged by the grizzly tail of this tapering night. For
these obsessions were a marriage of
monstrosities! Aged as the folklore of a dream catcher caught in the shadow of
a reoccurring flood of nightmares.As pools of virgin blood shiver in opal
shades, & amidst these sullen tombs of junk naive travelers tread. For they
were none but small time tourists dangling for a holiday in that full time
trade. Pale in the line of a blue shot,& He was a veteran of that hustle
you never turn back from. Sizzling in the spoon of a junkies superstitions. So
as he handed me a crinkled hundred dollar bill he began to mutter like some
ancient sage beholding opioid oracles, “Never blow a line with a singledollar
bill” he ominously foreshadowed, “Or all that lies in toe is the bottom of a
bottle of blues”...... Idle occupations!? We're the philosophers purging
pantheons of paradigms on the disembodied couches of psychologists, & I
raise my glass like the echo of a fallen hero heard throughout the mighty halls
of Valhalla! What arrows of discord slay these sensibilities like the profane
promises of wicked women. Rock bottom is that cheap solace of a bathroom floor
floating with empty beer cans... That stolen stone! & She pounces like
Lucifer's left hand cat. Purring ecstatically as she lies atop ole ruins rock.Her
bright rosy cheeks ripe with the sun, Soft pink lips... A plucked rose bud. Young but witty to the ways of the world, smoking the earth in gardens of
sunrise. Foraging for a pinch of coffee grinds to fill this spoon, a handful of
half bit benzos to put back, & the loose lyrics of a horoscope to inspire...
Revolt!..It's a flat of frivolities! Reeling shadowy films through a pocketed
projector, but on that aged window sill I still can imagine that golden spider
weaving silvery webs through the pale horns of the moon. Although the bite of
intrigue betrays these senses that wander. For devotion is a childish dower of broken
I dos, Pallid as that tragic figure once engraved in imaginings of
alabaster..... Lament! Oh, how you stalk those languid hours in which candles
dream. Stroking these familiar hands through a strangers hair, unconscious as
the beckoning bark of this Pavlovian bell... & these chemical coats were
reptilian... Lying dormant in the dusk of an eclipsing nature. As circles of
judges stretch out in an embrace in these chaste gowns of purple, As father had
always been an empty chair at the dining room table, but perhaps only the
finger of lady justice could tip these damned scales! For not a gypsy could
sow the hem of an unclaimed fortune... Blind spotted as to if these forked
paths could lead to a ripening cocoon of hope or dangle in the noose of a
tightening rope?! Oh house of pain... This asylum of memories is a ward
reserved for the insane! But wise words insist it's merely a charade... a game,
& Intangible are the vibrations in whence you empathize like the mirage of
lineages woven by the nostalgia of widowed lips, but where lies the history
amongst these mock streets... Those ghetto slums?! For this nation is but an
infant swaddled in the arms of a premature passing of centuries, but aloof on a
lone window pane I wildly muse of the romantic architecture adorning the
majestic cities of cultures fallen... & that babe has been cast into a sea
of doubts! Stripped bare as the jaded mystique of a promiscuous dancer, curious
as to where they roam when the bars are no longer a light with the faint sound
of trailing music & the cheerful laughter of boisterous crowds?! For when
these cremations char this humorous husk, in the pit of a pagan pyre a
cloudless portrait of azure shall glare by the light of a luminous pupil.....Pale
in the hue of this dim constellation..
Den of the Djinn
Den of the Djinn
Unborn voyeur! You are a chariot
driven by a luminous inferno of galloping mares!
Dancing like the crackling flames of a
bonfire blaring with new beginnings..... & This
waltz of empathy dances in delusions,
Courting an affair strung out on a short leash, As she proposes idly to these
pornographic toasts, But what hideous
figures harrow in these kingdoms oh imaginary acrobat?! As midnights of
morphine mellow into murderous morns! So square me off to shake this itch!
& Tired of the taverns... I recede, Slumping into fictitious fantasies, As
they lie leisurely in these glass coffins... Pandering! Sinking slowly within
the cushioning poppy fields of the Sultan..... & What would this echoing evermore
say of our yesterdays, As they casually saunter past park benches in a dream. Oh,
lyrical liar how your words smolder in this ancient pyre! Scribbled in similes
& resonating with rhymes, As tarantulas trickle through tense fingers
fidgeting across the dusty keys of this typewriter, & In a chair to my left
on a green porch perches the curious calico cat, Who'd lost a life outta nine,
Falling a flight from a shrieking balcony!& Decaying in this arabesque den
was the troop of three chalices, Who cooked it up in the afternoons as the
evenings dreams were a black diamond... A fleeting star, Ever so far! Focused
on the clockwork of fossils, Smoke stained as the diaries scorched at the foot
of this solar mausoleum, & She'll wine & dine on the blood of her
young! As these inquires incubate, Hanging from the hinges of this cellar door,
That sanctum obscured....So what shadows linger in the hallways of tomorrow? As
premonitions pulse through a deck of possibilities, & Slick as the trick of
a djinn, Was that grin...Oh that gritty toothed grin even gamblers can't pin!
& The denizens of this spectral acropolis dwell in the drift like childhood
memories spent in palaces afar, As starless summers starve! & It's where I
wander that worlds seem to cross, That desert plane cascading with distant muses
& beautiful mirages, But where lies the oasis amidst this foreign land?! Oh
poet of silence! You druid of dreams! You sultan of sciences! How we beckon at
nameless gates for your unconscious return, Amidst the kinship of a dear company
of strangers.That heir to a lineage haunted by an ancestral hunger, Fated to
none but a fleeting expression of mortality, Who's imminent sentences were a
vast library to centuries lost...That subterranean chamber that loathes the
light of memory, Whom in the phosphorescent hue of daybreak fairies me into a
flight of fables, As I scour about in a delirious thirst for this subhuman
serum, Stepped on by the string orchestrated serenades of pence pinching
brokers, & Pausing tensely on this fidgeting fret, I rest till the
next note is struck..... Erasing
euphoric sketches through quiet nods, For this season had undressed all but
that naked sense of closure, Oh, how I'd of torched those gardens of “paradise”
just to bring these kindred spirits back! But the lore of this city is
ancient...Lying amongst the decay of ruins seldom sought, Unearthed through the
eyes of an ageless tomb, Oh Caravans! Caravans! Lead these childish whims to
your strange lands. Bustling with the inspirations that swell in the solace of
scenes mused upon in summers past, As not even a quiver of ink could be penned
in the pale aura of the present, For I seem to know not who wrote the lines
scrawled about the pages of those diaries dated.So from these silver ships we'd
found harbor upon your damp shores, That wilderness within the nature of a
noose, Gilded by the vines of wrath! You who's whispers murmur to the beasts of
unconscious forests! Lurking in the tridents of poetic rapture! Who's writhing seances of words were strewn
about mystic galleries... Asunder! For in the creeping hours of the morn I see not
but the daunting eclipse of requiems dear.....
Mindless Melodrama
Mindless Melodrama
Eyes locked on a fantasy
realm that renders us useless. A star born through staged reality. Corroded by
the disease of fame and wanting the next thing which leaves us enslaved to the
product line. Spawning our own disease and losing touch within, what hope to we
have if we can’t get past a façade that fills the lonely void within.
Sensations Uncontained
Sensations Uncontained
Burning and uncontrolled desires taking over
the mind and body like a disease waiting to transpire. Sensations running deep
the essence of fleshly pleasure decimating minds like a cancer spreading disease
through the eye candy that man desires. No hope for the damned the situation is
clear yet the will is broken by the beast driven by carnal desire.
Painkiller "Guts of a Virgin" EP Review
PainKiller “Guts of a
Virgin” EP
I recently checked out this bizarre
concoction of avant garde jazz and grind core known as Painkiller after
discovering that this was the brainchild and project of saxophonist John Zorn(Naked City), drummer Mick Harris(ex Napalm Death/Scorn),
and Bill Laswell(Massacre). In a nutshell, the album is basically a jazz session with hints of old school grind making its presence known on several of the albums tracks The material is basically improvisation
based not to say that some of the material wasn't premeditated.. The vocals are
very chaotic and spastic sounding which definitely mixes well with the chaotic
musical structures. The drum break in the beginning of “Damage to the Mask” and
the saxophone solo on “Dr.Phibes” are definitely stand out moments for me on
this record, and to understand this band fully I would just check out the
entire album. If anyone has doubts about grind core and jazz being good
bedfellows, this record will definitely change your mind.
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