Durga On The Wing Of Abomination

by Medroxy Progesterone Acetate

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Originally released on Kimberly Dawn in 3" cdr (KimDawn17 -- please visit kimdawn.blogspot.com for more info). An edited version of this song appeared on the album I Am An Empty House Longing To Be Haunted.

"i cannot melt the snow, dear krsna, i am but the night"

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released April 25, 2016

Vocals by April Larson and the Dawgranch Children's Choir.

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Darren Bauler Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Drones built and prepared by hand, the old-fashioned way, delivered directly to your head. Formerly known as Midwest Death Cult (until I left the midwest), Delexnos hosts the albums of Medroxy Progesterone Acetate and related bands.

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Track Name: The Black Intoxication (live)
Mirrored recovery: I want to understand. Everything has been compromised for the sake of outside interference, for a false narrative spine. The engines recombine the material in their own image. Narrative voice can be considered a biometric in this sense, and thus anonymity can only come from a conscious blurring of these recognizable traits through multiauthorial combinatrics. This strategy is made more effective by using nonhuman agents as collaborative partners, but only if all parties can effectively mimic the others: it is in the mimicry that the camouflage works. All future situations in their infinite variety were well planned for by generating a level of interaction which hid all tracks like a fresh-fallen snow. Given oneself over entirely to the process, there were now all sorts of assemblages we could try, combinations of divergent connections. Please help me to understand. Nervous and incomplete, the gaps like sutures.
Track Name: The Black Intoxication (studio)
I feel these things slip away from me. It's all dream-language, up above the clouds, so slow the words move in geographic time, glacier-motion. Liquids and potions, topological maps of everything you ever said to me, searching for salts in the sand. Go up. Body gone light. Pullapart. Drug psychosis. Stumbled into metanoia. I knew your body but you changed your body, I can't find you anymore. If (loose and nothing fits anymore) #void the holes in me. Means of exploring self, perhaps, perhaps. The vertigo that makes everything gray. People we know and their forms. Rereading after meeting. Gasses and liquids and misidentification of the other. Oh I forgot to touch, meanings got away from me now. Who's the you? When you talk to me, I can hear things, and I know you are worried for me, and I really wish you weren't. The soft spaces in your sentences feel too close to the slowing of talking to children. You've made assumptions. I know I am not all right, I even know that I am Fucked Up, but I do know that there is no need for all this worry, which is beginning to scare me, for I know that there's no way I would ever know if I was getting stupider. The decay sets in, perhaps. "How are you? Are you okay? Are you sure?" and I know you're just trying to care, so I can't even get upset, can't even get the runner-up prize of catharsis. And in the end you may be right. You're too much my friend to tell me straight, too kind for words like something is wrong with you, but I know you well enough to decode from your statements and suppositions, deduce from day-to-day chatter. I once decided it would be better to trust your judgment than my own, but in those days I was Well. But it's so hard to tell the difference anymore.