I Am An Empty House Longing To Be Haunted

by Medroxy Progesterone Acetate

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Black Classical
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Black Classical This is the best album this year for me, hammered it on my radio shows so amazing you need this in your life... Favorite track: The Ghost Of Dried Wells.
The Curiosity Pipe
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The Curiosity Pipe Absolutely phenomenal, twisted and thrilling. I can’t stop playing ‘Starshine Tendrils’ which is one of the most amazing pieces of music I’ve heard this year (2013) Favorite track: Starshine Tendrils.
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    Final five copies of Empty House as found in the back of the closet. Each copy includes a dvdr with unreleased material and source recordings as well as fragment-narratives, collages and photographs.

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"Pamela (the imaginary Pamela, I must remind myself, the one who is not real) paid me a visit this evening. We discussed differences between the Protestant and Catholic definition of kenoisis, of Pyast's entry into madness upon reciting Poe's "Ulalume" (but no, we should be specific; his translation of Poe's poem, as though behind his shoulder a voice whispered sadly this star I mistrust), and of course of Nerval: "What madness, I told myself, to go on platonically loving a woman who no longer loves you." But I do not believe what I have said is true, or at least true as I have meant it. I am an empty house longing to be haunted."

Shot on location in Waterloo IA, Austin TX, and Emeryville CA 2008-2011. Research assistance: Kek-W, Dana Reinoos, Phil Legard, Clint Marsh, Brutallo, Everyone at the Grand Lodge of Iowa Library, Damon Packard, Robin Bougie, Rebecca Dart and the Internet Witches. This is The Theater of Diminished Faculties episode three.


released January 22, 2012

Darren Bauler: Interference, Deprogramming, Signal Decay.
Jenna Cohen: EVP, Possession States, Scrying Circuits.
April Larson: Narration, Concussion Machines, Recording Anamolies. Additional vocals by Kyra Edeker (9), Chelle-Marie Ehlers (1) and the Dawgranch Children's Choir (3).
Design by James Livingston at Black Horizons.




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 Ghost Of Dried Wells
I am walking down the sidewalk toward the apartments, but at the same time I am deep in the mud under the river, thick and cold but not crushed by its weight. My fingers can move, just a little, but I don’t feel the need to breathe, content to pull in the silence and dark where I cannot be found, revisit memories, consider potential acts, and yet I am now at the complex, walking around to the stairs, and I am running out of time. In johnboats up on the river’s surface, they hunt for my body with long metal rods they shove into the riverbed, the calloused fingers and palms attuned to the frequencies of my bones, but I know nothing of this, and yet I know all about it, and know it is not real, that I am at the door, that I am knocking on the door, that I can hear someone inside turning the locks.
Track Name: Thigh High (Clocksucker mix)
caught in the cawl like the dreams in its hair
the child bride suicide's uterine prayers
the white light lls up the surrogate host
your womb now become a trap for stray ghosts
fontanelle tendrils reach to the skies
black blood staining your born blind eyes
show us your syringes and vaginal scars
and whisper the hum of the mourning star
Track Name: Durga On The Wing Of Abomination
"i cannot melt the snow, dear krsna, i am but the night"

1. BEHOLD the great EJACULATRIX, who is the sword of
judgment, who is the voice of the word of the wind in the vale,
who breathed into dessicated flesh and made it to stand and
cower, who is the manifestation at end-of-time of THE FINAL

2. BEHOLD the great DEVOURER, that which remains behind
that which vanishes and becomes present to vision locked in
objective codified time only at the moment when the light is
swallowed up inside itself and only the hunger which animated
the want remains, that which operates through hidden conduits
as the digestive tract of reality hidden behind the ghost-flesh of
maya, the mundus subterraneus, the SECRET WORLD now

3. BEHOLD the great REVELATOR, she who removes the cataract
of the floodgate of HEAVEN so that the light travels unobstructed
through the senses and fills the hollow body now resonating like
a struck bell without mass and induced into inphase oscillation,
the transfer of motion through phase-space possible through the
removal of all illusory distance, so that there are not two distinct
pendulums but a single pendulum bifurcated by the process of
external visualization.

behold no more, as there is no distance by which you are apart from
the perceived, as there is no there which is not here and then not
even a here which is apart from not-here, the distinction illusory,
the lack you feel like a stone in your stomach not even obliterated
but made to have never existed, as all she destroys being simply a
corruption within your own mind which presents false sense-data
by which you constructed an operant self distinct from the
not-self, the vessel now to be abandoned as there is no more
river, there is no more destination, she has eaten away all which
no longer suits you, she has gifted you with this obliteration, she
has torn apart this distance, she is not other, you are not other,
Track Name: Starshine Tendrils
I sit beneath the river and wait, and wonder. The algae cloaks me, and melusine starshine tendrils slither through my hair, over mybbones. The song she sings to me now echoes, more to feel than to hear, and I hum like a struck bell. I have sung this song before. I can feel her breath in my ear, whispering of sleep, of places where the skin of catfish ripples across my nerves, and it is cool, and my body aches to slip out of this skin, sidestep gravity and float beneath the lilypads, ochre rubbed into my skull where sutures read like calligraphy, mastodon-mecha frozen solid the oil like glue. ere is a ballroom where these insects perfect waltzes, flags pinned to the wings of butterflies, a deaths-head moth curled in upon itself. The terminology fails me, and I try to get up and thumb through a field guide to understand the nature of this fauna, but the legs no longer function as legs, and I slide across the floor upon a million miniature mandibles, my body a nest of jaws. Nothing but a collection of voids unable to examine itself, to fulfil the apparatus and take a sample and place it beneath the glass, this is the thing I am, the back of my own head, the
words are a scalpel and a prism and a doorway. I do not know myself by these names, and am confused to see these words take shape before me, as I have not made the necessary efforts to type them. There is another, and another, and we have made a kind of peace with each other, but this other is not that other, and I miss you, I miss you so much, I wish you were here with me. This is the thing I am.
Track Name: The Chain
damn your blood/damn your eyes
Track Name: Photographs Of Bodies
There was no depth of field, and no sense of distance. It could have been a small bedroom or an emptied office. The minor telling details, placement of outlets, lighting, number of switches, all this was removed, all the trim and carpet, nothing but the minimum which still constitutes a room. The door must have been behind the camera, or else perhaps there was no door at all. The light some bright flash, nothing ambient, the room in total black before and aer the shot. They looked like trapped animals, the reflection in the eyes like raccoons at the side of the highway. Too quick to turn, to see the light, they appear from the side,
hands hidden in something that I can’t identify, something dark and of two parts. I didn't get a good look. I was too busy focusing on the faces, the skulls imploded, the faces like the bottom of a bowl. It must have been a trick of the light, a bit of digital editing, it couldn't really be like that.
Track Name: If You Ever Loved Me Please Let Me Sleep
Pray all through your endless night, pray until you bleed from the knees and palms, capture the light that nests in the trees in Michael-jars and suck at the secretions on the cheesecloth, crawl and claw until you skin grows camouage from scabs, wait in the car outside his house until you can hear him in her, clip the scales growing from your neck so as not to worry the friends of your impending mer-girldom, smudge your sticky fingers all over the rented lenses, slip your notes into sleep and skylight, nest your jewels in the hollows of rotted fruit, spin your story of the abuses measured upon you by the school and the family and the fate, follow the gallows pulled up like maypoles in the parking lot behind the grocery, suck at the clumps of stained sugar coming out of the wall, learn all the steps so as to fall first in line, tell the desertion story, dab at the harvested tears with rosepetaled silk, search your body for omens and signs, pray all through your endless night, pray until the skin cracks and the blood no longer flows.