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    nothing special means they're all the same. living in spleens. pulsating. pumping. exciting bowels before they are made to rupture. a stomach cancer seems to fester on old gutted asphalt roads. this is mostly necessity for the untied hunger. it can't be helped. it remains an inexhaustible breeder. so pile upon pile of countless chins stack up like steps to a salivating hole moist as it is insatiable. the feeder. old death's saggy tits in shredded rags slouches along alone by and bye. white hate in emptiness. no bone paler to hurl in this hell. no known satyr is closest. even by the great pit they grade in grinding strokes. that sharp tongued wretch. the impaler. porous joke. this dead eyed leather dress fine tailored. of the lost hides that babble on. fetid dross whom soil everything. and everything. forever and ever. stain the vein and rust the soul shut. trite instantly once upon a feeble mind. frozen nearly, tarnished and turgid. gashed lacerations under noose smells like the old home you once had. drawn remnants split up into quarters. from hooves once on top of time. and though it was as though it were a dream.dreams seem to splinter and flake. catching skin as fleeting streamers waft by winds in change. chained. but alas chains erode though, through and through. and it like you goes in crimson swirls down the drain to oceans. too fast to measure. too hot to trample or retard. too beautiful to ever contain in embrace. like the flicker of pearls before swine or golden youth upon grand daughters in concubine. servants of the eventual ritual eclipse in the eventful dawns abode just before our apocalypse. we go silent. tired and haunted in deafening defeat. to lay exhaustion upon marble pillows as breath softly kisses concrete. weary heads on the stone beneath sea level. at sum, by negative elevation, er, fathoms of about a rounded nine feet. ... more

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    Limited edition sounds like a fucking magazine title of 20 only. promised bias and for you made with the same hands as words fall out afterward bombs and the choir above even that should be overheard overhead hitting sharps like swastikas between the eyes. old clock with the birds. CCC is high guarantee and will stand in any land. just above the knees. amputated above the knees. wouldn't be the first pair. everything is always disposable. again. trite or even tripe. non changing depressive. lo-fi ignorance selling garbage. peddling trikes. the cycles. on the road. late at night. singing radio abode lamenting the breaking of morning sun shine. birds chirp. you'll get what we plan to but it's always changing accent pompous and pouty. artistic liberties are vital or you burn shame through the heart of that one. babble in tongues so no one understands you. this is considered noble. there is pride in there where it matters bias. but expect nothing to insure potential surprise. there is always regret. eat a burrito. live life. not now though. buy this shit. let us know what you do. salutations down the chin. and the seekers of light are grinding flint down in the lavatory.
    []: :[]: :[]: :[]: :[]: :[]: :[]: :[]
    konvivial kannibal klan
    .|C.|.C.|.C.
    convivial cannibal clan

    Includes unlimited streaming of I I I via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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about

I I I
Not much here left these days.
Not a true story worth telling.
Nor hearing mostly.
No pictures worth a grand or so.
By any vast description painted in words.
No memories lasting beyond.
To light up a face with joy.
No tunnels needing digging.
For they dream no more.
No eyelids stitched open.
They've all been sewn shut.
No hands washed clean.
Before an ungentle coupling.
No hopes left unabashed.
Wounds gap open towards the sky.
Non duality in filth only.
So they behave like piggy men.
Gulping mounds of shit down throats choked.
Raped mother sobbing.
Kicking up soil to bury their own babes.
What then will come this way.
All is as it should be.
Is hell.
Are the flowers.
Be thy virgin.
Veritable holes.
Voids holding better nihil than et al.
Where then to begin.
Is the pig fat to burn.
To cast light in visage?
Pointless is the dulled mind.
Is the slaughtered shrieks contained inside a deafness by it all?
Tell me.
Does death stand near here? Remaining in stalk!
Wanting... panting... lusting?
Can that dullard not become brighter by the daybreak?
When consciousness is at it's heaviest burden?
Will they even try to escape?
Free their ties and rip from bondage!?
Cycles. Forever. Cycles. Turning.
Endless in their own. Frozen from beginning.
All ways.
And again.
Here.
Then not.
Gone... gone.
Shadows stay to play as they prance by carelessly.
Belonging only to the dust.
Becoming old and feeble.
Yet again. Before the countless eon.
Soon. Laughs and balks at such mercy.
Sleep is a dream never to come by.
Sages rest thorns on nodding foreheads.
Rest...
Eventually?
Never?
Cease in your insolence.
Smother the infant whined whimpers.
OMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
Was the said light red or white?
Did it shine through souls?
Did it pierce the darkness like arrows shot in silence?
Blind or bind or anything at all?
Anything?
Nothing.
Home.
There is none to call.
Left longer to suffer by.
Death is in the spine of the horse.
None shall ever tame. Nor ride again.
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credits

released January 16, 2017

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Convivial Cannibal Clan Long Beach, California

Climbing the charts in ritualistic bliss toward our golden autokabalesis.

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Track Name: Spiders
Now where is there to go... they are all dead. The ones who knew me. I am all alone. I am hell's winter.
Track Name: Intestines
nothing special lives in spleens. exciting bowels before made to rupture. stomach cancer. this is necessity. untied hunger. inexhaustible breeder. they pile up upon the countless chins of our insatiable feeder. old death in rags comes alone by no bone paler. in this hell no known satyr is close. even lurched from the great pit her selves to grade in grinding strokes this impaler. this porous joke. this dead eyed leather dress of lost hides. fetid dross whom soil everything. stain the vein and rust the soul shut. trite instantly once upon a feeble mind. frozen nearly, tarnished and turgid. gashed lacerations under noose smells like the old home you once had. drawn remnants split up into quarters. from hooves once on top of time. and though it was as though it were a dream.dreams seem to splinter and flake. catching skin as fleeting streamers waft by winds in change. chained. but alas chains erode though, through and through. and it like you goes in crimson swirls down the drain to oceans. too fast to measure. too hot to trample or retard. too beautiful to ever contain in embrace. like the flicker of pearls before swine or golden youth upon grand daughters in concubine. servants of the eventual ritual eclipse in the eventful dawns abode just before our apocalypse. we go silent. tired and haunted in deafening defeat. to lay exhaustion upon marble pillows as breath softly kisses concrete. weary heads on the stone beneath sea level. at sum, by negative elevation, er, fathoms of about a rounded nine feet.