RELEASE

High Idol Pulsation

The Thessalonian Dope Gods

RELEASE DATE:  November 18, 2003
LABEL:  Sin Klub Entertainment, Inc.
CATALOG:  SK018
GENRE:  Industrial, Industrial Metal

1. Meat of the Hoof

(Shimborske/Wilson)

Healer’s teeth
scrape bone and meat;
gnaw at the inner core
while a leech
lies exhausted
weeping on the bathroom floor.
Children rigged
in flesh and blood
infused with divinity
share a living Eucharist
in a southern-fried nativity.

Dark before the daybreak at the grave of another teen
the necklace and teeth and pins and bones drown out familiar scenes;
setting the forces in motion
the Meat-Binder waits for his call —
to cauterize, to kiss and catch
the scented angel’s fall.

The sun-bleached bones of virgins
have piled up at the edge of town,
and the graveyard odor
reminds them
of the ones who were never found.
“They looked good enough to eat,
so we did —
never questioned why;
but sometimes the splatter
stung like piss
when the blood got in our eyes.”

Break bread
with the ones
who were never found

2. Burying the Equilibrium

(Shimborske/Wilson)

I didn’t prove anything to anyone –
pushed it all toward the back,
but my valor gave out again and again
with every fresh plan of attack.
I became the man I love to hate,
twisted through modulation
in a house of feathers and balloons
built on a strong foundation.
Didn’t know my left from wrong —
never knew my wrong from right —
bought into all the lies and games
and kissed it all goodnight.
I bit hard into the apple,
I greased their clammy palms,
and they bent themselves right over
to kiss my ass like Uncle Tom

I bought into all the things I hated,
now I’m the villain
of my own creation —
straight off the assembly line
ready to rehearse my wine and dine!
Nothing to prove, a vacuum to gain,
the only way I find work
in the temporal chain.
Now there’s nothing to escape from
as I bury today’s equilibrium…

Did all the things I never wanted,
with the ones who weren’t what they seemed —
confused all the issues, all the faces,
leaving me unredeemed.
I got so far on morality
only to stand at the border —
couldn’t cross the line,
couldn’t turn back,
couldn’t defile the order.
I don’t know where I went,
don’t know who I am —
but why go searching anyway
if no one gives a damn!

3. Only God is Meaner

(Shimborske/Wilson)

A testimony to mankind’s quest
chimes like music of the spheres,
and the mixed blood bubbles
hiss your name
as loud as auctioneers.

You’re only got so much blood to bleed,
can only show so much fear —
a man can only take so much
before he breaks,
but he’ll never run out of tears.

Only God is meaner —
past life’s joke
post-misery.

Before the curtains close for good
and you’re finally laid out at last,
check the deeds
of apathy
and the contents of your past.

You’re only got one piper to pay,
only one trip to the cleaners —
you may be hardened
to the culture vice,
but only God is meaner.

Before the sovereign face appears,
before the shadows disappear —
hide childhood souvenirs…
before the next one volunteers

Be your own God,
know thy self

4. 12-Gauge Deed

(Shimborske/Wilson/Pound)

Shrunken skull
of Easter blossoms,
Planted, plowing gold;
twisted thorns ‘round fingers,
sinking —
rising, frozen cold.
Hawk of myrrh
with skill to puff,
a pity missing son —
bitter stench of fish and feathers
smoking from his gun.

Noble air of raven-heaven,
‘brother’ was his name –
hilt and foe,
a hole in raven;
safety never gained.
Darkness gnawing
holding hostage —
yielding posture…
pain;
shaft of greed,
of coins in ash
resounding in his brain

Ashen gray, black bliss stained —
over the edge with greed…
Ashen gray, blackmail gained,
Hence, his 12-gauge deed
Ashen gray, black bliss stained —
he’s over the edge with greed…

Ashen gray, blackmail gained,
hence, his 12-gauge deed.

5. Bringing in the Witches

(Shimborske/Wilson/Shimborske)

Do you remember what I said
about theories of possession —
demands conceived in and of love
as false claims of oppression?
Humility in relation
like Ecclesiastic courts,
risking matrimony
and its uncertain support.
So bring in the witches’
invariable abuse
to split my perception,
to deceive and seduce…

I can still hear the words
like a phonograph
an electrical cackle;
a vicarious laugh.
They’re bringing in witches,
and gaining strength —
it’s only fitting
to stay at arm’s length…
Armed with hysteria,
question your keepers,
discharging psychosis
that gets deeper and deeper.

I’ll confess under your torture
to all your suspicions —
the cruelties assembled
disclosing my condition…
With needles in my fingers
and ten drops of blood,
concealing your sugar
to sweeten the flood
of temporal purpose
that wholly lacks the blame —
a mild dejection
in a guessing game…

A covert jamboree
right around the bend,
disguised with the beauties
concealed as our friends…
Another day in the streets,
watching children play;
another front-porch broomstick
put out on display…
I’m becoming unsure
about bringing in witches
who steal your wits
and reward you with riches.

6. I Got You

(the Finn Brothers)
written by the Split Enz

(Lyrics Unavailable)

7. Licking the Stitches, Loving the Bone

(Shimborske/Wilson/Pound)

Sun’s rays;
Ashtray —
she’s led astray,
nowadays.
Tonal sap;
‘Park Sane’ —
pickled scraps
of her ruined brain…

Cathleen,
nineteen,
submarined
in nicotine…
she lights
fires bright —
my expiration,
she expedites…

Clawing,crawling, slung,
oiled-tight, hopped-up –
coughing up a lung…
Bone-dry,
eyes glazed —
she’s led astray…
nowadays.

Bridegroom
in tomb —
she makes her way
back to our room.
My headstone
goes unknown
she licks the stitches,
she loves the bone…

Her womanhood —
misunderstood;
she loves her job –
she does it good…
She starts to moan,
lets out a groan —
she licks the stitches,
she loves the bone.

8. Handful of Stars, Mouthful of Retch

(Shimborske/Wilson)

Reaching, retching,
throwing up everything…
Erecting, ejecting —
sordid song to sing…
Vaulted from the abyss,
the race is finally won…
Stars will never shine,
race is never run.

Regurgitate the silver bullets;
flare of a comet…
Empty contents of the night —
nova of vomit…
Cast the night through your throat —
shine so bright;
striving, struggling free —
spectral delight.

Grab a handful of stars
to wipe away the bile —
you chokes,
you peak,
you wipe,
you smile.

9. Scarehead

(Shimborske/Wilson)

Do you turn your head away
when He whispers your name?
Do you act like you don’t hear?
When He’s breathing down your spine,
down your dying mainline,
do you laugh or cower in fear?

Do you suffocate yourself
in a dry-cleaning bag?
Do you wonder who’s twisting the knife?
Do you hear Them moving ‘round
in the middle of the night
as you lie near your slumbering wife?

When you’ve tempted the End,
and Scarehead descends,
and you know that
your time has arrived…
Will they rest your ghost
on a wooden fencepost
and bury your dead-ass alive?

What do you fear the most?
What part don’t you apprehend?
Is the end of the beginning,
the beginning of the end?

Where there’s a rap upon the pane,
do you try to abstain
and wonder if anyone’s there?
Are you a hero unsung
as he flickers ‘round His tongue —
sit in your cozy armchair?

When you pick up the phone,
sitting home alone,
but there’s no one there
for you to greet —
do you hear someone there —
hidden in the dead air —
the pounding of your heartbeat?

10. Rattle

(Shimborske/Wilson/Snyder)

Bloodless,
Breathless,
corpselike —
I hope you packed a soul…
Six feet under —
unconscious and numb,
lying in your hole.

No longer living…
Unresponsive,
dearly-departed remains —
pushing up daisies,
a vacant carcass…
I pray
your absence sustains.

I never meant to say those things I said, <Rattle, rattle>
…go the thoughts inside my head,
I never meant to say those things I said, <Rattle, rattle>
…Why’d I ever wish you dead?

Dead,
devoid of life —
vacant body,
extinct, asleep,
Dead as a doornail,
stiff and cold —
inactive and
deceased.

Late for dinner,
below ground,
Buried;
devoid of body…
A permanent cessation
of all your functions —
yes, that’s right —
you’re rotting.

An empty chamber, here I’m put on trial;
another provocation to defile…
I never thought that dreams would come true,
wishful thinking pushing nightmares through;
eating words with a side of pride,
forked-tongue flicker,
licking sewn-shut eyes.

I found the light
a little bit too late,
blind in darkness…
Boy, you got to carry that weight.

ALL PIECES SCULPTED, PRODUCED & MIXED BY THE TDG…
RECORDED AT RUNANDGUN STUDIOS (CHICAGO, IL)
MASTERED BY DOUG WHITE @ WATCHMEN STUDIOS (CLOCKPORT, NY)
CD DESIGN AND LAYOUT BY STEVE CAMPOS & EDWARD SHIMBORSKE III

THE THESSALONIAN DOPE GODS ARE RANDY WILSON – EDWARD SHIMBORSKE III

SUPPLEMENTARY TRIBE:
Steve Pound — guitar (“12-Gauge Deed,” “Licking the Stitches”)
Micah Shimborske — guitar/vocals (“Bringing in the Witches”)
Grady Sain — drums (“Soup of the Daycare Center”)
Keith Bergman — drums (“Bringing in the Witches”)
Jennifer Lacki — background vocals (“Burying the Equilibrium”)
Matt “Schmid” Snyder — vocals (“Only God is Meaner,” “Rattle,” “Handful of Stars,” “I Got You,” “Licking the Stitches”)
Jeremy Evers — bass (“Soup of the Daycare Center”)
Chris Sobb — guitar (“Meat of the Hoof,” “Licking the Stitches,” “I Got You”)
Chris Gallimore — guitar (“Soup of the Daycare Center”)
Ben Bomlitz — drums/vocals (“Only God is Meaner,” “Rattle,” “Handful of Stars,” “I Got You,” “Licking the Stitches”)

Dedicated to the memory of Lionel Patterson, Joe “Sharky” McGee, and Donald T. Morris