Milhouse - modern problems, old fashioned solutions & classic mistakes 7",
Urine-toxicated side:
Sewer side: (no song titles listed - see comments)
Toxic Narcotic - You Wreckt'em 7", Rodent Popsicle Records R.P.R. #013, 1997.
This side -
Big Bubba side -
The Monsters - Meets!! Betty Pages of Fright 7", Dionysus Records ID074542, 1992.
Other Side -
that side:
I've seen stuff on the 'net about this, but the images were cropped, chopped, & slopped, doing a great disservice to both the Rise Records label & designer/artist Frank Kozik (come on, the single comes in a Hard-To-Open Package © (its not really so hard, you just pull the tap).
by S. Clay Wilson, 1988.
"We set out at dawn. End of a dead-end street---that is what we are looking for.
John Cale - Music for a New Society, Ze Records PB 6019, 1982.
(L-R: Todd Trainer, Steve Björklund, Flour, & fill-in guitarist Phil Harder.) 
Breaking Circus - The Very Long Fuse, Homestead Records Homestead 0012, 1985.
Enjoy,
Karl Prussion won't bore you with generalities. He assumes that you are aware of the Communist menace, & unless you are a Soviet agent (as all Communists are) or one of the dupes into whose hands some of these records sometimes fall, you are prepared to fight Communism.
To fight it, you must know something of the nature of the enemy in your community. The ideal place to learn that is right inside a Communist Cell. That is where Karl Prussion takes you in this dynamic, dramatic album.
Karl Prussion's experience has been at the business end of the Communist Criminal Conspiracy.
For 26 years, during almost half of which he was an undercover agent for the F.B.I., Karl followed the seditious, violent, vicious directives of the Kremlin. He pulls no punches in telling you what has happened, what is still happening, what is planned.
If you call yourself a "Liberal," Karl will prove to you, vividly & convincingly, that the label "Liberal" is as much a misnomer as the words "Maple Syrup" on a bottle of arsenic.
Karl Prussion was to have been the star witness at the San Francisco hearings of the House Committee on Un-American Activities at which the student riots erupted. There are those who say the very reason for the riots was to prevent presentation of the Prussion Testimony.
Essentially, this album is that testimony - the words that were lost in the disgraceful, law-defying & Kremlin-directed demonstration in San Francisco. You won't be very proud of certain Americans when you learn, from this record, how Karl Prussion was lured into the Communist Conspiracy, how the Communists planned to make him a Methodist minister, how he watched Red Fascism infiltrate every facet of American life from the P.T.A. to the drawing boards of missile engineers. This is not a pretty story. But it's honest & it's frighteningly fraught with facts. After you've heard this record, see that it is played for friends & neighbors, particularly those who loosely speak of "witch hunts" & "red herrings," of "reactionaries" & "civil rights." Play it for anyone who will listen. We all know the hour is late...so late, possibly, that our only choice now is which side we die on.
Karl Prussion is on God's side.
No Communist is.
(nyuck nyuck nyuck)
Karl Prussion - Inside a Communist Cell, Key Records KLP 720, 1961.
Tonight the room is filled with rage...a boy screaming continuously. Hot out tonight. Killer in the guts all over the place. So house tonight. House of flesh disemboweled. The final one pleads the aluminum support...'first' house. A bunch of people burn it down, melt it, end it. Stop. Stop writhing.
You stop kicking until she died. Her shallow breath...a euphoric lesion...the living. Yet the juices soak narcotic. The summer slithers closer. He is covering his arm...just delivering more of what can be his flesh...before it becomes heroin addiction...child & wife...his head. Entire child...the kind that becomes flesh house...meat house. Feed it. Poke your eyes with sticks, pets, animals, flesh, whores. Your mouth is bleeding...yourself writhing on the street, but they can't hurt you anymore.
Hot...so fucking hot. You're dying in the house tonight. Downstairs, the Tomorrows that the machine foiled. The sculptor's dreams are splitting like plaster. What is it?..another shadow?..speed fell along the dusky way. Your eyes are carved in enamel. His cat...windows crawled...dressed...the tools being electric, it got under with vines, you are discovering...three elbows cast in light. Over the dictionary flew the last slabs of grey marbles.
Swallowed a whole vial of hot, divine punishment, with a rusty 'I don't live here'. Craving the desolate attraction of nectar, I begin further from her labia. I hear her last breath, buffeted by a nymphomaniac from the fur chapel. Her inner thighs have the ecstasy of the feast. I'm going in there, pressed like Burger King for lunch. I feel to stroke her swollen clitoris which is clotted with the thick cold juice, more like A-1 steak sauce & chewing beatings...crushed & mutilated...too well done. Smells white hot. Never threatening time. Cooking meat is cooking meat, not 'new & improved'. Her energy suffuses me...black rotten petals...ancient noise like the knell of molecules...the catatonia. Ground flowers...the gasoline foam...breasts, brick white & longer than feet & yards. Ground flowers...gasoline foam...sections with brown ink on the Indian's skull.
River of ruin. In the privacy of people, we stop what we are doing outside, sweating in the street. The man in the car is waiting for the rumble to fill, curling back & hissing. He is the man in bodies trapped in burning cars, his own flesh away from the car accident. Some streets applaud & cheer. There was an intersection. The steering wheel is coming...closing. The summer car explodes in flames. His flesh is against the window looking at the man in the car burning. He has no hair. More pain & more desperation. The car...burning for you.
Then color returns to Havoc's eyes...tethers from her flesh into mine...reeks like a grave with the rush of some pure Arcane. This is abusing corpses. Dress them for the fucking world to subside. It didn't. Into cars. Drive them downtown. I'm still breathing. Breathing. Breathing sure to prop them up. We wake up at night screaming, 'Turn on the bodies.' Back into the flame-throwers...going into Palo body bags & number them by the book...torching men, women, & children. Identify the bodies & drag them home. Cook the numbers & names from the White Pages TV set. Drag it off...annihilating & rubbing themselves repeatedly. We could have afforded more...tore apart the fruit...later, the leaf...sooty tear...membrane?..or rare lawn?
Suspend dignity. The maid put in the token...her who came to visit...her mouth had old cornices...clarinets. Fucker watches you die. Finally you kick it, suck it, bite it, & you're dead all the way. Smell it? About the attic...bones...a stone carcass. At last the air is dense with swirling. Evidently now I can think of her in lost terms...underwater the squid languishes.
You wanted...so everybody joined us at the bar. It went over like a green sandwich. The speaker remained an the stout platform. I want pearls in your eyes...pearls dipped in 'Didn't I tell you?' rivers. The tennis court figures the children made are beginning to steam...salt in the theater...alcohol threw precaution to the wind...the light top results came uptown to the warehouse basement. The Red Garter Belt coffee was another...was a steamer...she incorporates the IDEAS arm. 'I'm not easy to,' please. Everything was shuffled along to evaporate the chalk...even the water had finished acting slyly...seemed destined to look like the other actress.
'I limited myself, yes', said the victim. He stepped in...he stepped out...seemingly can't take the suspense. 'But I'm happy!' giving a geometry to our our feelings...all these abandoned slums...rings of prison walls...freckled in some white chair. ' I have twisted cats' necks. They stare at you but don't make a sound.' Litters. Pet shop-slaughterhouse. Break off your teeth with rocks & clean it, sell it, kill it. The children poke you & jab you. Bought, sold, fed, killed. Imagine. People have flesh eating parties...people to Death. We don't have witch pigs dying in the streets of my damnation. I wait...dry...as we come to the public burning inside. Waiting for the summer: to see the incineration in my ears. Ripping body's son, in the middle of the bones & eating it. The people on pins in the front seat. Yes, this has been a good burning...more stop to watch the man burn. There will be more burnings...more trials. Anymore, this is as close as it gets to jumping off buildings...abortions.
This is the solitary night. Slashed my wrists. This is the plague. This is the saliva anymore. Waited to raise your wings. Prepare to meet the last...over...& over. I put them on buses. Load them with gas. 'Turn on the gas?' Nuns might fall over. Clocks alone didn't reach the road...movement?..or darkness maybe? In a fine spray of a stream, beside the road, a luscious farm. This one does not pay much more for hour hands. Folding tints of ember...& receiving 'this earth is slowly...' A snail maintained its retarded pace...moved Upstate...lit fires. Is nothing ever remaining in our hands?..like blue roses' fire...was there? We always desire detour. Tri-colored petals...texture of torpedo, now & then...barbs dripped like feathers into the barn. 12yr. old pedaled downhill...collapsed amidst amusement & black berries...his ankle swollen, clipped like angel hair 'falling at last'.
The mad dog summer...burning to Death. The distressed hounds, until my finger legs now, start to bark at its gaping rim. She sits on leashes & lashes...the heavy carpet of her savagery. Of the hounds life...mannikin-shaped excrements penetrate her frosted rectum. The hounds, up on their hinds, find her anus...lubricating howls as they test their backs automatically. The mastiffs crash from their heat...ebbing away.
The human debris stirs. At around 8pm, drag Verdes, reading, from the telephone suburbs. Porters will put them in, masturbating & reciting. Their mates will come. The clean white pages are for dinner...prop it up in front of salvation. Havoc stiffens, impaled like the air, dense with swirling, shrieking & dancing, exploding like fire crackers. Later, he returned in a bread truck with his impeccable aunt...in the ocher garden. The Negro 'bin jamm'd wit de leatha'...husband praying like dice...the tape...the dust...opened to mistaken red light bulbs...their engines avoided the yellow for ransom green money. Through all this I only feel like an excess...abundance of wire hawks...surrounded by the funneled wind...tinseled vapors right into the thorn aquarium. Our ring of meteors pace back & forth. 'We won the pennant!' Park destroyed. Desire is everything...everything...everything we are dancing...even the darkest green forest.
Summer is the hound's life with mannikin-shaped arms, just delivering more rectums. Abortions in the barn...12yr old pedophile foam. Breasts brick amidst the amusement & black beds. Black be the way of life. Her mouth had bodies in the middle...mechanically, an oven broiling Scope...her inner thighs have wings. Seventeen thighs & the tainted feeling of the summer night I slashed my wrists...reading from the telephone book of Death...identifying burning cars...my own flesh just numbers & names.
Yes, it has been a good burning wind. The hunger King at lunch...
Prepare to meet the last breath...
over...
& over...
River of ruin.
Desire is everything
Desire is...
over...
& over...
So long, dear friends...
So long!
