Prior to the October 14th release of their new record on Topshelf Records, wild punks from DANGERS have popped up with a new 3-song EP on Vitriol Records! Titled “Kiss with Spit!”, the new 7” is a great foretaste of thbe full length release and it’s available for your listening pleasure below!
Kiss With Spit: It’s in the bloom of a bruise. It’s in the way she wears cold steak on an eye that’s swollen shut. That hairline split between love and ache. Kiss with spit. It’s in a fist full of hair. It’s in a gasping for air. It’s the imprint of teeth into flesh, into scalp, into the hum-, into the drums. Kiss with spit. What we hide behind locked doors. What we sweep under floorboards. All the filth that gets us by. It’s the violence that keeps us alive. Young, numb, and dumb. I want the scar. I want split lips. I want the gag,I want the choke, I want the spit. Kiss with spit. I feel the pain. I kiss with spit.
Longpig: I can recall with perfect clarity the swim of youthful guts as I sat watching that TV. The filthy smile he offered to the lens. That grainy footage of the freezer where he stuffed them. The nausea when you realize humans can’t distinguish what’s food from trophy from life. Flesh and bone.
Oxhead: What’s in a word? What’s in a name? And how do I tame these beasts to which I’m slave? I fork my tongue into the thoughts, but words can’t seem to span across the gulf between what’s in my head and all the things I say instead. Untwist my tongue. Fact check my fictions. Maybe you’re just deaf, or maybe I’m just dumb. Bruised cheek. Split tongue. One more Bucephalus. Maybe I’m happy, or maybe I’m just dumb. Another word. Another slang. Another grammar. Another failure to communicate. The things I tried to say to you as we drove through that Texas June. Our love, like a hex, snaked around my suffix. Untwist my tongue. Fact check my fictions. Maybe you’re just deaf, or maybe I’m just dumb. Bruised cheek. Split tongue. One more Bucephalus. Maybe I’m happy, or maybe I’m just dumb.The son of a son of a son of a son… Sometimes, at night, when I can’t sleep, the things you said that day echo through me. “If you can ride (write) that beast, then you can take him home. But trust me, son,” you said, “you’ll suffer the writing all alone.” Untwist my tongue. Bucephalus. Untwist my tongue. Bucephalus. Cut out my tongue. Aphasia. Bucephalus.