The Poverty of Language


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"The Poverty of Language" is a 7-piece experimental spoken-word album by Mitch Langdon. All lyrical content was composed by applying several cut-up techniques (popularized by the great Brion Gysin), to an entire abstract, stream-of-consciousness notebook circa 2013-2014.

After going through several meticulous editing processes, each piece was read (just once) over a carefully selected ambient-instrumental track, best suited for the subject matter addressed. As a result, each piece is nuanced with human error, and virtually irreproducible.

More pieces of not-yet-recorded 'writing' are available on the fervently neglected ANTIBLISS tumblr page –>



released December 30, 2016

MOST content generated by: Mitch Langdon of ANTIBLISS
Additional instrumentation on SALIVE OR DEAD & WILTED POPPY SKELETON BRIDES by: Patrick Parliament



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ANTIBLISS Toronto, Ontario


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Track Name: Gestation // Ripening
Final shell surrounds our planet,
Eyelid shell #1.
Irises iridescent,
Command cannonball pupils,
Fire out!
Attach your leer to the unsure,
Make them certain.

Attack with gazes,
The strong predatory scum,
They deserve a look,
World within a mirror,
Where unsafe,
But within self,
Duality acknowledged,
Attach your leer to the unsafe,
Make them whole.

Entangled in an umbilical barbed wire, awaken constricted, begin to question your own existence. Become self-aware and are born. Senses overwhelmed swings in brutish attempts to feel. Hands ascend automatically to open drought-stricken airway. Hands become victim of atrophy. Ring finger encompassed by moist gape on other end of half-severed umbilical cord. Body pumped with endorphins, stare at feet. Feed feel fingers textured unity molecules to create density. The beauty face blood rush revives tired limbs. Born again, absorb, grow, feel. Feed yourself before the kyfe-cut second slit of umbilical surgical steel. Fragile sun folds free-fall like fountain spring. Sing songs mute monotony, conglomerates contracept kind reception with circling, starving eyes. Planted seed and circumcised in soil, dry and infertile. Filled with saturate-free stills. Murdered mind waits on a wire awaiting several pills. Wake up naked, neglecting contemporary care, shaken. Shun the non-believer so he too is shamed to hang his head. Double-life and surely given twenty he’ll be dead.

Cryogenics cease the very notion of disease. Family frozen in time takes a turn on a dime and divides asymmetrically from ear to ear. The things you’re ill-prepared to hear can have adverse effects. Newspaper dates flip like numbers on a clock. Grow first chin stubble. Double-takes distract from what is felt. It is only what is seen that seems so doubtful, surreal. Watch this population rust its gold-paved streets of wonder. Fight the hands that drag down under. Separated at the shoulder so heads can be alone and free of id’s will-pleasing hands feeding first-world famine. These hands are your own, just as these hands belong to me and are harbingers yet.

You’ll never see the world once it’s burdened with an appetite, lose teeth with every bite, bitter fruit, just barely ripe. Take two tokes from our pitch pipes. Sigh of old days triggers memory banks decline loan proposals. Strip petals from rose, uncleaned arteries breathe with brevity, at ease.
Track Name: Wilted Poppy Skeleton Brides
Seen a lot of violence, still got pieces left to prove it.
Fill lungs as protrusions sting esophagus.
Fungus leeching, leering empty eyed with shallow pride.
Wilted poppy skeleton brides wait to be widowed,
While their counterparts taste blood as they do bite,
And become drawn to open wounds.

Choke up my children, don’t spare them the lies or sugar-coating,
“Kid, your father is buried deep within the moon,
His rips erode as he emaciated himself having wasted weeks,
Just staring into space to seek a site for his sweet death.”
Loses grips with final breaths.

Failed necromancers near infected without bandage.
Hairline recede, scalp bleed in sleep.
Scrutinizing time within the realm that is mind.
Diminished dream eye gleam formality,
Revealing itself as but a weary worm’s end.

Slowly die and see through Europa eyes.
Moon men descended down from dark skies.
The mind of the mirrored stranger is NOT standing in front of you.
Pessimist, static, insecure, traumatic.
The earth revolved around the burnt out sun.
Track Name: Tardigrade Temptress
Candiru swim up hungry whore gapes,
Smooth as an oyster, too slow to escape.
Erogenous zones cut, corroded away,
The song & the dance number, too painful to play.

Shadows flicker tired sun,
Eating out the virgin orifice of space.

Valiantly neglected tax-evading mutual masturbators procreate, milking adolescence. Loose lipped former shepherd mortified by deadly contraband kept precariously in underwear elastic. World of plastic or plasticine shaped by machines. Consume, feed the meter, tie up loose ends. Leave a beautiful body for your friends. Paint a pretty little picture, but reflections fluctuate. Scrape the food off of your plate and plan to push past hypochondria, and go out in the grass—rush to fingertips, slap, skin stitched too tightly as overflow dream of flushed red cherry groves.

Sallow lips curl like rotting honeycomb. Concentrated droplets mend to inside of throat like salt-corroded snails to mud. Tongue dragged about like an old, wet, cardboard box, each sensation of taste being left among concrete teeth. Forked of 90 degrees turned bite without blood, and without blood, there is no pain. Regeneration but once you’re gone, you’re far gone and no amount of severed skin, no tacklebox of hooks, can keep you from believing: You’re all a barren body of false indoctrinations with mouths like marionettes. Perforated fluid to focus. Idle as our idles disable able bodies. We stand and watch, we step and stir, but are stuck in sallow skin. Materialize inner visions like blind politicians. Dishonesty decapitating truth. Dualist, detrimental, depressive and with the weight of 1000 dead eyes, your liable lips seal shut. Your secret’s safe with me, disillusionist of smut.
Track Name: Hungry Beaks
Galvanized and glazed and looking hastily enhazed,
Out frosted window covered spattered,
With the slow pitter patter of a warm afternoon’s rain.
Eyes droop like an old man’s buttocks.
Skin tinted the slightest bit green.

White light lingers in vision separated by a bog of toxic fumes.
Abortive puddles of mud where weary eyes unspawned.
Thick air drip like molasses.
Perennials picked too soon before they’ve bloomed.
Crows carry cold aroma,
Apathetic death,
Feeding hungry beaks,
Bolting down from their formations,
Over wires in city streets.

Century slow crawl.
Melt away, day-to-day,
Voices’ indecisive distrophy.
Cyanide smile poison like anesthetic.
There, but not really there.
Defeminate dolls disgust the body.
Water under bridge dehydration.
Stalactic puncture skin.

Oh sweet body spawned in malicious mud.
Locked into rain-spatter rhythm.
Chin-hairs grow through wither walls,
Of paper-thin contraceptive.
Dead fish eye flick tears rinse
Glazed fingernail in blood of kids.

I tape me eyelids to my brow,
Prevent myself from sleeping sound.
Track Name: Haze // Greying
Locally grown placebo aphrodisiac sweats your suit.
Five years old and growing mould,
Emulsifying rancid rites of passage, puffing passed and purified.
Foreboding flights of fancy syphon smirks time and time again,
Like roosters incubating in hens.
False perspective?
You’ve got a lack of juice kid.

Stalemate demutinizing medication scripts.
Slip me fingers under five a piece to taste it on your lips.
Float up smoke stacks, stifling sanity.
I chased a dream and then it ran to me.
No more migrate through the sky,
Steel gates enclose you and I,
And with a single beating heart,
Fulfilled this lucid lie.
Pale expressionless, hazel eyes.

Cancelled gaze corrupted haze,
Agitating sulfur sands soaked with city sins.
Lust too hastily flushed into stream.
Liquid gold growing old decay with dead fish,
Mouth to mouth, venomized revival…

Barbiturates and cryogenics kept you quiet all these years.
I forget the length of seconds as you suck back cyanide tears.
Flushed face, we’re all still here.
Why would we ever leave?

Keep a steady flow of kerosine entering internal currents.
Watching wander-vision within eyelids’ shifting shape.
Move floorboards and forever seal shut with industrial tape.
Tampering with evidence while gutterbound,
Peruse recollections given life by lions’ loins blood.
Spattered sheep follow blindly, voices muffled by mud.
No one wants to be this dirty, devilishly tantalizing.

Spill where salmon swim so sweetly, smoothly without shove.
Roast neck alongside hotknife tokes and taboo jokes.
Bartering martyr manipulate mainline.
Strangers breaking skin.
Stomach empty, thin.
Track Name: Waterlogged
Oxygen deprived canaries die alone,
Withered by tars of undying habit.
Like common tavern gnats,
We drown ourselves in shallow traps,
Race like undead river rats.
Overindulged orifices sweating tears of oil,
With everything they touch, exploding into boils.
Ribshy shipmates hung on hooks like game.

Remissive web of lies,
Combusted by fire.
Corrosive particles of mist,
Rotting pulled teeth in assembly,
At the bottom of a spiral staircase.
Wallpaper waterlogged,
Concrete floors and a prince in frog form.

Machine-owning kings seem scripted as if I am being watched.
Pursuit of happiness trap glue for which the only solvent is suffering.
Talk about a clean head,
Numbed by the sweet ambience,
Of industrial hums.
Track Name: Salive or Dead
Retort the morning rooster wail.
Eyelids weighed down by lashes soaked in gasoline.
Closing creates a spark.
Ignite, sight, stay up all night.

Celestial sponge drifts weightlessly through red-bulb rooms.
Grip tightly and release the dirty secrets detained.
Sandmen waiting patiently on brow,
But soon found dead and dried to ash,
Couldn’t stare any longer.
“Stay awake but don’t blink and try to forget how to think.”

Creation, friction, eyes glisten,
Lashes stiffen into sticks.
Archaic fire, put out by saliva; spit.

Dust off,
Blow cartridge,
Float in a prenatal goo.
Dull frontal lobe,
Cove of drain dry eyes,
Tired and whimmer dim notions,
Push potions like charity,
& leave it on the counter for the customer to see.

What is progress if you’re swept up with a storm,
and what is virtue if you find yourself ignored?
Shoddy, try-hard, give up, bullshit.
Shoddy, try-hard, bullshit, give up,

*ad libitum*