Get all 38 J. M. Smig releases available on Bandcamp and save 20%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Twelve-Tone Alchemy in the Hall of Corruptible Saints and Masters, A Russian Vulvectomy, Unnatural Love Bytes, Cayenne Fapper, Underarm Overture, Black Coffee Waltz (revised arrangement for virtual wind quintet and percussion), Hiss In Vinegar (10th Anniversary Remaster), Curcuma Morta, and 30 more.
1. |
Francis The Sinner
02:58
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2. |
Leah Sublime
04:33
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Leah Sublime,
Goddess above me!
Snake of the slime
Alostrael, love me!
Our master, the devil
Prospers the revel.
Tread with your foot
My heart til it hurt!
Tread on it, put
The smear of your dirt
On my love, on my shame
Scribble your name!
Straddle your Beast
My Masterful Bitch
With the thighs of you greased
With the Sweat of your Itch!
Spit on me, scarlet
Mouth of my harlot!
Now from your wide
Raw cunt, the abyss,
Spend spouting the tide
Of your sizzling piss
In my mouth; oh my Whore
Let it pour, let it pour!
You stale like a mare
And fart as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And piss from the sewer.
Down to me quick
With your tooth on my lip
And your hand on my prick
With feverish grip
My life as it drinks—
How your breath stinks!
Your hand, oh unclean
Your hand that has wasted
Your love, in obscene
Black masses, that tasted
Your soul, it’s your hand!
Feel my prick stand!
Your life times from lewd
Little girl, to mature
Worn whore that has chewed
Your own pile of manure.
Your hand was the key to—
And now your frig me, too!
Rub all the much
Of your cunt on me, Leah
Cunt, let me suck
All your glued gonorrhea!
Cunt without end!
Amen! til you spend!
Cunt! you have harboured
All dirt and disease
In your slimy unbarbered
Loose hole, with its cheese
And its monthlies, and pox
You chewer of cocks!
Cunt, you have sucked
Up pricks, you squirted
Out foetuses, fucked
Til bastards you blurted
Out into space—
Spend on my face!
Rub all your gleet away!
Envenom the arrow.
May your pox eat away
Me to the marrow.
Cunt you have got me;
I love you to rot me!
Spend again, lash me!
Leah, one spasm
Scream to splash me.
Slime of the chasm
Choke me with spilth
Of your sow-belly’s filth.
Stab your demonic
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
Cunt and cocaine;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, shit!
Shit on me, slut!
Creamy the curds
That drip from your gut!
Greasy the turds!
Dribble your dung
On the tip of my tongue!
Churn on me, Leah!
Twist on your thighs!
Smear diarrhoea
Into my eyes!
Splutter out shit
From the bottomless pit.
Turn to me, chew it
With me, Leah, whore!
Vomit it, spew it
And lick it once more.
We can make lust
Drunk on Disgust.
Splay out your gut,
Your ass hole, my lover!
You buggering slut,
I know where to shove her!
There she goes, plumb
Up the foul Bitch’s bum!
Sackful of skin
And bone, as I speak
I’ll bugger your grin
Into a shriek.
Bugger you, slut
Bugger your gut!
Wriggle, you hog!
Wrench at the pin!
Wrench at it, drag
It half out, suck it in!
Scream, you hog dirt, you!
I want it to hurt you!
Beast-Lioness, squirt
From your Cocksucker’s hole!
Belch out the dirt
From your Syphillis soul.
Splutter foul words
Through your supper of turds!
May the Devil our lord, your
Soul scribble over
With sayings of ordure!
Call me your lover!
Slave of the gut
Of the arse of a slut!
Call me your sewer
Of spilth and snot
Your fart-sniffer, chewer
Of the shit in your slot.
Call me that as you rave
In the rape of your slave.
Fuck! Shit! Let me come
Alostrael—Fuck!
I’ve spent in your bum.
Shit! Give me the muck
From my whore’s arse, slick
Dirt of my prick!
Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, fuck, shit!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.
I am your fate, on
Your belly, above you.
I swear it by Satan
Leah, I love you.
I’m going insane
Do it again!
Words ©1920 Aleister Crowley
(Public domain under U. S. copyright law)
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3. |
Little Sitars
00:35
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4. |
Toolingayoni No. 2
05:04
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5. |
Uncle Al's Kitchen
02:16
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6. |
Toolingayoni No. 1
00:47
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7. |
Du Et
01:38
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8. |
James Don't Drive
09:30
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It had been a bad day in court for James.
He had spent the day defending his client, a Russian resident alien who was in the country on a student visa but got popped for selling his ass and an 8-ball of coke to an undercover cop in a Providence bath house.
The case against his client appeared to be hermetically sealed and made of solid steel. The bath house had a security video with an image so clear that the jury could see the points of the Russian hammers and sickles tattooed on each of his client's butt cheeks.
James attempted to get the charge dismissed on grounds of entrapment, arguing that the cop came first, but in the amount of time that it would take a one-legged man to put on a pair of pants, the jury came back with a guilty verdict.
James drove to his regular watering hole and was now drinking frozen mudslides like McDonald's shakes. Frank the bartender, a tall Sicilian with frog lips that could suck the husk off a coconut, poured another one as James sat back in his chair and attempted to balance his miniature spoon keychain on the arc of his distended stomach.
James' client, who had also been his primary dealer, hadn't yet paid him anything beyond his retainer before being whisked away to a detention facility to await deportation. It looked like the rent was going to be late again.
James heard the door open and his nose was assaulted by patchouli and mothballs. His neck creaked as he rotated his head.
It was the dancing fool. The dancing fool was a middle-aged art school dropout and a registered sex offender of an undisclosed nature. He had a hairline like St. Francis that he attempted to hide by growing his hair to his feet and tying it back like a samurai. He never bought a drink but would gravitate to the open floor in the middle of the bar and just dance and dance and dance, twirling and jerking like a ballerina on blotter acid until Frank would get fed up and give him a choice between hitting the bar or hitting the road.
The only reason that he was allowed in the bar at all was because he usually had a delivery for one of the regulars. The dancing fool made a living as a runner for Little Vinnie and a couple of the other local hoods. He also made extra money selling drawings of boy scouts to a retired army sergeant who worked as a counselor at the YMCA day camp and always insisted that the boys be drawn with Japanese eyes.
The dancing fool grooved to the jukebox as he shuffled toward James like Michael Jackson moonwalking in reverse. This time, he had a delivery for James.
The two of them went into the mens room and crammed into a stall. While an unemployed actor serviced a Marine in the adjacent stall, James dipped his pinky into the small bag of powder and put it to his tongue.
There was so much baking powder cut into it that he could use it to make pancakes. He pulled out his cell phone and called Little Vinnie. He had paid up front and wanted his money back.
Little Vinnie wasn't picking up. No matter. He had done enough pro bono work for Vinnie's family in the past to know where to find him. He knew that this was the night that Vinnie was running illegal duck fights in the back of his body shop.
As James drove to the body shop, he called Scott, his backup dealer.
“Sorry, dude. No dice.”
Scott proceeded to explain that Vinnie was giving hot food stamps to all the Mexican kids in the neighborhood in exchange for shoplifting all the baking powder in town. The law of supply and demand was forcing the other dealers to sell it pure at cut price, depleting inventories faster than normal.
“Can i interest you in some nice homegrown Purple Urkel instead?"
From the unlocked rear entrance to the body shop, James could hear quacks and cheering. A crowd of old men and gangbangers stood in a circle goading two malnourished ducks with razor blades taped to their bills. James saw Vinnie in the corner and put a gun to his head. Vinnie laughed and called his bluff.
Before Little Vinnie could call his goons, James pushed his way through the crowd and scooped up one of the ducks. He made a mad dash for the door, Vinnie’s goons following him in hot pursuit, but he held them back by swinging the duck like a machete.
James escaped, peeling out of the parking lot like a snake out of old skin. He knew what he would do. He would hide the duck and hold it for ransom.
But he needed a place to hide the duck. He knew the perfect place. He couldn't think of a better place than his mother's house. His mother worked for the Archdiocese. Little Vinnie wouldn't dare cross the church.
James drove to the house and used the spare key hidden under the porch Madonna to let himself in. His mother was in the kitchen making dinner. James flopped down on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, dripping blood and sweat. As his mother turned around in surprise, he noticed that there were two plates set. He didn't think that she was expecting him.
“This isn't for you. I have a new boyfriend and he's coming for dinner. He's gonna be here any minute.” Just then, the doorbell rang.
“That must be him."
As his mother went to answer the door, James' nerves began to unravel like the waxed line of a broken fishing rod as he stared at the dead duck hanging limp by its neck from his closed fist. On the way in, he had managed to rip the blade off of the duck's bill but barely realized that he had snapped its neck in the process. His leverage was gone.
The sweat froze in place on his face as he heard a click and felt a gun press against the back of his head.
“You killed my duck."
He turned to see Little Vinnie scowling at him as he aimed the gun at his face. His mother casually walked back into the kitchen and drained the pasta that had been boiling on the stove.
"Vinnie, why is he still alive? Didn't you cut it with rat poison like i asked? James, you ain't gonna drive me crazy no more!"
Now James don’t drive
‘cuz James can’t drive.
James can’t drive
‘cuz James ain’t alive.
So be careful who you cross
’n don’t be dumb
‘cuz you never know who might be
bangin’ your mom.
Motherfucker!
©2015 J. M. Smig / Sophisticated Schizophrenic.
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9. |
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10. |
Let's Move To Finland
05:00
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11. |
Dark And Stormy Waltz
03:09
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12. |
MIDI Life Crisis
08:18
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J. M. Smig Salem, Massachusetts
The musical equivalent of the guy at the party who offends everyone by mooning the camera (but guess what everyone does to
the camera minutes later), Smig is the Witch City's composer laureate (not a difficult achievement, in all honesty).
"[C]ontemporary music for the bizarre at heart...[His] electronica and classical works operate in a style unlike any other."
(Electronic Musician newsletter)
... more
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