by i [INCINERATED] new york

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  • Crappy CDR copy of Bastard for anybody dumb enough to buy it....
    Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    limited number of these... i think there are like 21 left yet... the packaging is pretty piss poor... paper sleeves with spraypaint on them... sixteen complete the puzzle... these were made in the dungeon of Tringali Manor... now with real jizz and blood stains... :D... They will include a small, quickly done Franklefurter Tringali original work though... that's pretty neat... mostly won't send them internationally... though i don't foresee that being a real issue....

    Includes unlimited streaming of TooSoon.EP.Side1.Bastard via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

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Game Over


released November 18, 2012

Quarters Only



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i [INCINERATED] new york Dallas, Texas

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Track Name: Brightheart Guide
You've got that 416 shined up and looking for love. I'm shaking. I'm shaking down with a bullet-proof vest and a stick of dynamite. Lady Liberty's a lusty bitch, she's a coal-black-heart too heavy to break. I'm just a strange little faggot with a deathwish, right? The man in my head says, "Don't give a damn." All red. The friends that I had pass a bullet around. My god. Faces on the tube choke, "Fuck you too." White light. Why would I bleed blue? My mouth is but a tomb.
Track Name: Josephine V. Black Jesus
Where I'm going, there ain't no coming back. Don't say it if you don't mean it. There's no shame in cutting out. No shame. You're just men. Six-guns swinging, heavy heart attack. Don't look if you can't see it. There's no fame in running down, "What name? All power." To fault infallible, to fell immortal, to bite that hand that's always fed, ladies and gentlemen this is war. I will not bend. I will not end.
Track Name: My Guitar is a God Damned Robot
A splendid bouquet grows out the fractures in my city's skull. As her smoke-wreathed crown sits a single golden, glowing rose choking on exhausted, black exhale. The motor cavalcade shits havoc in my mother's face. In her rum run mouth marches alkaline decay and the tin can mans the flesh-molest detail. Circumventing circumstance in masochist malevolence. Manifesting destiny as scorching Earth and desert grays.