1. |
Mono
01:56
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MONO
Eternity lies in tatters, dangling like a fractured leg, cast in monotone and clinging to a gnawed prosthetic hip. The sole remnants of a shattered daydream, still threaded and ever supporting. Carrion cast aside, rotting meat and feathers, a meagre feast for the crow. Eyes already chewed from their sockets, throat torn out clumsily, organs removed and kept in bag. Halos hung upon retained reflections, resist the winds of change, and sheltered from the bitter chill. I wish you'd share your bruises I wish you'd share your lies.
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2. |
Cockroach Metaphor
02:15
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COCKROACH METAPHOR
Cabal of nothing, maggots in the drip feed. Disgust, and open hand. A poison, vampirical, deadweight martyr, and a diagram of graves. A monument to the leech, The plague malign, a symphony of unworthy. Locust heart. Paresis, nihilistic servitude, dead end, wasted life, Parasitic, sluggard, weakener, a diagram of graves. Exhibition of the gutter, lord of the flies. Just another barren epitaph, lord of the flies.
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3. |
Scissors
00:17
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SCISSORS
Resurrected acrimony requires another fix, A swift kick to a departed canine cadaver, Like a saline elixir offered to lacerated lungs, Taste every drop. Requital lost, Fade to tangerine rose and spectrum embrace, Crawling from a chalk outline with a halo in my teeth.
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4. |
Death on a Stale Bed
00:41
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DEATH ON A STALE BED
This spit of torment, like acid to the shield of this final refuge, it bleeds your silhouette. You say it all when those lips are sewn shut. A familiar path of degradation, it's a well-worn road.
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5. |
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IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO KEEP A BODY COUNT
One of the dead list, you'll never know. Be my murder. I'm going down in flames. Be my murder, be my murderer. She's lost control.
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6. |
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THE ROT OF DISORDER IN THE HUMAN HEART
Corroding fodder for the cannibals, a fifteen minute disaster, Begging on your knees, whored for all to see. Caught somewhere between dirt and mediocrity. You might think you're waving, everyone knows your drowning. Shameless, soulless, anything to sell your name. A malformed parody of dignity, diseased wreckage in prose. This broken image of self-respect, your skin-deep levels exposed.
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7. |
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DISSECTING THE BIG FIGURE SCHEMATIC
A kingdom of worms, and concrete excretia, Throne of nails, deadbeat enforcer. Inverted mouths, ouroboros feeding, Surrounded by demons and an ego that's bleeding. A false messiah, this blueprint of failure, bow down, and you worship on your knees, you swallow it whole. Shallow graves for a hangman's joke, Elbows deep in self-approval, The body is swollen, ruptured, reeling, The spirit is dead, and his tumor is spreading. Drag it all down, crawlspace heart, Spread the ruin, torn apart. A kingdom of worms, and concrete excretia, Throne of nails, deadbeat enforcer, Inverted mouths, ouroboros feeding, Surrounded by demons and an ego that's bleeding. Kingdom of worms, Throne of nails, The body is swollen, ruptured, reeling, The spirit is dead and his tumor is spreading
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8. |
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ECONOMIC DESIRE IS A TOUGH GOD TO BEAT
The dead pilots swing from the trees, the sky bleeds orange, This life is in turmoil, calling for a thousand cleansing fires. Self-cast immolation, burning off parasites that flew too close to the sun. The day of purification nears, and those wax wings they already melt. No one left at the wheel, fatal sound of progress, Life disintegrated, and calling for a new way of life. Control of our fate is slipping from our hands. Crushed in the gears of progress. This way of living is a ticking clock. The dead pilots swing from the trees, the sky bleeds orange, This life is in turmoil, calling for a thousand cleansing fires. Progress? This way of life is nothing but a ticking clock.
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9. |
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I HEAR THE GATHERING OF VULTURES
Content to lay amongst the slurry, it irrigates your veins, A gallery of bones and lost intentions, your words will fail where broadswords sing, Down the dark decades of your pain, This will seem like a memory you could have had. Our name will be written on a thousand walls, Your world has drowned, run aground, now your name gathers only moss. It's a waste of good suffering. Your time in the sun has bled you dry, now a faint echo. Turn up the volume, but only hear the sound of razors through flesh. A fertile ground only for torment, you never reaped what was sewn.
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Grindcore Karaoke
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