1. |
Welcome To Nowhere
03:44
|
|||
2. |
Invisible Person Complex
08:57
|
|||
|
The only freedom I experience comes, when I’m deprived of all the tools of obsession, all the toys of perdition. A castrated religion of repetition evaporates unseen from my body as its temperature dips, leaving it to the primitive hysteriae of survival. Not until the mechanical hum quiets down, am I able to see the light shining through the cracks in my unreasoning. Freedom is the death of passion, while every heart beat away from its greedy mouth pours relief all over the field view of my aesthetic self-flagellations. Only left to the mindless pleasures of gluttony and idleness can I burn with the truest of fires and drift on the waves of sin finally recognized and properly understood. I tear the shroud off of the cold sphere of the sun inside me and shamefully answer the questions about the truth and meaning of nothing. There is a spark within this accursed stone of knowledge. Its pain blooms a rose of blood and love wilder than the thunder of trumpets, which wake the universe up from the slumber of its existence. Thorns sprout through my clenched fist, the vine entwines my heart with a warm promise of death, it’s within me, it is me. I crawl towards the razor blade of horizon, but as I’m near looking over its edge, I feel the sickening amnesia drawing close. The shroud conceals the sun and I – bound by the shackles of my own body – descend towards the bottom of confusion, I drown in keys and helplessly await the remains of myself to diffuse in the acid of my obsessions again. You miss me in my moments of liberation. You know me from the years of paranoid prayers for a door, that fits one of the keys I choke on. Iron seals my throat and the scream lowers to a pathetic groan. I forget the animal language, I resume the flogging, I curse the sickness of inspiration.
|
||||
3. |
||||
|
The last dance of your demise is a pathetic spectacle driven by crippled emotions and a stubborn reanimation of misplaced desires. You make your body into a tool of external desperation, mindlessly severing the thin thread, that still connects you to it. You are a cloud of someone else’s expectations forever equally distanced from Earth and from Heaven. Meanwhile your body is an abandoned dull knife, a price of beauty and freedom, that you pay with colors and shapes of disgust, corruption and pleasure. There is no pleasure. There’s only the memory of pleasure – a haunting blueprint you compare to every bit of attention thrown your way. There was never a promise of purity or a glimpse of light between us. A meeting of two opposing appetites has left the cold plains unchanged. There are no waves on my sea of tears. Instead your thoughts smash against the rocks beneath, but you’re not meant to share their end. I see now – the image painted by an idiot-savant’s fingers takes shape of a reflective horizon. You are trapped in a field view of silence, but the condemning whispers leak from your head not to leave you by yourself ever again. You offer a deceitful absolution from harms never done, while passing judgments written in a new language of disarray, a herald of a repulsive new era coming. I refuse to obey, exposing myself to mockery from the animals you commune with.
I forget and drift away on the dead surface of my sea of tears. There’s still the city of oblivion scorched by the sun of hope, where silence is a promise and pleasure is the time passing. I breathe this place in, I let it devour me, I become it. It reminds me of life during the day. There’s no suffering, that’s not inscribed into the destiny we’ve chosen for ourselves. I dissolve in the sunlight, while the night paints a black strip of threat on the horizon. Darkness is closing over you like a descending guillotine. I silently watch it discreetly calling your dance to a halt.
|
||||
4. |
||||
|
I give up my body to be absorbed by the mechanism of creative insanity. I imagine nothingness surrounded by a wall of absolute unambiguity, a vanishing perspective crushed by the weight of heaven. This configuration remains in perfect motionless harmony, sings a steady tone to my absent eyes. There is something indispensable in these simple forms. Imperfections of a body disturb their arrangement, so I blame myself for existing within it, although there’s no other space for me to exist in.
The touch of cold multidimentional figures calls upon meanings, that make far more sense, than the touch of flesh. I watch your smile fading, when you realize, that the system assimilates you as well. It’s a goal-oriented system, purposeful and detached from your dubious notions of good and evil. It devours your body for your own greater gain. A calm ecstasy of satisfaction raises pillars of new understanding inside whatever’s left of my humanity. A plan is being executed in this dream – larger than anything you are able to see from your solitary point of view. After the final machine stops, an electric silence marked by a single absent tone of anticipation will follow. The process will never cease, once in a while awaking a distant nerve ending, just to remind itself of its own existence and readiness. The machine will remain infinite.
I meet you at a park. There’s not much more to say. The algorithm of nature plays its repetitive theme of eternal rebirth around us. I already hear traces of the machine drawing near in it. An uncanny new glimmer in my eyes makes you uncomfortable. We’re not you or I anymore – I say. You try to run, but our bodies are nonexistent and the notion of space becomes obsolete, replaced by design. We are ghosts of former awareness, we have a new purpose, free from the primitive impulses of flesh. Underneath it all the machine hums.
|
||||
5. |
||||
|
In my mind I create portraits inconsistent with the myth of external bodies. The road between us marked by crumbs of hesitation becomes longer, the more names I try to give to the entity growing out of myself to end hope once and for all. This anti-body displays before me visions of colossal monuments of the future, while whispering into my ear, that I will have long turned to ash and nothing, that is to come, will be mine to behold. I see it grow against any notion of what it means to exist. I’m not even sure, whether I should call it “it” or “I”. Discordant cantos lead the machine I inhabit astray. Self-destructions earn the being’s lewd applause, while the body refuses to function and I mindlessly look for an explanation, even though the answer sticks out of my own side like a spear corroded by my rancid blood. I don’t depend on philosophers deliberating over the horror of their carnality with insulting affection. I tear random people apart as an example, although more and more, and more of them turn out void, until I finally have to admit, that the proof must lie somewhere else. How much time will I have, if I tear the crystal of ambiguity out of my own entrails and walk, spreading the reasons and truths of insanity? You won’t make it past three steps – says it, so I strangle the offspring of my unending inner wars, until I grow weary and realize, that I’m strangling myself. Ultimately reconciled with the inevitable – it and I – allow the time to scatter our ashes, but then it becomes clear, that my deformation was mistaken. Death is an eternal course ruthlessly expecting my participation. Every stage of torment is merely a welcome to another chapter of still unimaginable sensations. The memory of pain dies frozen in time, while I pick up from where I was. I rejoin the living to resume spreading the message of hate. The world definitely needs more of this.
|
||||
6. |
The Tzadik
12:22
|
|||
If you like The World Definitely Needs More Of This, you may also like:
Mirror Moves (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
by Death Hags
The wonderful goth-pop soundtrack for the 2023 film “Mirror Moves” augments the film’s unsettling tone.
go to album
Habitation Incidents 74 - 84
by Earstone
Electronic musician Earstone uses modular synths to call up eerie phantasmic visions from his own past.
go to album
Laughing In My Sleep
by The Cradle
On his latest LP, Paco Cathcart sketches life in Brooklyn in remarkable detail.
go to album
Trevor Powers, formerly known as Youth Lagoon, offers "music for our digital coma" across a melancholic surprise LP.
go to album
Penelope Two
by Penelope Trappes
On her second record, Penelope Trappes writes haunting songs that recall The Cocteau Twins and This Mortal Coil.
go to album
featured on Bandcamp Radio Mar 14, 2023
go to album
Nothing As It Seems
by Street Rat
The sophomore album from former session musician Imraan Paleker highlights his modern soul, alt-rock, jazz, and electronic sensibilities.
go to album
