Mourning Beloveth
Formless
1. Theories Of Old Bones
they passed by flames almost out
here even the wind destroys bones
time turns into space bones ache
drawn out like an ache bones space
it smelled like slow death bones ache
and they crawled along the floor hungry and lean and looking for more
the stench followed me out of the gloom, a ghost of rage
a memory of cruel fatigue screams heard bone deep
there is nothing to breathe into the heart the cold drifted
to the pit where we twist and cringe bones ache
huddled away from the daylight pale and white
hollowed into a numbness no need for pain or wasting disease
for it’s the same ragged tangle of fears,
the same strange sense of aimlessness
that knot of rage scoured the floor of the skull
life had drifted away to some far off point inside leaving the body to automatic ruin
fall through the ether and that slow sweat of time gnawing at my entrails
silent as the drift of death
2. Ethics On The Precipice
it’s a murky world that dull dark light that is animal greed
where every human element is boiled away the cracks in reality
to the white bone of animal agony for this is the edge of everything
the cracks down the sides of reality
the spaces between the cord drifting shoals of waste in the drear places
the final disorder of all forms the cracks in reality
for this is the edge of everything a point where it does not decay anymore the dust finally gets out it belongs to the end
I felt the edge of a strange euphoria the sky like poisoned silver with the leavings of unhuman minds somewhere towards the end
construction of things fell apart the cold sweating centre
ripping along nerves digging into marrow down in the blood depths
where everything grows entwined dead grey flesh pressing against the cord
muscles knot pushed all the way to drown out everything strange
to sweat you in your bed a memory of water
somewhere towards the end
it is slow and cold
in the sludge of human misery
empty of dreams burning with tension
but it’s early here at the end
the heart dragging and
the chill of old silver
right at the end of the world
clawing the bottom of my lungs
at the corners of perception
like ragged glass over nerves
you will have to claw it from them
crushing life into the methane
watch the old earth ebb away
a sound like the universe apart
like the sorrow of a dream
3. Old Rope
this place is for people who like the way down
we are the hollow men leaning together
old men wringing our minds of thought
the world never had so many moving parts
that sought form
there is something about this place
it seduces me
sagged in ruin a rope around my neck
around my feet like concrete it drains away
that drug that final moment like concrete
the skeleton of life that drug like concrete
we have been sucking up the vapours for aeons
the universal decay that contaminant destroys us all
trying to find a voice for the agony the corrosion
what is this new terror? it will make corpses of us all
rub your hands not in fear but in the knowledge that…
many are the hands that dig my grave tonight
4. Dead Channel
the slow dark sludge melted down and solidified
full of poison insanity and nightmares
inside nothing outside emptiness
it mothers demons that move
the grace of addiction
with a head full of noise and pills waves of raw transference
tuned to a dead channel in search of a new womb
it is mere content deprived of form everything is waste
nobody seems to notice the absence of a living substance
there was something else in the silence that I heard
like something hauled from dreams and abandoned
the mind drinks less and less
people going nowhere somewhere following the moon tide like so many leaden idols
leave them for the flies and the carcass of a dead world
the universal rubble nothing left to rot
abandoned and formless
there are no mountains to make them cower
all we seem to live for is pleasure end it burn it the fire is clean
putting out the stars and extinguish the sun you seem to come away lost
end it burn it nothing is clean
no one seems to listen anymore a head full of noise and pills
burn it end it it feeds on silence
but there is something in the silence I heard it screams at me
end it burn it if you let it burn it will burn our lifetimes out
we have some leaks in the system where reality filters through
a non linear flood of facts with each pulse of nothingness
they show us trailers to make us hold onto nothingness
splinters of a substance that pulsates like a former heart
an anchor drawing us to oblivion and the bones
the bare bones of existence an anchor to oblivion
5. Nothing Has A Centre
a cancerous day nothing to guide
all the monuments of slower aeons sank into the loam
even time decays like a razor through creation
as I sifted through the bones of a soiled humanity
with swirls of light and meaning drained out of the universe
a fever dream or a brooding advanced decay?
the hollow of night drifts like the slowest sea of all
the edges failed every fragment rushed away
thrown around the centrifuge of space
disintegrating set of cells disintegrate space
woven back together with chemical thread
cord which makes us live
branches run down with bones of ancient stone
and roots grow up with the weight of the air
interminable ennui
a ragged cascade of neurons edging out
the roots were so shallow once free to stagnate
it slowly drains away to a level that can’t be reached
decay non being urging death
roots grow down with ancient stone
swarms of purest crystal expand reality something high very pure and empty
above the lines of light and when we reach the highest point things fall apart in all forms created
time passed unused bestial and lonely
a gaunt catalogue of bones and hollows
the frame tested to destruction as veins tremble and secrete
but what if time is the disease an essence of discarded nothing
roots grow up with ancient stone
interminable ennui
branches run down with bones of air
cascading neurons
urging death decay and non being
stagnant relics
free to suck the marrow of time or nothing.
6. Transmissions
“Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way every prediction could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct; nor was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. Scraped clean and re-inscribed
The past had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when no record existed outside your own memory? All history scraped clean and re-inscribed exactly as often as was necessary. War is peace Freedom is slavery Ignorance is strength
The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact, there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking-not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness. Scraped clean and re-inscribed exactly as often as was necessary. Orthodoxy is ignorance Ignorance is slavery War is Peace
The war is not meant to be won, it is meant to be continuous. The war is waged by the ruling group against its own subjects and its object is not victory but to keep the very structure of society intact, scraped clean and re-inscribed War is peace Freedom is slavery Ignorance is strength”
they were said to be building a palace in the sky but nothing changes
everything stays the same just wrapped in different plastic I am too dead for dreaming
we will be remembered for what we destroyed a world of corpses
a world of corpses decay and collapse where we spoke of pain
a rope around my neck but we will make corpses of you all
time will make us sell it so short in our race down
we think we know things and are close to mastery yet time passes
we have become gods knowing what is good and evil and so we live with the knowledge of death
sublime intoxication
will this destroy me? rot my body? groin to dry, catch my thoughts in rots?
the more I know the more I need to get me through
sublime intoxication
when did the future become a threat?
the past has been destroyed
the war is not meant to be won
all history turns to plastic
scraped clean and re-inscribed
some things are so corrupt that
the only clean act is nihilism
as we slip and disintegrate
layer by layer
if we don’t build we must burn
civilisation is the infection
where we revere the sticky spoor of blood
these are brutal times
Timmy Johnson ‒ Drums
Frank Brennan ‒ Guitars, Vocals (clean)
Darren Moore ‒ Vocals
Brendan Roache ‒ Bass
Pauric Gallagher ‒ Guitars
Lyrics in plain text format
