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From It Pours What Some Call Emptiness

by Antipsychocircumseptemsomambulation

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Fas
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Fas Great speech snippets in this one.
ddb
ddb thumbnail
ddb You have to give this album a listen. There's really nothing quite like this.
Can This Even Be Called Music?
Can This Even Be Called Music? thumbnail
Can This Even Be Called Music? The compositions are set in twenty-four notes per octave, and all instruments are synthesized. I definitely would favour an organic lineup, but this would prove almost inhumanly possible for this project, and would also probably break the rules of the cybergrind genre.
More: wp.me/p3mIfa-nJL
Andrej Romić
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Andrej Romić This is a weird, math, and grindcore based band, love the long name, and the names of the tracks. Bizarre, drone, noisy, grindcore-ish from time to time, some songs even contain speeches, which makes the whole thing more enjoyable. I love this band, their sound might not be commercial ready, but its awesome. Favorite track: X: The Fire He Kept For Himself.
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1.
"You may venture, but the stars still drown in Taergeht. You may forget, but Taergeht is your waiting tomb." (Excerpt from Segni Gipseian's "The Creations Of The Nothing -CCCXXIV") Velleity unwavering in the shelter of the darkness Travertine sanctuary of the spurned alchemist Segni Gipseian Banished to the vacuum for the knowledge he espoused And the eldtrich artifacts his abandoned 'Celestileum' housed Erased from the annals by the amanuensis twins, Xivix and Vixiv His plan to overthrow the remaining gods was crushed It started with learning of the abjuration of being From the monolith inscriptions upon the altar of abandonment "There is no attachment to the atoms These are godly lies of Aiderphantomos To cut the empty ties, one must traverse the vacuum." But his plans to free all from their bonds was discovered And his heretic rebellion clandestinely smothered Until sometime in the future, when another disciple of nothingness emerged To finally complete the dissolving work Segni started And from the atoms all the suffering souls were parted All that's left is the mourning of the vacuum
2.
Everything they give, they give to you Everything you take, you take from them They are sculpted from tears and shaped into stars They are the lone bearers of pain It is welded to their backs, but they can't resist it Their duty is to hoist our sorrows and carry our world in their crumpled shadows They bear those wings so that we don't Each telluric corner chained to the "heavens" Some say they smile upon us there But those smiles are only glimpsed when they fall This rotten world persists, suspended
3.
And He said unto his first disciple: "Look upon my mighty achievements of Water, Wind, and Darkness. For this reason I am named Prime Begetter Mada'Fo, for I hold Three parts of the elements of the whole world. And I juggle your pleasure and pain within my always-molding hands. "But plucked from my hearts was the Fire that I need To craft the world in light anew and flourishing life may proceed "I was deceived by a clever, little pest Who told me his beloved was dying And required the Fire to warm her heart From each of my loving hearts I lent to him this heat But within the dimming light I discovered he was lying "My hearts froze cold and my eyesight dimmed I spotted him and his beloved absconding in the darkness In the distance I saw rise another star Taking with it my caring heat afar "So I ask you, disciple, to kill him and his darling Drag back their hides and return to me my gift And I will craft this world again But this time they will fear my loving pain"
4.
The final utterance of the absent god to its loveless disciples "Tonsillitic defunct Unnominative, pronate Pluggingly perfumy "From the Lanadyr skies, posthypnotically Ungraven, enriched bolt Neurasthenic pavan, unsquandered canon of the pseudo-divine And from the Isolex's holt Physiologically Spear sympathetic of nervosa disenchanting the thunder being "Pierced unto death The plunge of unowned limbs."
5.
("Untitled VII" attributed to Methonylaaanyllium crica 324) Conspiracy of the one Ruing the death of all Disgust at the masks of Parts Who flaunt the illusion of the Whole Emergence is no more When veneer is under strain The amassing of separation between the Atom and the Brain The emptiness that's hidden, It's rotten at its core The silence drowned in noise, Is suffocated no more Peeling back the layers Of the nothingness composed Teleological confusion and Other sophistry disposed Intrinsic nihilism returns Entirity consumed The Parts have been divorced And within Material entombed
6.
More than the king, fortune attends the stillborn Dangling from The Quiet Heaven is an argent line The thieving thread that leads the unborn astray The same thread whose breath snuffs the flame of suffering As it writhes as if alive (In truth, it is) A feast for the spider that dangles its hell-destined web Those trapped in the inferno struggle up its orthotropic axis To be poisoned and consumed By the extra-dimensional angler There is a silent sound that echoes downward It implores their anti-sensation A blessing of the benignity and relinquishment "Netherprism spectacle Underveil glare Quelling of the embryo" Ensared in the labyrinth of Amorathor Paralyzed by thought and venom Consumed without the shedding of a single tear Plucked from the intersecting planes that cut invisibly A feaster of the womb, Amorothor knits the net that some call "miscarriage" A sparing from the deprivation of the flesh "Grasp three of my seven dimensions Take the hand that wraps your eyes Bite down if you dare And choke on the emptiness you denied This is your salvation rite" The prey's final whimper is . . . "For the gift of nonexistence, Thank you" The prey bites down.
7.
The cosmic gestalt of the wormy grub Alone and feeble it would climb the starry stairs Viewer of the waste of ego, and inconceivably zeugmatic Exultancy formularized as its psychomania Peripatetic across the brains of the things that view themselves Antinomial generator of the "me" Worshipper of the self It can only exist by repeating its own existence to itself And we may only exist by its parasitic burrowing We are its carven idolatrous slaves Not knowing why we experience Each brain another statue to its universal temple So it may further clutter the cosmos with thought Children of the maggot, unbeknownst to them When they look upon themselves, they are truly looking upon the worm
8.
Irafex's final weave of serpents A mess of knots and tangles Writhing with a syncopated rhythm It tightens the braid further Their own throats are mangled Symbiotic torturing between them The freezing touch of his void Him choking on their exhalations But he cannot stop now Irafex dons their sinewy fabric to hide his skeletal frame of nothingness And begs eternally to the snakes, pleading for their forgiveness
9.
At shores perched at the edge of time, I saw it crawl from the abyss, a formless mass Having the eyes and heads of seven, and a crown of void upon each Within its eyes the gaze of blindness And I saw one of his heads had been wounded to death This deadly wound bled upon the sand, feeding the shore of its timelessness All the stars were then consumed by the beast. And the other beings coveted its crowns of nothingness Whispering, we worshiped the beast A mouth was carved into it, the mouth speaking many great things and horrors and esoterics we did not understand He continued for 30 nights, opening his mouth in disdain for everything, and for nothing; to tarnish the light of stars and the sound of the vibrations of his name, and those who dwell beyond our knowledge and those who toil only to toil more And he then plunged back into the sea to drown in contempt for the beings lurking upon the edge of void He asked they never repeat his name and to heed the weakness of language
10.
Once there was an emptiness that spanned below the sky When falling violently from the sky was He, recently denied These are the languishers of denial Too weak to steel themselves Too unknowing to know themselves Too meekly woven to their selvage He bleeds upon the mountainous altar Oozing over waste They hear His groans, but guiltily sup up His effluence And the watchers of the dancing stars gaze on and take pleasure in the turmoil That flooded the empty horizon with His blood, His tears, His oil The straggling horrors linger forth and each drenched themselves in Him He cried for them to free Him of his rocky impalement on the edge But too hungrily they sucked from Him His sweet, poisonous nectar Only to corrupt and die shortly after Soon ichorous pond became ichorous ocean And it mirrored the dancing flames above Still watching, still laughing At their now-drowning, woeful, blood-stained, one-winged dove
11.
On a tidal-locked moon of a dying planet of a dying star There stirs a sea that violently churns But it is not moved by tides nor heat It is moved by the whipping limbs of that which yearns She swims in perpetual darkness and only feels the lashing cold Her domain contained by the encompassing wall A wall that serves as Her temple Her children feared Her so And did not wish to look upon Her more They questioned their existence And they questioned Her murmurs from the dark Erected as a temple, but the wall soon became quite great Their eyes were blind, but it became a prison so ornate They chanted along the wall to drown out Her cries of loss And against the wall Her slimy torsos she tossed And still she swirls the torrent of the sea Drowning herself in misery She knows no reason nor thought An engine of emotion; fraught And they chant on and dance, never listening to the ocean . . . Until She spawned another that She warped with lies She imposed upon Him limbs, and thought, and eyes And told Him that He was Her own and that She loved Him so Dying in His many arms until even Her own bulk turned cold The mourning thing still cradles Her corpse in an ocean that tumultuates from tears And even though the roaring has dulled, he still bemoans throughout the years No rot will ever take Her away from Him--the children's chant goes on
12.
Felled by the beings it once cherished. Their unknowing ways will always approach ruin. A serpentine tower that only sought to behold But its piercing watch was too much for them They took up their axes and carved him out from the ground And in his collapse his eye could no longer be found They didn't know that his gaze deterred The Beings from the wastes From steadily poring into town to feed upon the inhabitants Now they struggle constantly to keep Them from approaching And Ehmbr's corpse sinks into soil, substaining on their freshly dead The dead are forever whispering, forever loathing Now with Ehmbr hearkening in their stead
13.
He was composed of the whisperings of a false god And idolized the usury of begetting, The proselytism of void-filling As parts, he knew, all are to occupy The Whole But he was bound to the labor that will never prevail And so he journeyed upon the pilgrimage of negation That the buried mystics who traveled before him followed He would not forgive . . . He would not absolve . . . Upon the summit of the fallen mystagogues he met the "death" that waited for him His untouched corpse would not rot and enmesh with the others It was trapped within its tomb of anathema A pseudo-death would be its final parting rite While he waited a near-eternity to be freed from his vine-wrapped coffin But still, he is bound to the labor that will never prevail He mutters to himself the truths he has learned When he breathes in the sands of the mountain and of time And exhales the winds that flow forth from it If only someone would listen

about

In the year of -CCCXXIV of the final æon, there is an all-consuming, all-blessing emptiness. A universe destined for death will be smothered and emaciated into a useless net of singular sub-atomic particles and the powerless gravitational bonds that abstractly connect them together. The macrocosmic corpse of Frore will be butchered by its own forces and consumed by the nothingness it once denied.

Each song tells a story of one of the final beings of the now empty world. With the pseudo-lyrics translated to English from Alkeryth's silent Forbidden Language.

Thanks for listening and don't bring more existence into this wretched cosmos.

Mini-review on Can this even be called music?:
canthisevenbecalledmusic.com/mini-reviews-xlix/

Review on No Clean Singing:
www.nocleansinging.com/2017/01/17/late-december-and-early-january-gems-part-2-theory-in-practice-antipsychocircumseptemsomambulation/

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released November 1, 2016

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Antipsychocircumseptemsomambulation Ottawa, Ontario

Nothingness & Emptiness

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