1. |
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The limit is etched in uneven crayon,
every asinine attempt to resist;
a smearing of its edges.
Every bordered color
spilling into each other.
Any perceived solidity;
a tunnel runs through it;
carved by your foolish intentions.
Embers in the air some nights
a reminiscence of some kind of meaning
Electric indecision sometimes
and steely grey afternoons.
And it's a bitter triumph,
when you make it to the end of another day.
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2. |
The Song of the Rivers
04:47
|
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From the bridge above the railroad tracks
you watch the patchwork trajectories of the misbegotten.
You share with them an indifferent egregore,
bouncing of plate glass windows;
a consanguinity in their vicarious ambitions.
And through the haze
slithers serpentine suggestion,
that somewhere along the line
we brought this on ourselves.
They hung the moon from a lamppost.
The taxidermied sky; a counterfeit trophy
of their hopeless campaigns against transience.
An edifice to a god about whom we know nothing,
except that it does not resemble man.
The highrise is a Tower of rebirth.
Moulded in glass and wrapped in wire.
Struggling to maintain its human face.
|
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3. |
The Fishing Village
03:51
|
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Is it possible that existence is our exile,
and nothingness; our home
The Crown is a tangle of snakes
The wreath of their tails is the
stitching together of you and
everything else to eternity.
|
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4. |
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The white beast attached to your spine;
a worm that hides in the throat,
nursing a malevolent nausea,
that haunts you across
every plane of existence.
And every step
no matter the direction
Is further from yourself
Whatever it’s antecedents,
this is something wholly alien
from its parts.
An emptyness, that was never theirs
to fill or remake.
And every step
no matter the direction
is further from yourself.
And every night
is a subterranean night.
This is the lake,
the deep dark everything.
The badgers are the center of its iris;
the trees are the edges of your dream,
and the barbed wire; your dancing scotomas.
I stand darkened and dumb at the shore of a void,
with the primordial blues.
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5. |
The Haruspex
03:59
|
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A pillar of nothingness
Defined only by lack
The first crack
In the sheer face of god
And the drone is a vastness of lack
Pulsing impossible presents and futures
The shriek of its overtones
cutting a straight line through everything outside the flesh.
Scraping out laughter with a spoon
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6. |
The Flagellant
03:39
|
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The mainline, a shimmering, incandescent static.
Deep red hysterics wrought in cast iron letters.
A triumphant display
of every ecstatic perversion.
From way down
in the deepest pit.
You conjure forth
the true face of God.
And every gash is a slit in your wings
that you use to take flight.
A scarlet bloom to
cradle your deepest shames.
An apotheosis of your
most antediluvian hurt.
From way down
in the deepest pit.
You conjure forth,
from piss and blood:
the true face of God.
|
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7. |
The Hypostasis
02:36
|
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The city pollutes the past and the future,
comprising the stars.
The landscape is a frozen mass of water,
stilted and fading.
Every street is a straight line,
becoming the arc of an infinite circle.
The city is a still life
of failures from half a lifetime ago;
the damp summer air:
its rotting frame.
The city is the acrid scent
and taste of the air.
An oppressive humidity
enveloping and filling out
all space and time.
A synesthetic recollection
and anticipation
of the first and final failures.
|
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8. |
The Primordial Blues
09:19
|
|||
The limit is etched in uneven crayon;
every asinine attempt to resist
a smearing of its edges.
Every bordered color spilling into each other.
The highrise is a tower of rebirth
moulded in glass and wrapped in wire;
struggling to maintain its human face.
The Crown is a tangle of snakes
and the wreath of their tails
is the stitching together of
you and everything else to eternity.
This is the lake, the deep dark everything.
The badgers are the center of its iris;
the trees are the edges of your dream
and the barbed wire of your dancing scotomas.
The drone is a vastness of lack
pulsing impossible presents and futures;
the shriek of its overtones cutting a straight line through
everything outside the flesh.
The mainline is a shimmering incandescent static.
Deep red hysterics wrought
in cast iron letters.
A triumphant display
of every ecstatic perversion.
The city is the acrid scent
and taste of the air.
An oppressive humidity
enveloping and filling out
all space and time.
A synesthetic recollection
and anticipation of
the first and final failures.
This is the dotted line.
It hides in the throat,
nursing a malevolent nausea.
Waiting to vomit your most secret defeats.
It haunts you across
every plane of existence
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Oxx Aarhus, Denmark
The Primordial Blues, OXX’s upcoming fourth full-length effort, is a monument to misery and a harbinger of perpetual sadness. Available August 18th on digital platforms worldwide and limited edition CD/CS via Nefarious Industries.
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