(these lyrics are from Matrikamantra, an illustrated word CD © 1997)
Archives of Blood
History draws its substance from the archives of blood.
We are the gravediggers of the future.
Each generation raises monuments to the executioners
which have preceeded it.
Society is not a disease; it's a disaster.
What you call truth is an error not sufficiently experienced.
The tree of life will no longer have spring as one of it's seasons.
So much dry wood, will from it be made, coffins from our bones, our grief.
Our flesh has inherited the lovely smell of carrion scattered in the millenium.
Cesspool Called History
I am an island in this cesspool called history
I inhabit the crumpled remains of a place that once was
suffocating in a solitude so fulfilling
that the nearest rendezvous becomes a cruxifiction.
A solitude more chaotic that war
A stoic who remains undaunted among the ruins of a world
shattered into atoms.
Some of us are born weary of being born
Given the gift of life to live obsessed w/death
We bury our souls the corpses we have not yet murdered...
Like an angel drafted onto the back of a leper
A criminal saint...
The hero of yesterday becomes the tyrant of tomorrow
unless he crucifies himself today.
The restlessness of sleepness nights
dig trenches where the corpses of memory lay rotting.
A crater of lucidity whispers... time... time.. that slaughterhouse of the universe.
Where it is not in the nature of a man who cannot kill himself
to seek revenge against whatever enjoys existing
World of Whispers
This is forced up from the world of whispers
where the terror and negation are out on an endless prowl
I'm just attempting to summon the memory of pre-epidemic existence
while nursing bruised ideals which combat human shortcomings.
We are transitional creatures who destroy ourselves in slow motion
In our terror and ignorance we do the very things which aggravate
the calamity and increase the death rate
Each fate is no more than a refrain fluttering around a few blood stains.
The interval seperating you from your corpse is a small sticky wound,
and nothing can keep you from bleeding...
Ideas themselves turn red and encroach upon each other like tumors
in a philosophical stupor.
We are merely puppets... stuffed with red junk.. the blood's inferno drowns out the soul
Life is that which decomposes at every moment with every movement.
Heretics of existence we are banished to the community of the living whose sole virtue is to wait gasping for something
which is not
See more of Lydia:
Interview with Lydia
Short History of Decay
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