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The Acausal Mass Full Album Lyrics

Merrimack - The Acausal Mass cover art

The Acausal Mass

TypeAlbum (Studio full-length)
GenresBlack Metal
Album rating :  –
Votes :  0
Lyrics > M > Merrimack Lyrics (32) > The Acausal Mass Lyrics (9)
Submitted by level 21 록스타 (2017-10-04)
1. Vestals of Descending Light
Fall inevitably downward.
Thrown away in heresy of being.
Fall under the jailers yoke.
Captive in a motionless exile.
2. Arousing Wombs In Nine Angels Pleroma
Exhausted from labours of hoarding, for he wanders across the baptistry of disconsolate, eyelids anointed with sweeping dust of lies, he who releases the archontal pleonasm and feasts of old cross worship. For a thousand times has he hung, the same smiling noose, praying for his bars not to disappear, for the veil of dust not to leave, for the lion head with foolish eyes not to burst the paunch of clouds. Hysterically handling his sinister logarithm, one that stole from men a vision of infinite wisdom. Hurried buildings, houses with rotten foundations, rickety bridges are like black teeth on black gums. Everywhere where crawl a carrion of the eye, these prosthetics of Chaos spread and acclaim the fall, fresh lungs and rat breath, a communion in fear, for a new scarlet whore to rise. Secular throbbing rising, the Earth is devouring itself. Pruritus manifestation, Evil in all creation. The necessity to coalesce in matter, devourment within devourment, overlapping jaws seeping endless Parousia. Utter unsightliness fills every hole of reality, every womb who stagnates a thick placenta, from where a blessed urination will take place. Each second fails the abortion process, each century brings an abject coagulation of flesh and divine tissue of fear. Look and understand! The excision of the great Sophia is complete. The excision of the great Sophia is now complete as a piece of pleroma falls into the void of material worth.
3. Gospel of the Void
Look! The inverted eyes! A cut out in numinous motion (a particle of the void instilled within to carry the pneuma that lies beyond pleroma). Look, blind fool! Much is yielded from a simple glance (one of the seventh signature, to a fullness that consumes, a liquefaction of the origins through inertia moving peepholes). Yawning heights, blessed be their names, arches of exultant space, blades of bloom capturing the salt of God at the foot of the pillars of graciousness. As above, so below: Iao! Sabaoth! Astaphanos! Carrying the ogdoad. Ialdabaolth! Adonais! Elaios! That which lies low lives high, that which devours also gives. Those who believe revere the Void. Lord of the Abyss, Pro-Pater, the one whose absence consecrates this world with libels of soil and Eucharist of genital dust. A pallid sign, a bleeding face: you shall learn a true baptism is yet to come. Your skin will be turned inside out, while needles molest your baptismal blood. Theophanic sigils pervade your mess, bubbling amidst the festering strains of menstruation. Yawning praying meat.
4. Beati Estis Cum Maledixirint Vobis
Blessed shall be the sacrificed! Blessed shall be the infected! Prolapsed whores and deserted children. Worshipers of rats, devotees to the one who lies in the public urinals. Blessed are they! For the light which shall save us, comes not from between the stars, but amongst the flies on rotting testes. For the gospel of treachery are sung through rotten mouths, through black veils, and by vapours of the dead, as their bodies embrace the swallow of Earth.Do you know that even after death, they still taste the flavour of cancer ? Blessed is the dust and the adoration of sterility. Blessed are you to be insulted. Piss on me, devoted one. Show me your ancestry, and what your mother taught you. I want to smell the fragrance of your sins (you vanilla ape), I want you to wmear on me the crass of your cross-shaped oncogenitals. Do you still believe in the great absentee? Spit on me your genuine faith syrup. I want it with coal, moisture and moans, and all the dirty things you've put aside for your dogs. My thorny pup, nullify me in your divine backroom, for the procession of the weak and the wanker is all mine to see.
5. Hypophanie
Clouds move away where one can see the face of the mongrel, demiurge born of a compressed fracture of light's division. The retard God of hebrews surrounded by tetramorphic hounds. The fruit, and the worm which ate it, are moulded in the same tubular consciousness, morphing with no goal, a symmetric disease with no center nor outline. To divide the divine in its secular forms, to embrace the cleansing of soul mutilation. Seconds and centuries fill the same bottle. Drunk are we on the juice of perdition! Unable to remember the day of burying, unable to perceive the harbingers of the unmasking to come. Sparkling garlands of decay fill emptiness with vast portion of terror. The Cosmic strife of creation against a stillness of the ages beneath, the corpuscle against the wave. If space is black, it's because we are blind. Living and sleeping in bloody sheets of clustered matter, acting as if we knew something other than a submission to the rattle of the fooled one. Wallowing in a filth not yet spread, wandering in ruins not yet fallen, heirs of an abortion committed out of womb. Embrace the unmasking so the aeons can radiate again and forever reverse the foul parody of creation. Look and understand!
6. Obstetrics of Devourment
Light devours itself in streams of confusion and dazzling acausal fire. A never ending fall from the heights of withering, where flesh mocks murder for a taste of knowledge. Brain vehicles like razor shaped cells align to unleash time. My corpse is born, shall we call it a body? A soul metastasis grows as a non-euclidian tumour, a bag of faeces and guts purposely stuck to the flanks of eternity. I crawl, blinded by memories and sealed abstractions, to the end of gravity, where lies the embolic birth (piercing the space between myself and the vessel of panic, and pituitas of dead blood). Sealing the fire of Gnosis in semen' starving lairs, spores of the uncanny. I crawl, abstract ghoul, leading matter to its fate, a depth where reflection of sorrow spread eternally. (Consuming tongues for consuming languages, a still fountain of holes and tubes). Weeping wombs plagued by the flux of placenta and dead nerves. Stop the spread of the human plague, for birth reveals nothing but pandemic illness and the human masquerade bellies stuffed with manure shaped as prenatal worms, unholy thrones to be poisoned with pentothal, for their crown to naught more than crawling snakes. Light devours itself in streams of confusion and dazzling acausal fire. A never ending fall from the heights of withering, where flesh mocks murder for a taste of knowledge
7. Worms in the Divine Intestine
Blind mouths tend towards the stars. The pallid slough of west has agonized since dawn, pouring marks of devastation, strewing the waste of sublimation. Greyish reflection of a dead noumenon, the hebdomad all around, here and there, before and after, erects in all directions. A sprawling and ubiquitous scaffold yet visible by black torches. Crawling counterfeits, libations of dirt, shadows of dog shadows. Holes with teeth that seized and shake fallow flesh. Son of frigid intercourse, weaving are they the matter of void, in their infected meat, piling up the bones of immortality. Born under an impotent sun's glaucoma, sons of disgraceful penetration repeat ceaselessly the acts of a trial which led to exile. The extrication of a vine shoots from matter, nothing more than to excrete through rags of time.
8. Abortion Light
For I have roamed too long in this kingdom of misery, in this limbo enlightened by gleams of flesh, at the core of passions too short, of feeble fevers embraced by dead bellies. For too long have I chosen the path of ichorous, sinner-child corruptions. Onanist without vigour, criminal without glory. As vermin, your hopes shift in your consciousness, invisible waste, idioms like worms twitching in your nerve endings. Does it gave you the feeling to exist? To you desire to be greater than the hypostasis of Earth's agony? Naturaliter ignotus! Evil remains moral. For there is no action, only gestures, and no crime, but shapeless facts. Hold the germs of lust in thy faded lungs, make it spoil, turn into gas and inoculate the flatulent uterus of your slovenly wives and wretched sisters. You shall become the inertial mas, the human coil which clots, radiates, metastases, sterilizes, a tumour with a human face, the loch which turns into the key. Light-eater at the ninth angle complexion, where time deflects and commits the insane reflection of the acephale in mirrors of grave industry. Murder to project the void into the cradle of matter, incest inflicted to cross out his own birth and shout to this world, “I'm not yours!”
9. Liminal Matter Corruption
Mater as a betrayal of matter, creation through parodies of creation. Each act in existence feeds its own plagiarism. (Black breath of pleroma). No motion model behind the coelum-faced anima, but the pallid pattern of sterility. A divine slough wraps heredity. A funeral shroud. What's the soul supposed to carry on? A corrupted cell, the last unknown factor of the shifting equation, an invisible legacy of a siffened fall. Igneous meat stuffed with the poison of meaning. We shall keep behind our eyes this pulsar of terror Crevices of a place that does not exist. Spinal corrections are dozens of traps. Here light turns to matter and fades. Treason stratified in illumination, skin lying under skins, flesh lying under flesh. A veil of cells bound in weakest chemistries, born from the prime and Evil gesture, Unfolding stratums of grievous mares, the first steps of the germ creating the path to entropy. I have seen the men behind the sun, their lungs constantly dialized by the black breath of pleroma. Cause. Principle. Unity. What is the soul supposed to carry on? To souls to commit the acclaim of Cosmic dysentery. What is the soul supposed to be? Mors duplex: altera quidem omnibus nota, ubi corpus solvitur a corpore, altera vero philosophorum, quum anima, solvitur a corpore, nec semper altera alteram sequitur. I saw her, she bears the flame, but no one could recognize her. Her heart beats but no blood flows, for she hides not beneath an arterial disguise. She is the decaying limb, a disease to necessity, a crack in space and time from whence flow the stones and throbbing waters of enema. To fulfill the palimpsest of human parody.
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