Basilikum / von jeglichem wort
S/T
I saw mouths opening in the eye of stillborn worlds and they would not close, never, never, they chewed the sky into soot and I swallowed the black soil while it writhed back, whispering names that had no throats left to carry them. I walked too long across the cold embers of YGGdrAKFUllZoBRIMORT, where the trees bend inward like broken ribs and the wind stinks of something that remembers being human but refuses the shape.
This split is not music it is a wet incision, Basilikum gnawing at the marrow of silence, von jeglichem wort coughing up hymns that rot before they are born, each note a blister that bursts into smaller blisters that scream in unison, no rhythm, no mercy, just the grinding birth of anti-sound.
Carcasses of the real lie split open, seeded with mephistophelic filth, birthing and birthing again, death birthing death birthing death until life crawls out with its teeth already blackened, mouths full of frozen eyes, jaws like machines snapping inside my hollowed cortex. The swamp speaks in white worms, prophecy thick as bile, everything decomposing into something worse, something that laughs with open wounds and reassembles itself only to be unmade again, less human each time, less anything.
The Sun howls and melts us into leaking silhouettes. The Moon descends like a fever and drills nightmare-factories into the skull, churning, churning, always churning.
I am the decomposition.
I am the scalpel stroking the grey pulp of the anti-real.
I am born-dead-dead-born-between.
-Sir Kuliktavikt
