1. |
Chattel
04:00
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I am disposable. Turn the cranks in your machine. Rapacity and hubris are the fuel. I’ll sign the release, and you’ll pile them slab by slab on my back and march me through your fields. The prospect of eternal life, the promise of respect (in a future undetermined, in a paradise unseen) is all that drags me through. Here’s the illusion of free will. The freedom to choose. But what fucking choice do I have? Lucre for your pockets, or food for my family? The freedom to fail. And what fucking choice do I have? A life without shelter, or a death without dignity. Empty prayers from an empty heart to an empty sky. My hands bleed endlessly, while yours, pristine, immaculate, meet one another palm to palm. Offer me. I sit among your commodities. Offer me, human property. I sit among your commodities.
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2. |
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Kingdom built from desperation. Lost causes I still try to find. Ostracized from your so-called human kind. Left to fend in darkness for myself, abandoned on the prowl, isolated from the pack. Scavenging for scraps of those claimed by the bitter cold, the apathetic night. Betrayal in its basest form. Rotting gristle torn form bone. No allegiance, no remorse. Compassion caves in on itself, an open hand now clenching shut. Self-preservation can’t be taught. Left to fight in silence for my life, abandoned as a loss, seeking vengeance, seeking truth. Ravaging the carrion beneath the splintered moon of my fallen brethren. Betrayal in its basest form. Rotting gristle torn from bone. No allegiance, no remorse. There is no honor among thieves, just cunning ruthlessness. No promise made. Nobody grieves. No allegiance. No remorse.
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3. |
Pelorus
02:34
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Deforestation of the mind. A habitat revoked. No sanctuary in their eyes. Degeneration of a would-be potent generation. Sheep who swallow all the lies. Blown off course, a siren’s song to light the way. We’re damned before we take the helm. The scepter gives no guidance. The saber brings no amnesty. The albatross is touching down. You’ll never learn to see the forest for the trees. You’ll never satiate the unrelenting seas. If I could have one last request, I’d vomit bile straight down your throat. Save your pity for the weaker-willed. The captain goes down with his ship.
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4. |
Recruitment Complex
01:52
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Vitality and promise shot in the head by efficiency. There will never be a question. Re-evaluation is regression. They’ve taught you what you need to be, tied you down as they stuffed your ears, clipped your claws, capped your teeth. I’m counting down with bated breath to the day that you burn in your melting pot. Fodder for the cannon. Gears in the contrivance. Living for the purpose that they serve. They’ve made you minions of the end. Lumber aimlessly through every door. Clandestine master plan: “Close the book. Dig the trench.” Your savior has risen. Go tell it on the mountain of dust, ash, bone. The earth adapts but never learns. The misery persists.
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5. |
Invasive Species
04:04
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Beyond the light that swallows stars, the pulsing siren song disease, there is a plague that swallows souls, makes bodies line these city streets. Fighting for a chance to live to see another day. Drowning in poisons guaranteed to take it all away. Fighting for a chance to die exactly as they’d planned: raw, uncut entanglements in the hollow of their hands. Like dogs cursed to a lifetime of chasing their own tails. Compulsion to destroy the things worth living for prevails. The beggar’s empty outstretched palm. The rich man’s empty, callous soul. Both worthless in each other’s eyes, deserving of each other’s scorn. Why preach and pray to love thy neighbor if you can’t love your fucking self? Keep all your voluntary longings. Choke to death on hoarded wealth. Lack of life and timely death, equally abhorred. Vicious circles praise the fall, equally adored. Squeezing blue blood from a rare and precious stone. Born in filth or born in riches, they die in vain, alone.
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6. |
Intercession
03:44
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I stood by idly as all the light drained from my life. I watched the gurgling nothingness devour us all. The least deserving of us faltering under the weight, consumed by virulence, declining at a whirlwind pace. You left with less than what you had when you arrived. The first stone was never cast. Accusatory words were never spoken, yet there was no recanting. No concession of belief. We carry shards of your vitality along every day we suck in breath of this contaminated air. All desire to dominate the struggles left when I saw you moments after you took your final breath. In a time most apt for hatchets to be buried, I watched the feuds drag on. Pissing contests, devoid of victory. Exercises in futility. There’s nothing that you could have done. There’s nothing that I could have done. There’s nothing that we could have done.
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7. |
Domestic Disturbance
01:21
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There is no safe quarter. Pavlovian response. Home becomes another battlefield. Snap the olive branch. The calm before the storm has broken. You’ve had your fill. The lacerations wail your story. The dagger gleams, plunging deep into the gullet of the tyrant. Balance of the power shifts. Coward. The hammer falls. The burden lifts. So is it wool, or is it fur? Was he of pack or flock? Now he dies alone, a memory you painted over. Tyrant. Paper spine and iron fists. Coward. The hammer falls. The burden lifts.
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8. |
Surviving Heir
02:32
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The final expenses of the heartfelt words we never spoke. When we divide the assets, I stare emotionless into the void. Will and testament. I turned them inward, let them loose. My inheritance is mistrust for my fellow man, rejecting every gift offered with an open hand. A burial for sentiments. I tore your pictures down. All imperfections magnified. Once receding memories, swelling like a rising tide. All my neuroses on parade. Revel in the savage that you made.
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9. |
Canto II: Nightfall
07:42
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My own world has refused to accept me back. The only conscious soul alert, writhing in a ghost town. The day’s voluntary surrenders, shameful defeats, and fruitless expeditions, though devastating in their own right, were a fanfare to the endless isolation and bitterness of the witching hour. Once an escape, sleeplessness has usurped the mental clarity once restored by the veil of night. I cry out for reprieve, for a moment of forgiveness, to transcend this confinement, to be released from this prison of flesh. Once wrapped in fear, now wrapped in regret. The hinges on my eyelids rusted over. A realm of thoughts in place of actions. Ideas that I wish could be the death of me. The ferry, unencumbered by passengers, makes its trip across the river. I look past to the tranquility of the other bank. With no ulterior motives or an ounce of motivation left, I am passed over by the setting sun. Moving on to the next. Leaving me here for dead. So if the merciful end will never come, the only recourse is to trudge back and beg the pardon of a barren, indifferent desert. No circumvention. No relief.
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