Decathexis

by VIII

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15:25
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VIII - Decathexis
Published by Third-I-Rex Records, June MMXVI.
Limited 100 copies in digipak 6-panel

Buy your own physical copy here:
3rdirex.bandcamp.com

or write to: div_viii@tiscali.it

released June 27, 2016

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released June 26, 2016

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VIII Sardegna, Italy

VIII came to life in MMX e.v.
Consacrated to exceed humanity and its miserable struggles, VIII express with its music and lyrics the reborn of the true self reborn a meandering fall into the Abyss.
VIII guide its own self thru its own Will.
VIII drinks from the venomous chalice.
VIII seats alone in the flames, inhaling the smoke of the Nihil.
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Track Name: I - Symptom
I open my eyes, darkness shrouds everything
I lent my ears looking for your voice, but I only found the echo of an empty Logos that has become
rotten flesh, cancer of my own flesh. In your absence’s deafening silence I dragged my flesh
involucre up to gangrene, cutting, centimeter by centimeter, every strip of skin in my body, now
corrupt and disheartened, remaining naked in the end, with the skeleton as my only image, a
warning of your empty word, of your deafening silence.
In this desert I looked for the hope given by your salvation promise, but by the glare of your coming I only see filth and infamy, and I saw and understood; I saw anguish in the moribund’s eyes who perished to the weight of existence while they were following hope’s vain flames. I saw dragging themselves pitifully across a muddy path, covered in layers of dirt, dying to the weight and nausea, but still they keep going ahead hatefully and pitifully, diminishing the being and drowning inexorably after a slow agony. I understood that what your sons call “Hope” is just a vain promise uttered by a mournful God’s livid and cold lips, helpless and incapable of being loved if not by lie and extortion, guilty from the beginning of this missed abortion, guilt as an abomination, wretched attempt of creation and omnipotence.
I struggled, coughing till I spat blood, breathing burning ashes’ miasmas inside the future’s catacombs, this horror, place where I have lived until today and where thousands of insects keep living, blind and deaf to my screams, absorbed in incomprehensible litanies to me. Locked in their rotten burials, they speak about faith, this rusty chain without a support to be fastened to.
What a horror these catacombs… (because of their moral and faith, laws that rule them), human presence multiplies endlessly, becoming the man’s own hell. In the same way of termites, billions of blind struggle breathlessly in din and stench, like drones, sporadically waking up from their sleep and slaughtering tirelessly each other.
Madness is spontaneity of being alienated in this world, passed by its own means, slave of his own ugliness. Insanity incubates under these fifty floor funerary buildings, the only possible fate is bestowing a slow and inexorable extinction to this cult, a total death.
Chewing blood clots mixed to these ossuaries’ dust, I have lost the will to go ahead, without strength in my now atrophied legs.
Scorn pervades every instant of existence, so tired and sore, I wander without destination, shaken by feverish convulsions, terrified; blinded in the darkness of this dying sun, I vomit blood and bile, disgust and hate, resentment towards an existence born by mistake.
Purulent flesh, by now nude and wounded, of a rotting corpse that still breathes.
Track Name: II - Diagnosis
The virus of rage and resentment it’s in me, visceral hate without apparent clue; like a beast, or like a god, I hate every man, tirelessly. It’s a hate that flows in my veins and infects every my cell, multiplying relentlessly until it destroys every immune defense.
At the mercy of ferocious muscular convulsions, I curse every my attempt in order to regain control on the self, claiming total obfuscation, finally loosing the noose that ties me to this existence, as an enraged beast, pouring on the being all my organism’s infected blood, poisoning the spirit with corrupt matter.
Around me, between gloom that surrounds me, there is no more anyone who walks beside me, around me there is only the wormy mass, “the man” with its swarming, mild, desperately mediocre and dull, blabbering about his superiority as the final means and crowning of the universe.
Fearing the day when he will notice the Creator hasn’t created this day anymore; that nobody has gone out of his hands, at the awakening, that there is nothing more than foam from the thinking nothing, and that the world endangers itself rapidly, since the divine veins has gone dry, everything that can be seen, everything that surrounds you is the creator’s corpse.
A tremendous nausea constantly attacks me, forcing me to spit blood. It’s the inexorable progressing of a disease brought to who, forced to sit in a laid table with battering food and worms, sees himself forced to eat purulent morsels of decomposed remains, accompanied by commensals hungry of the most infamous filths that this life is used to serve. Fathers and at the same time sons of this eternal famine, crave hungry every remains of this world, bland placebo capable to placate temporarily to most of them their constant and insatiable appetite.
Bones’ dust of who preceded us runs inside the hourglasses, marking the time of this still present, a tomorrow which is not progress but constant fall into the abyss. I already see in the men’s wretched faces that surrounds me, dust grains that will mark their sons’ passage of time, unwanted gift for whom that will go ahead this circular path. As a simian imitation, we inherited from the creator this unfortunate incapability of remaining inside the self; to generate is for us to continue, in a different way, the lowest feat that carries his own name, as to add something to this decadent “creation”.
What is deeply rooted and less perceptible in us, is the sense of essential failure, secret to everyone, even to God, we are doomed not to be conscious of it and to live incapable of knowing until what point we are alone.
Without any escape, I am encircled by this cancerous desert that devours every solitude oasis, metastatic tumor that advances inexorably looking for new lymph, insatiable inside an organism which has been reduced to nothing, exhausted.
What do I wait for before I surrender? This disease reminds me an intimidation, disguised as an interrogative. I pretend not to hear, even though that the next time I’ll must have the courage to succumb.
Track Name: III - Prognosis
Wrapped between the coils of this starless night, I succumb without fighting anymore, burned alive inside this darkness similar to an immense black sea of lava.
Alone, incredulous I stare at the tragedy of life that flows, terrified in front of my reduced hate towards men, at the loosening of the last tie that linked me to them. What I once used to indicate as life, my life, remains only as ruins, ruined buildings where memories of what I was lie inside.
Existence apostasy, no possibility of conversion, total absence of breathable air. To desecrate existence is fight in order to get rid of it, not an act of madness, but intolerable clarity, burning the last forces that remain in paroxysms of insurrection and hate. Searching for an act that founds in itself the spirit to come back to oneself and not to fight like a terminally ill in his death bed, gasping for air, incapable of surrendering in front of evidence, in front of the only certainty given us in the unfortunate time of our arrival. I prefer the definitive and voluntary solution, firm action, not inexorable and slow total wreck. Suicide, abrupt compliment, ravishing liberation, nirvana through violence.
Born from nothing that surrounds me, I don’t kill for weakness, instead, as an act of strength I rise from the swarming worms of the creator’s corpse, incapable of escaping misery that surrounds them, incapable of escaping this curse. Destruction is an easy act in itself, but less it is destroying oneself… superiority of the fallen one on the agitator!
Coming back in the Self, sense a silence that is as old as the Being, and even more.
Corroded the being in the nothing, demarcation line between beatitude and damnation. Like a Defectus recondite and innate since from birth, I voluntarily and freely chose exile and desertion, “mera negation”, deprivation of the being.
Now that I am no more, cradled by the waves of Void, I find my abode in the deafening silence, like a sweet voice that sings and, singing, quite. What a beatitude, this damnation, this total absence, this voluntary elimination towards the absolute Void. Every memory of myself disappears, no image of the past, no future that clings me to its coils, time erased, it ends its slow flow and with it, ends my existence.
Deliberate annihilation of the being.