Century of Hands
With every passing day I watch a red nose grow Upon my drunken house Plunging in its cavernous enclosure I try to find the light But drown in mucus and in bile Which gushes out in rivers At the sight of unfamiliar angles A leg askew, a lonely ear, a drooling eye Another running heart Running into the stubbled street My soles adorned with razor blades, I Scrape the chin of every highway in This city without walls or towers Broken glass still reflects Quiet room, heart still pounds Endless rays unaligned Begging for answers Brokеn neck reaching out Without hope or a causе Silent songs are still songs If you listen In my dreams I see my face A nacreous disc suspended in space In my dreams I know your place A hole in the wall and a vacant embrace Underneath the city’s skin I grow, a genital network of Roots, blind and swollen, slowly absorbing forms and phantoms "We shot the past." "Is anything left?" "Not a trace." "Is the void profound?" "It ventilates the whole city." I am a living book, listing lamentations, moaning, and woe I am a city without walls or towers
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026
No lyrics have been submitted for this track yet.
Absolute isolation of the one You tried to be so absolute in your last isolation of the one sound You knew could summon god’s throat that you forgot to sing I think you’re a bore If only you knew... Quiet, empty, walled All sounds the same
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026
No lyrics have been submitted for this track yet.
Century of hands that reach From a burning point in time In each crease a flock of birds’ nests On each fingertip, a grove of palms in blossom Swathed in the scarred scarves of holy words and Cradled in the wet arms of your tongue Contracting and turning, demurs Where the sun should hang, above the Manifold of salt and sulfur respires a Symmetry of hands collapsing Into three vertices of light On each crease a flock of birds’ nests On each fingertip a grove of palms in blossom Swathed in the scarred scarves of holy words and Cradled in the wеt arms of your tongue Expanding and bursting, excoriates and Signifiеs in forms the isometric etching of its lost song: “torn asunder by thorn and thunder Born a hart and died a hunter.” Comprehending this, I glimpsed in My own hand the flocks and orchards Fading now but still alight with Bastard wings and pinnate branches Sloughing off my skin to grasp at What I could not know, as the hand said
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Jun 28, 2026