Mourning Beloveth Formless 1. Theories Of Old Bones they passed by flames almost out here even the wind destroys bones time turns into space bones ache drawn out like an ache bones space it smelled like slow death bones ache and they crawled along the floor hungry and lean and looking for more the stench followed me out of the gloom, a ghost of rage a memory of cruel fatigue screams heard bone deep there is nothing to breathe into the heart the cold drifted to the pit where we twist and cringe bones ache huddled away from the daylight pale and white hollowed into a numbness no need for pain or wasting disease for it’s the same ragged tangle of fears, the same strange sense of aimlessness that knot of rage scoured the floor of the skull life had drifted away to some far off point inside leaving the body to automatic ruin fall through the ether and that slow sweat of time gnawing at my entrails silent as the drift of death 2. Ethics On The Precipice it’s a murky world that dull dark light that is animal greed where every human element is boiled away the cracks in reality to the white bone of animal agony for this is the edge of everything the cracks down the sides of reality the spaces between the cord drifting shoals of waste in the drear places the final disorder of all forms the cracks in reality for this is the edge of everything a point where it does not decay anymore the dust finally gets out it belongs to the end I felt the edge of a strange euphoria the sky like poisoned silver with the leavings of unhuman minds somewhere towards the end construction of things fell apart the cold sweating centre ripping along nerves digging into marrow down in the blood depths where everything grows entwined dead grey flesh pressing against the cord muscles knot pushed all the way to drown out everything strange to sweat you in your bed a memory of water somewhere towards the end it is slow and cold in the sludge of human misery empty of dreams burning with tension but it’s early here at the end the heart dragging and the chill of old silver right at the end of the world clawing the bottom of my lungs at the corners of perception like ragged glass over nerves you will have to claw it from them crushing life into the methane watch the old earth ebb away a sound like the universe apart like the sorrow of a dream 3. Old Rope this place is for people who like the way down we are the hollow men leaning together old men wringing our minds of thought the world never had so many moving parts that sought form there is something about this place it seduces me sagged in ruin a rope around my neck around my feet like concrete it drains away that drug that final moment like concrete the skeleton of life that drug like concrete we have been sucking up the vapours for aeons the universal decay that contaminant destroys us all trying to find a voice for the agony the corrosion what is this new terror? it will make corpses of us all rub your hands not in fear but in the knowledge that… many are the hands that dig my grave tonight 4. Dead Channel the slow dark sludge melted down and solidified full of poison insanity and nightmares inside nothing outside emptiness it mothers demons that move the grace of addiction with a head full of noise and pills waves of raw transference tuned to a dead channel in search of a new womb it is mere content deprived of form everything is waste nobody seems to notice the absence of a living substance there was something else in the silence that I heard like something hauled from dreams and abandoned the mind drinks less and less people going nowhere somewhere following the moon tide like so many leaden idols leave them for the flies and the carcass of a dead world the universal rubble nothing left to rot abandoned and formless there are no mountains to make them cower all we seem to live for is pleasure end it burn it the fire is clean putting out the stars and extinguish the sun you seem to come away lost end it burn it nothing is clean no one seems to listen anymore a head full of noise and pills burn it end it it feeds on silence but there is something in the silence I heard it screams at me end it burn it if you let it burn it will burn our lifetimes out we have some leaks in the system where reality filters through a non linear flood of facts with each pulse of nothingness they show us trailers to make us hold onto nothingness splinters of a substance that pulsates like a former heart an anchor drawing us to oblivion and the bones the bare bones of existence an anchor to oblivion 5. Nothing Has A Centre a cancerous day nothing to guide all the monuments of slower aeons sank into the loam even time decays like a razor through creation as I sifted through the bones of a soiled humanity with swirls of light and meaning drained out of the universe a fever dream or a brooding advanced decay? the hollow of night drifts like the slowest sea of all the edges failed every fragment rushed away thrown around the centrifuge of space disintegrating set of cells disintegrate space woven back together with chemical thread cord which makes us live branches run down with bones of ancient stone and roots grow up with the weight of the air interminable ennui a ragged cascade of neurons edging out the roots were so shallow once free to stagnate it slowly drains away to a level that can’t be reached decay non being urging death roots grow down with ancient stone swarms of purest crystal expand reality something high very pure and empty above the lines of light and when we reach the highest point things fall apart in all forms created time passed unused bestial and lonely a gaunt catalogue of bones and hollows the frame tested to destruction as veins tremble and secrete but what if time is the disease an essence of discarded nothing roots grow up with ancient stone interminable ennui branches run down with bones of air cascading neurons urging death decay and non being stagnant relics free to suck the marrow of time or nothing. 6. Transmissions “Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way every prediction could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct; nor was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. Scraped clean and re-inscribed The past had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when no record existed outside your own memory? All history scraped clean and re-inscribed exactly as often as was necessary. War is peace Freedom is slavery Ignorance is strength The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact, there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking-not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness. Scraped clean and re-inscribed exactly as often as was necessary. Orthodoxy is ignorance Ignorance is slavery War is Peace The war is not meant to be won, it is meant to be continuous. The war is waged by the ruling group against its own subjects and its object is not victory but to keep the very structure of society intact, scraped clean and re-inscribed War is peace Freedom is slavery Ignorance is strength” they were said to be building a palace in the sky but nothing changes everything stays the same just wrapped in different plastic I am too dead for dreaming we will be remembered for what we destroyed a world of corpses a world of corpses decay and collapse where we spoke of pain a rope around my neck but we will make corpses of you all time will make us sell it so short in our race down we think we know things and are close to mastery yet time passes we have become gods knowing what is good and evil and so we live with the knowledge of death sublime intoxication will this destroy me? rot my body? groin to dry, catch my thoughts in rots? the more I know the more I need to get me through sublime intoxication when did the future become a threat? the past has been destroyed the war is not meant to be won all history turns to plastic scraped clean and re-inscribed some things are so corrupt that the only clean act is nihilism as we slip and disintegrate layer by layer if we don’t build we must burn civilisation is the infection where we revere the sticky spoor of blood these are brutal times Timmy Johnson ‒ Drums Frank Brennan ‒ Guitars, Vocals (clean) Darren Moore ‒ Vocals Brendan Roache ‒ Bass Pauric Gallagher ‒ Guitars