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lyrics

If death was a mother like any other, would she project onto this place outpourings, outgrowths of her sin, scurrying time capsules preserving her image within?
... And when split apart she might be remembered lurking dormant in the hearts of all her children, wandering silently in the grey folds of their brains, whistling invisible behind the towered stones of each fibre, the marrowed rivers winding slowly past graves upon graves in molted cyclopean mausoleums jutting bareboned outwards into the darkened veins of a receiving purple sky.

Ever elusive as the sad sickness passes from jaw to jaw, time and time again lifelocked ghouls feast for something they fail forever to attain, quietly unfulfilled by carnassial convocations and retreating back high to loom dumb behind dusted dormer windows, cold eyes again envying orgies of empty light with dreams of disincarnate rejoin. No one among the number could account for the sickness, its origins, aims, or goals, and while it wrecked the air-dancing cadavers of their sold souls a bored wanderlust returned to their minds and they again lapsed under the folds of an unseen manuscript turned by all-touching hands.
The only cure, so whispered the widows at the graves, the nurses at the hospital, the attendants on the line... was to lie flat on a plank and take deep, oscillating breaths while the sound of the lung machine rotated healing mantras into the thick white crevices of the skull, back and forth, back and forth, in and out within knotting bondage of arteries and nerve endings ensnaring the snarling illness for all to see and poke at with pointy sticks and expressions of derision in holy conquest. No cure, no cure, no cure for plank sickness. Fear, fear, fear and weakness.

Clattering, clattering, chest-clenching labyrinthine mad dash impeded by the blunt force of gravity signalling collapse and a speculative calamity all in an instant as it should be always. In the same old pictures, in the same old ideas distinguished in their vanity, distinguished in the years, from dust on the windowsill and markings on the pane stretching bodiless and motionless in unfathomable planes of smooth and misty willow-bends and teardrops in obscuritant, tempestuous, incestuous rivet-chilling rain. The pains of plank sickness, cured easily, cured easily, no need to worry as we sanguitize your bedsheets.

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from Worse Things Waiting, released February 28, 2022

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Carlton Heston Atlanta, Georgia

If you're reading this - Gods of the Dead is the good one. Listen to that first if you're going to listen to anything on here. It's actually pretty solid.

Atlanta Monsters' Ball is also nice.

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