Get all 112 OWLRIPPER RECORDINGS releases available on Bandcamp.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of ON071 - Shackled To Meaningless Flesh We Waltz Toward Oblivion, ON070 - I Hate This Dirt, ON069 - Oblivion and Further Disaster, ON068 - estranje, ON067 - the necrophage emerges divine, ON066 - Bordernoia, ON065 - Underneath The Surface, ON064 - Ritual Six σ, and 104 more.
1. |
Well
04:55
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I am dangled on the winds of false breath.
I can see straight through these painted on shadows.
Do we still have to hold them up
to keep ourselves on the ground?
Do I not get to let them down?
Do I not get to watch them all drown?
Mirror, mirror down the well
Who the hell am I to tell anyone?
How came you so far?
Do we still have to hold them up
to keep ourselves on the ground?
Do I not get to let them all down?
Who the hell are you to lock the door?
Who am I to tell anyone?
How came you so far?
I am dangled on the winds of false depth.
I can see straight through your painted on limbs.
Do I not get to watch them all drown?
Mirror, mirror down the well
Who the hell am I to tell anyone?
How came you so far?
Who the hell are you to lock the door?
Who the hell am I to knock?
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2. |
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Bring with you only what you need;
what you can carry.
Count a thousand moons,
and curse them as they pass.
What comes around is vacant now.
Within/without; we are alone.
Pray that we are only knee deep,
'cause we are burdened and we are weary.
The goddess of grief, upon a river of loss;
the glass is half broken, the knife is fully chrome.
Bring with you only what you need;
what you can carry.
Pray that we are only knee deep,
'cause we are burdened and we are weary.
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3. |
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(Instrumental)
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4. |
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The dragging down of blackest clouds,
the familiar shapes of olde misfortune,
here rendered by your guiltless guile and gall.
Half-handed visions and curious falls
set the mood and set the scene.
Man, we set sail in buckets full of handsome holes.
Our pockets full of absent gold.
Our feinted hearts are empty.
Our tired eyes are closed.
Come wash with me in the evening tide, then weep and let it go.
Each night I feel her sweet song fail.
We protest and end, ere without breath we grow cold.
Always resist displacement.
Does it always come to this in the tales we are sold?
Do we not get to write our own wrongs?
Tumbling through widespread hazard crops,
here turned by the foulest of claws,
I can still hear her; sweet and frail.
Always resist displacement.
Somewhere between Oblivion
and further disaster we live and die.
Into black glass caskets, we are prepared and it is night.
Those of better oppression will sew endless seed
until starved through chronic supply.
Man, we set sail with bucketfuls of hands to hold.
Our pockets full of rancid gold.
Our swollen lands are empty.
Our eyes are painted closed.
New infection to feed the peasant need;
how your guerrilla garden grows.
They demand a scarcity in healthy eyes
as they laugh and look about.
They laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh and look about.
They laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
and laugh and fuck about.
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OWLRIPPER RECORDINGS Orlová, Czechia
FastSlowRiffs
LoudQuietNoises Experimental Everything
No submissions.
No tolerance for
intolerance!
Digital only.
Codes: dlcm.app/owlripperrecordings
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