Surface from Apophallacy by Bleach For The Stars

I itch for laughter in the summer cold
And tear through night, and chop out chunks of rain
To furnish my mind's attics. Sour distain.
Not for the loss of concept, nor the old

Shiver that pulls down worlds. Merely the silt
Clawing through arteries of wasted sleep.
The buzz of metal when I try to weep.
As if the bloom of light itself could wilt

And fall back into that abyssal sea
That spawns such thought. The will to waste a day
Even a hacking second's shadow-play
On being all I once could almost be.

I will preserve these memories in tar.
I will encase myself in harder time
And guzzle stale words like the cheapest wine
And, bending backwards, vomit on the stars.

• Dark Ambient
• Experimental
• Post-Industrial
• Harwich