1. |
||||
|
Lately, I’ve been wishing I could meet you again. Small cracks in my memories. Drain the life from these holes in my head. No eyes in my memories. The devil that I know is a shimmer pinned to my wall. I witnessed a murder in the snow and I saw steam rise from a still-weeping wound. Blood stained hands that looked like mine. I place a finger in my mouth and find it with my teeth, and I try to remember who and where I am, but everything I think or see or speak reminds me of something that I’ve killed. I see my face in the reflection of the blade and I whimper. I wish that I couldn’t see you under all this white. I wish I could undo this. I think the wrong one died. A photo of you falls from the wall and shakes me from this dream. Have you ever seen a memory die? No. That’s not right. It’s not dead. It just grew teeth. I slice a finger trying to pick up its remains. Have you ever seen a memory draw blood? I’m still plagued by this vision. Even when I wake, I still see the coward who drinks from rusted cups and spits out all that’s sweet. Pathetic creature would rather run than learn to lick his wounds. I pray that the frost gives way to hungry soil and he becomes its feed. When all these frozen moments thaw, will I learn how to swim?
|
||||
2. |
||||
|
Sleepless though I’m dreaming, I have torn the pages of psalms. I have traced the shapes of stars along my walls, and I have turned the cards just to reveal the reversal of all my wants. One of these whispering voices has to have an answer. One of these whispering voices will sing me to sleep. Please sing me to sleep. No rest for the wicked, yet my eyes are closed.
|
||||
3. |
||||
|
What good are wings if I must use them to hide my eyes? My many mouths are lined with iron nails and blood and spite. I let my feet step plainly on the mire. I need no protection from a breathing world. My spine’s too bent to bear the rood. My soul’s too pure to be clean. My soul is fucked up and inglorious. Adam was a boar who died full with the blood of a menstruating earth on his maw. Ten crowns fashioned from our shattered skulls. We’ve lost more blood than ever stained your cross. The older the wood, the faster the rage of the spark. I will eat whatever remains. I will eat whatever the flames don’t. If I’m to stay in the light, you are my sworn enemy. Your God will judge you unclean.
|
||||
4. |
||||
|
Suture my fingers together. Let me hold things for longer before they slip through. Let me stop falling in love with lit fuses and a light already faded away. No more pleading to the morning mist. Burying my head thinking it will help me hear the secrets of corpses. I will learn to watch things die with an unflinching face. I am sole audience to the evening music. You could be forgiven for mistaking the twinkling for dancing instead of muscles violently purging life. I am searching for meaning in a sky full of hung bodies. For words from mouths long without their tongues. The song of the empty air reminds me that I’m alone in this life built on the wreckage of missed opportunities, of every time I’ve ever tried. Of every shattered time I’ve ever tried. I am praying to a suffocated flame. I would bash my skull against a brick wall if you told me happiness might leak out. A star that is granting death wishes.
|
||||
5. |
Obelisk of Hands
03:35
|
|||
|
You couldn’t stack enough stones to crush the devil out of me. What’s in a face? What’s in a name? I smell a body, I crave its heat. Broken fingers search the dirt for willing shells to drift into. Wandering eyes. Wandering hands. Wandering tongue you wish to sever, but atrophy my tongue and you will atrophy my love. Disembodied hands, I quiver in their touch. Let Bacchae sing praise to my moral decay. No shortage of reasons that I should disgust you. I live among the remnants of a shattered soul. I am expected to be fulfilled by a piece and not the whole? Can I kill this wretched empty if I let it feed me to any open mouth? Tell the holy gentry that they cannot sell me the weight to sink my heart. I lose my shine when you lift my mask and see that I am just a tired man. When you feel my tongue grow heavy with silence and you learn that I am nothing but a bore. When you taste my mouth that’s so quick to say “love”, but swallows everything it means. When you learn that I’m neurosis puppeteering a person, it won’t take long to see there’s no shortage of reasons that I should disgust you. I need not be led to temptation, for I know where it breeds. It’s born from knowing that I don’t deserve to be with anyone.
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
You are the song of my soul, and I have ruptured the chords. I sing notes transposed to rusted angel’s harps. I have left peace and comfort bleeding on my doorstep as I chase a love fabricated. I’ve hanged by the words of desolate sermons and became an expert in discarding my blessings. I want to see the place inside of your promise. I want to taste the nectars while I’m still alive. You must have known your gospel was preying on the meek. The hurt, the lost, the blind. I am the fool of a God who holds me inches from the joy that I have earned, and he watches me as my desperate hands tremble and stretch to finally grasp the gift that he has offered then pulls me away to reopen my pain. He keeps me hurting by reminding me of what I lack. And it’s my fault for believing that you could have been fate. That I could have been fated to something that makes me glad to be alive. From now on I’ll only have faith in my misery and be confident in the breaking of things that are special to me. In the freezing of everything warm and the teeth behind every kiss. I am faltering. You can’t fault me for believing I’m worthy of receiving the fantasy you fed me. I am the one who made the mistake of trying to let something in. Maybe one day I will learn, the best that I can feel is numb. I’ll never again confess love. Next time I’ll bite through my tongue. The blood of your broken covenant is that which stains your delicate hands. I long to be rid of mine, but Zion’s river is frozen where it stands. Let my love into your heart. Give it a warm place to die.
|
||||
7. |
||||
8. |
Blighttown Type Beat
02:52
|
|||
|
I met a village whose houses were empty. Whose graves were full. Whose hearths were stained by the ashes of burned someones or somethings from generations past. I met a village whose houses were empty. Whose graves were full. At the base of the hill, the old rotted out husk of some wooded giant still had a mouth that could beckon for me. The cellar door like a tongue that was salivating. Longing. Waiting for a taste. So I stepped past the teeth and slid in. There hasn’t been a spirit in this home since the last time it flooded. They were so desperate to let something in. There’s a language made of scratches on the walls. That’s where they heard the voices. If I listen close enough, I can hear them too. The mold has choked the bones of this place, and its empty is yearning. The fist on the door rings in my skull. There’s a novel wrote in rope all frayed and hanging from the rafters. They couldn’t stand the voices. I can hear them, too. Listen to the wolves sing. Something is lodged in their throats but they still carry on. Listen to the trees groan. Many have died in their arms. They want to carry no more. Many have died, and they can still speak if you listen. Something is writhing. Something is coming. I have a choice to make. I want to be with the ones who have seen someplace better. Tear up the floorboards. Build me my gallows.
|
||||
9. |
Body Fountain
01:02
|
|||
|
O’ serpents. You nest in my head, and when you eat my fears you bloat against the walls of my skull. O’ serpents, you can’t hear my own thoughts above all your restless hissing. You bite a tail you think is your own and then that serpent bites whatever’s in front of them. There’s too much venom in the blood flow when I drink from the body fountain. Run my fingers along the seams of my skull. I will find a way to pull you all out.
|
||||
10. |
||||
|
I woke up in a small room, and I could not find the door. I’m not sure who you are, or if you were here before, but the only light in the room shines from a sun that lives inside your chest. You kept me warm, but took my breath. You cannot heal me, and even if you could, I don’t want to be well. I want to be put in a collector’s box and never touched again. And every time we kissed, I could tell it was going to rain. But I could never catch enough water in my mouth to quench my thirst, or wash the blood away. Oh god, can somebody please tell me why I can only taste salt? You cannot love me, and even if you could, I don’t want to be loved. I want to be put in a collector’s box and never touched again.
|
||||
11. |
||||
|
It all comes back to the cold. The violent way you taught me warmth. I thought that joy was radiating from our bodies. It turns out we were just catching fire as we accelerated to the crash.
How many petals have I scattered wondering if I am worthy of being loved? I trimmed the stems of waxflowers and I placed what remained in a plastic jug. I watched the water stain brown with the failure to keep something alive, clouded by the rotting passage of time since you drifted away. You resurrected something in me. He is risen on that day. And I know I shouldn’t invest all my hope for the future into hands I don’t control, but I believe in the beautiful things you could mold if you chose to be honest for a moment. Or maybe I’m making you a marionette wearing a face made of my projections. So desperate to fill this empty space in me I eat delusions from your hands. Do you think Jesus Christ ever wishes he stayed in his cave?
I’m seeing clearly now that I put myself here. I chewed words into mangled intentions and spit them back into your mouth. But you live in the cold. Another body in the snow. A sorrow doomed to be retold. I owe this all to you. The fugue starts to unfold.
You brought me the Sun. You only wanted to see how it boils a man. The more cracked my hide, the harder I tried to make you see the joy I found in the rays. I have no tongue but to speak your name. I think I’ll take the atrophy now. I’m sick of rearranging my organs to try to better fit you inside me. I let my thawed memories slip down the drain. Fixed the frame, switched the portrait with that one perfect moment with you. If I had known you would vanish so swiftly, I would have chosen to be frozen inside of it too. I know it’s pathetic how much of my happiness hinges on the thought of being loved. One day all these fevered dreams will mean nothing to me, but until then I’ll be miserable just waiting for your touch. I fear how easy things could be if I abandoned myself, but I know I’ll never see it through. In my saddest dreams I see how close I am to the life I’d like to lead.
In my saddest dreams, I am beside you.
|
||||
Dreamwell Providence, Rhode Island
emo post skramz from Providence, RI.
Dreamwell recommends:
One of the absolute best modern mathcore records, a must listen if you're gay and mad.
go to album
Our guitarist Aki's funeral doom band. If you like her screeches on Modern, you'll love an entire album of that and more.
go to album
all these darlings and now me
by Sunflo'er
Mathcore, post-hardcore, and good ol rock n' roll riffs for days. Pre-order their album and catch em on the road with us in September.
go to albumIf you like Dreamwell, you may also like:
supported by 93 fans who also own “In My Saddest Dreams, I Am Beside You”
One of the most unsettling albums i have heard in a while. Chat Pile creates a grotesque blend of noise and groove that brings me back everytime.
go to album
Celebrity Therapist
by The Callous Daoboys
supported by 73 fans who also own “In My Saddest Dreams, I Am Beside You”
The greatest album of all time
go to album
Derramar | Querer | Borrar
by MASSA NERA
Massa Nera makes '00s-style screamo that strikes a balance between delicate intricacy and heavy passion.
go to album
