Nothing Good Ever Came Out Of The Fog

by Fuktor

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released December 14, 2011




RoboTrash Atlanta, Georgia

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Track Name: Orderly
Crushed in between the rows of teeth for siphoning.
They're closing in from the ceiling, soon to begin.
Needles connect to limbs on their backs that are somehow flesh.
Your spine attached to digestive tracts.

Wake into the cycle of filth.
Subhuman and ready to serve.
Track Name: The Harvester
The corpulent vessel exposed the lining of her jacket.
Inside was an endless chasm of limbs, each one a subject of abusive whims.
It was an easy mistake, you were forced to see a human.

Blame it on your good nature, the root of disappointment.
Track Name: Low Priority
A thought once came to you that was beyond your scope of comprehension.
You stumbled on the meaning, a coherent display just out of reach.
For a brief period, you could attest to so many more possibilities.
Ultimately, it escapes you, grasping only mystery.

Nostalgia sets in to make you remember that you can't remember.
Track Name: Adrenaline
Nerves start an electrical fire.
Joints ache from the abundance of wire.
Throat locked and weightless.
Everything outlined with neon.

The heart keeps pumping validation, but to no one else.
Redeemed for administering justice by making the brain stop.
Track Name: Chronophobia
Your mirror shows the world too clean.
Life in there is comatose.
Still, a tempting place to rest.

No real comfort to be had, the pus dripping down the wall.
Its source the veins that burrow craters in the floor.
Fear tells you to stay up here.
It's just a bed of fire downstairs.
Track Name: Parish
Smoke bellows from the pits where my eyes used to be.
Self afflicted victims suspended by the horrors of ourselves.

See the world for me, I seem to have been rendered blind.
Way far off, you'll look at all of the corpses stuck in the sky.

Close enough we won't forget, far enough there is no constant stench.
Still, their waste leaks down to feed a new generation of disease.
Track Name: Horror Check
Self functioning, fueled by delusion.
Vacant collective on the brink of nothing.
Mistakes are no longer integral to shame, and it's a shame we still cling onto existing forever.

Noisy and thoughtless communication muddled in the herd.
Entitlement to everything, but deserving nothing.
We are malignant tumors made in God's own image, needing the cure for cancer.

You can't extrapolate meaning into life.
It's 'the', not 'your'.
You can justify with conjecture relative to comfort.
Create your afterlife.
Convenient and wishful thinking.
Track Name: Paralympics
The knees were ground meat and the body fused to a wheelchair.
The ribs cracked when heaving, but the lungs were missing.
Eyes sink into a shade of rot.
Arm breaks free just enough to clutch.
Its chosen host would then disfigure, asymmetrical and misproportioned.