In the beginning there was a plague,
summoned from the malignant pages
of the most execrable of books. --
bound in flesh, written with blood,
each letter is infused with pestilence,
every word is a wormhole to a curse.
In the middle there was a conflagration,
the crematory rites for human-kind.
From their ashes, a cimmerian nebulae rose
and engulfed the goat-forsaken fields
of the devil's dead earth.
a shroud woven by forty-two shadows,
contrived to snuff the light
with the charnel stench of their devotion. ...
I've suffocated and died a thousand times,
trying not to inhale the dust of that dead aurora,
throughout a somber procession of incarnations,
crepuscular visions I never considered "lives" --
but intervals of asphyxiation on a six-spoke rotar.
... and the severed hearts still slither,
gangrenous, in the pool of dead blood.
Fools sacrifice in futility ...
then say it's my athame through their valves.
Time alone heals nothing. The incorporeal scars
fester beyond the confines of infinity
like the eidolon stars that unravel
the cosmos, invert existence ...
portals into oblivion.
... and therein lies the end, where non-existence
reaches its black culmination, the inverse
zenith of desolation. ...
II. Dying Embers of the Final Twilight
The worms mutated as the dead phosphorescence dimmed,
morphing into grotesque forms as they ate their way
through the forgotten corridors of my mind,
opening doors for the devil, six inverted eyes,
windows to Serpens' unholy light, the venom of gods ...
a torch to the shroud; all the filaments
of my artificial existence turned to cinders. ...
I gazed upon those forsaken conflagrations
as the spectral embers of that final twilight faded.
The stygian sea disgorged its serpents;
cthonian currents rose with the hydra,
disintegrating the sepulchral towers
of the impaled, staining the heavens
with the lustrous blood of the seraphim.
Enochian screams of mortal anguish cascaded
into the long-anhydrous veins of mortuary earth,
auguring the return of immemorable gods.
The arachnid flora of a primordial evil
ascended, a charnel garden, their gargoyle hearts
bared to the welkin, secreting the necrotic vapors
of damnation, the sulphrous nepenthe
of the netherworld. ... a balm
to my blackened, bleeding psyche.
I peeled off my skin ... the better to breathe it in,
to let the infernal visions flood my perception.
... in a temple between worlds, a pair of ravens
dine on the charred flesh of angels. ...
III. The Devil's Empyrium
My draconian wings unfolded as I drank
from a dark prism, the lifeblood
of shadows, the last light of fading ghosts,
as their composite annihilation formed my
dark haven, an atramental dimension
where the obsidian cataracts of mist
and flame converge and ascend
to hyper-demonic frequencies,
octaves beyond the comparatively pale,
pestilent planes of colored light. ...
It seems that dreams, like everything,
were forged in this hell-black miasma,
from the aphotic dust of long-dead stars,
from the cinders of mortal souls that have,
in anguish, faded back into the aethers. ...
... in the beginning there was only blood
on the parchment, inverted angles,
a demonic stigmata.
Onemanband of extreme musics, drifting through a wide range of sounds like ritualistic dark ambient, drone and funeral
doom.
"It's just so overwhelming that it overtakes you and, like I said, a few times I had to switch it off to take a breath and escape the suffocating grip this yields on the body and spirit." Doom-metal.com...more
supported by 10 fans who also own “A Chronicle Of Demoniacal Metamorphosis”
PSA: if there was an album you heard a couple years ago and thought it was ok, listen to it again and you might love it.
That's what happened to me with this album. I cannot fathom why it didn't stick with me back then. Same thing happened with Decoherence's Unitarity for that matter. Matten
supported by 9 fans who also own “A Chronicle Of Demoniacal Metamorphosis”
"La mort n'existe ni pour les vivants ni pour les morts" écrivait Épicure et ça reste toujours vrai : personne ne peut en faire l'expérience — sauf None, formation américaine qui en a fait son leitmotiv. Les membres du groupe sont inconnus et son premier album n'a pas de nom ; même le paysage sur la pochette est vaporeux. Si le DSBM est déjà d'une tristesse funèbre qui serre le cœur, les passages atmosphériques donnent à entendre les âmes en peine de l'autre côté du voile. Un début magistral... Jordan Vauvert
supported by 8 fans who also own “A Chronicle Of Demoniacal Metamorphosis”
I was always intrigued by this group's choice of album covers, it isn't every day that you see high quality space photos in this genre despite the rise of "cosmic" black metal. But the music blew me away, this sounds like Austere took the atmospheric spacey route. (I will assume it's a coincidence that both bands are Australian) porcelainheart-
A newly released recording of a 2007 live performance that took place from 4-7am, & captures Nadja at their drone-y, blizzard-of-sound best. Bandcamp New & Notable Dec 29, 2019
supported by 8 fans who also own “A Chronicle Of Demoniacal Metamorphosis”
To me this is DSBM at it's best. calming, emotion filled riffs, vocals are a perfect blend between heart wrenching and eerie, and last but not least, the ATMOSPHERE. One of my absolute favorites for this sub genre The Laughing Stock