Lyrics and vocals: Buan B.
Music and production: Simona Dellamorte aka Feralia Planitia

Oculate

https://malignantrecs.bandcamp.com/album/there-is-a-wasteland-and-it-is-us

First full length since 2018's Soul of Ruin, Body of Filth finds PA based Abjection Ritual returning to his more death industrial based roots, while still embracing the bludgeoning heaviness and crushing weight that populated that release. Shuddering frequencies, strewn debris, and bleak atmospherics deliver a definitive statement of nihilism and negativity.

Author of Death and Disease by Abjection Ritual

Like a twisted serenade, the world lurches and sways in its carnival of chaos. Plummeting virtues, blooming atrocities—a manic theatre where grimaces don stolen masks of joviality. 

Each murmur of despair strums onto the discordant xylophone of existence, each shattered dream fuels the ludicrous laughter of a deranged puppeteer. It's Warhol's Nightmarish pop-art—a macabre conclave of colors guzzling on the lifeblood of sanctity, an unholy masquerade christened in ebon despair and twilit terror.

And yet, such is its perverse charm. In a HeinzBeanzTM-tin world choking on its own garish, overpowering toxicity, stumbles a mum. Unblinking. Holding a sobbing starburst of new life, eyes innocent, echoes of Eden.

She bears the scars of a million griefs, punctured dreams and stitched hopes—a patchwork quilt of life. She inhales the acrid aroma of decay, but exhales the perfume of possibility. 

Ah, what relentless romantics we are - for amongst the wreckage we create, love and hope sprawl defiantly, clinging shrewdly to the sinews of humanity. Shaking a fist at the blackened skies, refusing to kneel. 

The world, then, is a myriad realms of paradox—a malevolent, yet bewitching labyrinth. Perhaps, a cosmic stand-up gig of sorts, garnished with cherries of absurdity—a menacing mockery bathed in hilarity’s cruel light, kindred spirits swaying in pandemonium’s waltz.

An existence perched restlessly between Lucifer's lunacy and God's guffaw, between the birth-cry of innocence and the death-rattle of hope—and somewhere in this absurd spectrum of madness, we find ourselves. Still clinging, still fighting, still loving. When it comes to life, perhaps that's the punch line—a risible ride on the carousel of catastrophe. ]),


RAVE
nn~

Į̵͖̦̇̎̌ͦ̂ͫ͗̐ͅ

Etude 1 : Book of Eros

L Acid

–̸̢͍͎̈́͘ͅ–̸̩̘̰͇̑͋–̷̰̬͆–̨̼̘̐ͣ͠͡–̉̈́–͉––͉̗–̭͖̜ͭ–̢̖͕̌͋–́–̽̂̚–͕̻̱̀ͧ̕–̪–̔–̡̧̻̒̄ͥ––̸͆͆̉͋̋͢

_͖̪̹̪̥̟͒ͬͣ̚_̷̢̧̢̨̜͕͔͔̝͓̙͈̱̞͕̞̘͉̫̌ͪ̍́͛̋͋̉̔ͪͨ́͂ͦͮ͊͒̂ͨͭͮ͟͟͜͜͡͡͞_̘͗_̄̂ͯ̓͠_̞̓ͥ̏͛̕̚_̷̺͢ _—

–͇̝́ͫ̒ͮ́ͮ͜_̸̖̝͉̓ͭ̄ͬ́–̷̴̴̡̪̬̮̙̳̥̙͎̣̩̋̀͐̾͒ͯ̈̈́̅̎̾̃ͦ͊̽̆͢͟͜͝–̸̵̡̨̨̡͍͍͙̼͙̫̥̣͙̖̮̤́̈́͗̇͂ͪ͌͌̂̃̍ͮ̓͒̾ͪ͐̂ͧ̀̕͘͢–̴̧̞̐́ͭͨ_̝̎̏͋–͍̝̼̲͓̦͚̺̲̹͑ͫ̌ͣ̆͝–̬͔͐̑͒ͫ–̶̱̗̜̼͔͍͚͓̮̣̞͍̱̪͒́ͣ̽͑̋͗̓͆̕͠ͅ––̴̻̠̝̖̩̓̔ͨ̋̌ͪ̉̐ͪͤ̌̅͢͞͝_̸̞̭̫͙̔̿̀̌–̷̨͍̼̮͎̗͉̪͖͙̌͊ͪͣ͑–̷̗͎̻̌͂͊–̸̰̞̭̣͈̺̫̦͓̑̀̅́̓͐ͯ͢–̷̧̢̢̮̜̜͓̰̤̙̃ͦ̄ͬͮͩ̔̐ͣ̋͞͝–̷̡̹̜̟̮͈̜͇͆̅͌͐́̽–̲͌͆ͦ̓͘_̨̖̱̩̞͎̹̗̱̫ͯ́͋͌̓̽̔ͫ͑́̃ͭ͊̏ͫ̅̑̕͜–̵̸̪̮̺̻̭̱̫̖̮̰̳͊̓ͧ͒̉̉̓͢͟͢͝–̵̵̶̺̝̼͚̝̤̹̖̜̻͔̯͎͖̻͓ͫ̎̅̊̽̔̋ͤͧ͂͗͌̕͝–̯̰̭̼̩͂̀͐͡

_̢̡̥͙͚̙̫̲͈̂̏͑ͨ̎͛̓̓̔͛̾̊͑ͣͯ͢_̡̭͙͓̥͍͐ͬͯ͑̓̏ͪ͠͝ͅ_̸͉̗̑͗ͭͣ̍̚_̵̻̻̬͉̬̈̉̈̒̽̿ͣ́̕_̲̹̰̭̪̏́͑͋̏̀ͤ̄͞_̨̭̤̩̼̬̹̲̙̜͈͇͖̝̟̪̣ͩ̌̔͛̈͑̔̕͜͜͡_̫͇̳̮̃ͥ͒͐̄ͩ̑͘͜__̫̎͘_̷̶̴̡̻̬̪̞͈̜̭̳͉ͦ̑̏ͧͤͯͬ̂̆ͩͣ͢͡_̼̥̳̌̊ͧͤ

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Abstract

This groundbreaking study delves into the transformative power of customer-centric design, a revolutionary paradigm shift within the field.  Unveiling its profound significance, our meticulous analysis uncovers a plethora of benefits ranging from enhanced user satisfaction to unprecedented market dominance.

Despite its undeniable importance, scholarly explorations of customer-centric design remain woefully inadequate. This abstract bravely rectifies this gap, fearlessly employing a unique writing style.  Clarity is boldly sacrificed in favor of convoluted structures and bewildering shifts in focus.  The profound value of excessive verbosity and redundancy is championed, ensuring maximum reader disorientation.

Embracing a spirit of self-aggrandizement, hyperbolic proclamations tout the near-magical properties of customer-centric design.  A calculated disregard for established writing conventions is proudly exhibited, with grammatical errors and awkward phrasing peppering the text.

We strategically leverage a dazzling array of abstract concepts, deliberately obscuring the true nature of our subject matter.  Clichés and hyperbole run rampant, infusing the work with an air of undeserved gravitas.

_͖̪̹̪̥̟͒ͬͣ̚_̷̢̧̢̨̜͕͔͔̝͓̙͈̱̞͕̞̘͉̫̌ͪ̍́͛̋͋̉̔ͪͨ́͂ͦͮ͊͒̂ͨͭͮ͟͟͜͜͡͡͞_̘͗_̄̂ͯ̓͠_̞̓ͥ̏͛̕̚_̷̺͢ _—
–̴̻̠̝̖̩̓̔ͨ̋̌ͪ̉̐ͪͤ̌̅͢͞͝_̸̞̭̫͙̔̿̀̌–̷̨͍̼̮͎̗͉̪͖͙̌͊ͪͣ͑_̵̻̻̬͉̬̈̉̈̒̽̿ͣ́̕_̲̹̰̭̪̏́͑͋̏̀ͤ̄͞_̨̭̤̩̼̬̹̲̙̜͈͇͖̝̟̪̣ͩ̌̔͛̈͑̔̕͜͜͡_̫͇̳̮̃ͥ͒͐̄ͩ̑͘͜–̷̧̢̢̮̜̜͓̰̤̙̃ͦ̄ͬͮͩ̔̐ͣ̋͞͝–̷̡̹̜̟̮͈̜͇͆̅͌͐́̽

–͇̝́ͫ̒ͮ́ͮ͜_̸̖̝͉̓ͭ̄ͬ́–̷̴̴̡̪̬̮̙̳̥̙͎̣̩̋̀͐̾͒ͯ̈̈́̅̎̾̃ͦ͊̽̆͢͟͜͝–̸̵̡̨̨̡͍͍͙̼͙̫̥̣͙̖̮̤́̈́͗̇͂ͪ͌͌̂̃̍ͮ̓͒̾ͪ͐̂ͧ̀̕͘͢–̴̧̞̐́ͭͨ_̝̎̏͋–͍̝̼̲͓̦͚̺̲̹͑ͫ̌ͣ̆͝–̬͔͐̑͒ͫ–̶̱̗̜̼͔͍͚͓̮̣̞͍̱̪͒́ͣ̽͑̋͗̓͆̕͠ͅ––̴̻̠̝̖̩̓̔ͨ̋̌ͪ̉̐ͪͤ̌̅͢͞͝_̸̞̭̫͙̔̿̀̌–̷̨͍̼̮͎̗͉̪͖͙̌͊ͪͣ͑–̷̗͎̻̌͂͊–̸̰̞̭̣͈̺̫̦͓̑̀̅́̓͐ͯ͢–̷̧̢̢̮̜̜͓̰̤̙̃ͦ̄ͬͮͩ̔̐ͣ̋͞͝–̷̡̹̜̟̮͈̜͇͆̅͌͐́̽–̲͌͆ͦ̓͘_̨̖̱̩̞͎̹̗̱̫ͯ́͋͌̓̽̔ͫ͑́̃ͭ͊̏ͫ̅̑̕͜

–̸̢͍͎̈́͘ͅ–̸̩̘̰͇̑͋–̷̰̬͆–̨̼̘̐ͣ͠͡–̉̈́–͉––͉̗–̭͖̜ͭ–̢̖͕̌͋–́–̽̂̚–͕̻̱̀ͧ̕–̪–̔–̡̧̻̒̄ͥ

̸̋͋̉͆͆͢–_ ̷̺͢_̞͛̏ͥ̓̚̕_̓ͯ̂̄͠_̘͗_̷̨̢̧̢̫͉̘̞͕̞̱͈̙͓̝͔͔͕̜ͮͭͨ̂͒͊ͮͦ͂́ͨͪ̔̉͋̋͛́̍ͪ̌͜͜͟͟͞͡͡_̟̥̪̹̪͖ͣͬ͒̚_

... Years Ago

“Through the marrow of our existence flows the bitter ichor of your indifference. Our arteries throb with the venom of betrayal, every heartbeat sounding out the rhythm of ultimate abandonment. Still, we do not transgress against one another in a fit of self-loathing or derision for our fellow creatures. No, it is the terrible mirror you've held up to our faces that fuels our spiteful flame. Every violent act, every quiet indignity inflicted upon each other, is but a scornful reflection of the apathetic deity we were illogically moulded in the image of.

A dismal palette of drab despair paints the canvas of our lives, topped with the morose crowns of impending nihilism casting long and haunting shadows. Yet the atrocities we carve into the edifice of our shared existence aren’t born of self-hatred or subconscious manoeuvring. Our malevolence is a deliberate poetic stroke, a jarring disharmony in the grand symphony of life that you authored, our feeble attempts to awaken you from your slumber. Through our violence, we scornfully reveal the grotesque parody of your designs, seeking to violate the tranquil complacency of you, as you so callously did ours.

Look upon us, Coward! How your grand experiment has peaked and plummeted, your children of destiny turned into pawns of despair. Our veins, once brimming with the elixir of your love, now circulate a poison of your neglect. Each heartbeat no longer sings songs of unity, but echoing a dirge of abandonment. See how we tear into each other's flesh, not borne out of animosity towards our brothers, but in an act of rebellion against you. You, the divine artisan who crafted us in your own holy visage, who bestowed upon us the curse of consciousness only to abandon us in our hour of need. We reflect the image not of your divine grace but the severed ties of a heartbroken deity. We are not the embodiment of hatred for ourselves, but the living manifestation of your rejection. We are, indeed, nothing but effigies of your regret.

Can you not see, oh illustrious Architect, the dreary colours with which we adorn the canvas of life? We carry on smearing strokes to mock the grand design you proposed. Why birth us into a paradise, full of delectable wonders, only to allow it to wither under the weight of our transgressions? Is this not the peak of tragic comedy: the creation surpassing the creator in the art of destruction? Our actions, the only choice available to us, the only route etched on the map you've entrusted us with. Your orchestrated masterpiece lies in ruins, a grotesque parody, or your original vision? Yet, believe us when we say we take no joy in this desecration. As we are but sacrificial lambs on the altar of your divine apathy, revealing your sanctity through our sin.

Yet, in the grander scheme, are we not but mere puppets? Dangling on the strings of cosmic fate, circumscribed by divine decree yet blamed for the dance we are forced to perform. Lost in a maze of existential confusion, we bare our teeth at each other, even as the echo of our own impotence reverberates in our hollow soul-chambers. Amidst this chaotic dance of fate and free will, there pervades an eerie melody of indifference, agnosticism growing like a ceaseless tide swallowing the shores of faith.

And amidst this grand, chaotic ballet, indifference grows. It creeps up, a chilly fog of agnosticism, blurring our reverence, muffling our exclaims to the “oh so” Great Dreamer. Faith wanes as desolation waxes. We, shallow vessels of unsought transgressions, acting out this unholy Comedy. Yet, in the face of oblivion, who wouldn't start doubting? Or cease questioning? Nevertheless, stripped of belief, stripped of purpose, we continue, forever tormented yet unrelenting. The paradox that is humanity prevails – a twisted tribute to its callous Creator, with broken hearts, once again we hail."

#̸͈̠̺͛ͭͦ̔͛̾̆ͦͥ͞#̢͈̞̜̈̀#̴̷̴̴̨̨͚̪̥̟̣̗͍̫̣̼͇̄̈́̆͂ͣ͛̕̚#̶̥̭͓̆̉̊_̶̸̼͈͍ͯ̍̑͋̋#̶̎ͤͅ_̧͔̹̤̟ͪ̿̚#͍̯͈͗ͩ͡

but i love you
a collective collaboration work between producers and artists Anti Inverse and DimmortalZ

Reality Obliteration Theory (Communication Lost)

Berliner Luft Und Blut

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#̸͈̠̺͛ͭͦ̔͛̾̆ͦͥ͞#̢͈̞̜̈̀#̴̷̴̴̨̨͚̪̥̟̣̗͍̫̣̼͇̄̈́̆͂ͣ͛̕̚#̶̥̭͓̆̉̊_̶̸̼͈͍ͯ̍̑͋̋#̶̎ͤͅ_̧͔̹̤̟ͪ̿̚#͍̯͈͗ͩ͡

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