It Weighed Itself In Silver

by Exlimitir

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Matten thumbnail
Matten Reiterating what many others have said, so-called "Demilich worship" that is perfectly executed, innovating on this particular style of music. Compared to Nespithe, the overall tone feels darker, and not just lyrically.
And after reading that album description I knew this was thematically exactly my kind of thing. Favorite track: Ashore.
Demilich worship done extremely well, fucking awesome stuff Favorite track: Within The Obscurity Of The Billow.
Nekobibu thumbnail
Nekobibu Splendid.
And yeah, those guys must have listened to Demilich a couple of times. 😉
deathblackthrashguy666 thumbnail
deathblackthrashguy666 Abstract, avant-garde and fun. Definitely for fans of Demilich. Favorite track: Occulters Of The Psylent Wayyy.
YomaBarr thumbnail
YomaBarr Whoever found this as a streamable, cheers. I've had this in download for gods know how long but I just like to have my music in one place...
Pure chaos and disaster. The album description is spot on so I won't dwell on it. Read, listen, and survive.
Ben Smasher
Ben Smasher thumbnail
Ben Smasher Absolutely incredible mindbending scaffolds of rhythm and chaos. An obvious nod to Demilich, but an important exploration of what more can be done with that template. Don't sleep on this!
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Upon the castle coils the serpent, the palatial garland. A cozening festoon hanging from above, a noose for the ill-born dove. Palace spires spinning, inverted towers drilling, To bury itself beneath. Achieve velleity in darkened soil. Wrapped by the roots of the rotting pines of Omnibrhaemia, They left behind the forbidden language, always whispered under tongue. (But who will help those who scream without a sound?) This is the Psylent Wayyy, an opaque silence! New truths well-hidden from the sleepers of the rotting pines, and the dreamers of the pit. Whispers by the lurkers behind dark stars. An unknown truth: they rest for now, only to become the trees they once feared. Clawing at the sky, with their timbered hands, screaming for escape, As they are now welded to the weald, A copse of corpses. They weep without an eye, pain without a nerve, and grimace without a face.
Procession upon Mezmer's Bridge, void underfoot. Entranced by its spiraling path, coiling ash and soot. (Burning of the atom below, dismembered part by part.) A bridge-constructing golem, as the favoured one, Lumbers without the curse of heart. The beings outside the void, choking on the atomic stench, Skulk below Mezmer's Bridge, crawling from the empty trench. Upon the golem's bridge, a quest for nonexistence. Those with the seed of weakness: a poison, a pusling in their chest, Seek to end this journey, crawling under bridge. Hoping to prolong the cosmos because of cardiac flaw. Mezmer's heart, suspended in void. Freed of curse by crystal spears. Pulls beings down to unchain its hands. (To rip apart the universe.) Mezmer's Void as cosmic casket. (Those left behind can only greave,) (As bodies enter, spectres leave.)
Moaning, aphotic deep. Once drowning in its bliss of shadow. Enthralled by subsummation, the basking, formless communion. Obscures in the shadow sea, sipping upon the black. Until the piercing light shone through, Reclaiming it all back. Avowal to avenge its wronging. The plot to destroy the sun. Inhaling the nearest shadows, Of everything and everyone. First the shadows of fish, then the birds, As it arose from the ocean floor. Then the trees, then the mountains, Then all of the beings on the shore. All dragged into the ocean, stretching until torn. The shadows, still chewed on, call for their owner's presence—forlorn! Beckoning from the deep, pleading for return. The shadowless, empty husks aground, Wander aimlessly; left to toil, limp, and yearn. Lunar shadows then sucked away, never again will they appear. The thing, forever sunlit, still deeply hungers, The surface scorched, a sun-scorned shell. As the star-scum Deneb slumbers, Dreaming of another brighter realm. As the star-scum Deneb slumbers, Dreaming of another brighter realm.
Ashore 05:06
Stench pouring from the seabreeze, upon the beach a serpentine mass. (It drifted overnight.) Not quite an eel, not quite a squid, not quite a whale, yet very much the same. So different that it repulses to view, alien to even name. What is this thing? Spanning half the beach, its rotting carcass pollutes the shallows. No eyes, no mouth, no movement, no sound. Sand is blood-soaked, air is stench-filled, and all is abnormally quiet. The seagulls cower upon the peaks of the distant hills. The massive thing -- too big to even climb -- is fully wreathed in limp tendrils. And its skin, semi-translucent, reveals dimly glowing viscera. The rotting thing is falling apart. It's sail-sized fins are nearly gone, leaving a cartilage frame. You notice its skin is undullating gently, as if a pressing from beneath. The thing's skin moves more, to burst at the other end. Pouring for from the rottting hole, a stream of human corpses. They crawl towards you, gurgling your name. They crawl towards you, gurgling your name. Urging for you to become, Become the same.
"Fire born of my eyes, truth born of my tongue, While knowledge blazes in my most frozen mirror. Exhausted to the lull, lost in the threshold (of its own deceit.) (Torn and fiery lump, that utters the discreet.)" (—Final Wisdom of Arkhiero) Hierophantasma, with his many armless hands, ablates the smoulder from flame. Physically frozen in atemporal form, but spectrally it proceeds the same. He's stealing Arkhiero's truthful smoulder. He's presaging Arkhiero's truth through smoke transmission. Light is pilfered, truth obscured. Bi-eternal death. Erasure of time itself. An emptying sky falls as gentle streams. The hidden becomes clearer to all who lurk and plunge the deep. It burns away Arkhiero's corpse, inhaling their vaporous screams Arkhiero's flame-teared eyes above flash in pain. (The truth, it seems, reveals the empty vanity of all thought and thing.)
(They're building) a tower to the great inversion, To enshrine their unending (Monolith) King. (They're building) a tower to the threshold of discontinuity, To bind the unbound and adore (the thing.) With his death, he incepted every triumph. He craved for disbecoming, this they must occult. He renounced his throne and breath, this they must deny. A tune is played: too long to listen, too godly to sing. Tall, flexuous phallice; Populace forced to build. Cabal of the dignitary, multicursal crypt. Instilling it in his veins that never terminate. Elegiac inscriptions upon the surface of the spire. About the glory of the infinite corpse of the infinite king. The ineffable thing souring into toxic cure.
(Built with) parts from those who retch & writhe, The fleshy trumpets blare their breathing cry. A tone unheard, a vibration unfelt: Behold the bio-mechanical choir of the vocal array! Within a case so long and deep, (The) oozing horns can barely be seen. (Nor can they be heard, not in the classical sense.) Encased by non-euclidean glass, that pulls and twists the eye. An ensanguined prism pool, tank of acoustic hemorrhaging. (As the) gears underneath turn it emits (the) subsonic sob (of its donors.) All in arrhythmic, pulsing beats. (The) unutterable wonder of the Psylent Sound. A dredging of the abyssal wail. Their throats were plucked like petals and their tissues darkly harvested . (Spoils of the Auto-Ototoxic.) Terrors from beneath sound itself, heralds of the inconversable. Horrors for the now-throatless choir, a disfigurement irreversible. A curtained hand always on the crank, spinning the infernal moans. Criers of the bleak, the wandering voice without a home. Endless rows of towering horns, spitting blood and sound. Powered by the forceful heave, whose gears are ever-wound. Fear the Auto-Ototoxic cry, fear the Psylent Sound. Fear the Auto-Ototoxic cry, fear the Psylent Sound.


Your painful, journeying wires happen upon more despair than you already carry as they sink into the universe. You feel them at their infinite lengths tangle and squirm, pulling at your skin. You tug them away, wincing with every jostle, as their barbs microscopicly tear your flesh. It's no use, they're embedded in the sludge of matter below. Screaming for release, you rip one out. It falls down into the darkness, shrieking the entire way. The wires transmit their painful sensations from their awful realm. You wish to disconnect, but the longer they suffer and the more they writhe, the deeper they embed themselves into you. You panic and contort. Desperately you wish to free yourself, but they dig into you from pain and confusion, not knowing why you won't pull them up. More and more they consume and enmesh with you as you can no longer discern where your own flesh begins and they end. But still, you two, as parasites, ache in parallel and unison.

Finally, when your consciousness hazes from the pain, the wires begin to transmit these sounds to you.


released February 10, 2018


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