Crude oil spills from the wounds of the dead.
The sacred pines bend and sway with dread.
Eyes constantly rolling within the head.
Fuming from the mouth of the freshly fed.
The wrecking ball swings as the blood is spilled.
The crowds step aside as another is killed.
This is not the end any other had willed.
As they drain away and the great chalice is filled.
Blood.
Decay feeding death.
Fuel.
Harvest for the great machine.
Lifeless colours of the oncoming light.
Chased away by the cold, by the cold of the night.
Trees churned up to pamper the flames.
None left to wonder how to stake their claim.
As the fed feed those who feed the great machine.
Insatiable engine, the end of which remains unseen.
Decay feeding death.
Harvest for the great machine.
supported by 5 fans who also own “Harvest For The Great Machine”
sovereignty never ceded. fuck the white colonial system, send them all back to their own country. "Australia" belongs to the original inhabitants. Dominic T
The Alberta crushers hold tight to their rank, astral-gazing grindcore, staring down abyssal torment all the while. Bandcamp Album of the Day Mar 31, 2020