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lyrics

A sprawling old corpse all tangled in scrub, mummified under the molten gold sun that vomits harsh light, a dime museum display. There isn’t any dignity left in this grave lying in the sun. Tourists buzz about and alight on parched skin, drunk on nostalgia, romance, and vinegar. The floorboards creak with age, atrophy and wilt. Dust powders the windows in delicate silt, staring at the sun, Rafters breach rooflines and trees shatter porches. Fingernails grow after the soul long divorces. Houses erode to sand, dead skin in the wind. Decay at a glacial pace, old as the land and witnessed by the sun. The timbers hang and sag and show the structure beneath: ribs under skin, punished under their feet. That wind a death rattle ripped from the throat of a whore. Hubcaps gleam dully from branches and doors, shining in the sun. Extinguished life, evaporated gasoline. A musty shroud pulled over a face drawn and lean. No spirit haunts these walls, no ghost lingers here. A thousand drowned murmurs all lost in the air, sacrificed to the sun. All dried up and gone. The crowds go howling on.

credits

from Fossils, released March 20, 2015
Zebulon Whatley: Lyrics, Vocals, Guitars
Lacy Rose: Piano
Simon Broke: Double Bass
Alex Hardie: Drums

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Sons of Perdition Glasgow, UK

Sons of Perdition make weird, dark music. Their seventh release, Heathen Hof, is available May 1, 2022.

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