Ophiuchi - Shibboleth [Full Album 2021]

Lyrics to Shibboleth [Full Album 2021] by Ophiuchi

Tracklist: 01. Mercurial Behold The fools of old The anointed The low All wisps of the below Trench fills up A mother drinks And I Become Her son With foreign seeds In foreign soil And a stranger's hand Behind a curtain Of my own Behold Apparatus unfolds Insectoid man And larval bloom Moulting chins Forceps limbs And spiracles Fold The void around A mould Proto-men with Sets of two Doppler screams A terminus Same hands that grasp Same lungs that breathe Same tongues that lick Same smokestack end Old pine box friend Lower Lower still 02. Shibboleth A guest A host of means For lotus tar And ovine cures Unwashed, vulgar hues And silvered words Found on the cheap in Distended filth and the Name of names amongst Dogs that copulate I took you in Clothed your words In ears of grain And spiral arms Noble rot will fill your cup From the branches on a vine But the wicker with the bread Sent the sun to stain Your bones Knives and receptacles Will weight your heart Consummated I washed your feet Wrapped your skin The vessels throbbed And ebbed within Tabernacle Of the fish of the deep We took communion with The Morse of a blink Congregations sang The hymns of the new Translations glowed Receptors replete Out of the sightless Antennae that see Out of the sinews Something to grasp Out of the carcass Something that's sweet Transmuted I'm still made of lead My weight is absolute I can feel the primal warmth I can hear the primal hum 03. Katabasis Long is the way Is the backwoods trail Through a myth Through a verse Through intestines Less a man More a beast With pots of flesh And dreams of dreams But the lungs But the lungs with the air Blew the husks to the birds A path between the Paths coiled Umbilicus into The grime and the filth And the lice In their beds to the worm With a mouth In the dirt Down into The troughs with their fucking snouts Surely The Lord Is in this house Sweat of the meat For a hole In the group And the scraps Off a feast I should not have come here 04. Decipulum Curated dust Constellations of our bones Resin from the hive of hives Plexus from The muted stones Formless forms and Mindless strings Of mind before The weight of things Twist In the wind With a yoke With a separated void And firmament A call to prayer? New wine, old glass Morrow of the spaces In between many of The shekels of A call to prayer? To mules With broken backs And hooves of glue A call to prayer A call of spite And borrow things Half-maker man Made the lines on my hand A friend of a friend Drew the lines In the sand Twist in the wind With a yoke With a separated Void and firmament Down below in the twenty-nine I found I had no gills Down below in the sublime My pockets had no use Tranquil in the murk I found I had no feet I am made of dirt I am incomplete