Collected Works by The Boreen

An emanation from the turf. A bracken bloom of Desolation Synth. Scarecrow electronics wrapped in ferric malaise and dissonance.
Raise your shovels to the bladed moon!

Originally released as three separate works;
DESOLATION SYNTH part I, II and III between 2022 and 2024.


From the liner notes;

Put out, into the night. The cold washes you forward. Sucking the smoke from your lungs and leaving a burning chill. Time to go. Time to walk. Time to leave them. You've exhausted all distractions, and all finances. One foot in front of the other and into the darkness. You lean to the left, dragging that leg of yours. Swollen and ripe, fit to burst with bacterial heat. Picked at by the dirty fingers of those dirty children. The filth of them. Crawling beneath the tables, searching for scraps. Their eyes crusted shut. Their wretched throats wheezing as they go about their otherwise silent labour. They live beyond pity. Outside now you find yourself at the crossroads. Three roads branching in front of you. Like veins all returning to the same black heart. All roads diverge but lead back to the same place. The same time. It's always been this way.

To the left

The naked trees stretch their slender withering limbs into the night sky. Like inverted roots reaching in vain for some nourishment in the cold and dark. Stretching and searching for an absent heaven to take root. Their world is upside down. Fruit ripens in the frigid soil. The worms rejoice. The mist is thick tonight. You look to the frozen sky, you look to the ugly moon, and to the stars that wink at you like the anuses on a thousand black cats. You know this road. You know all these roads. You know what sits tangled in the blackthorn and dog-rose. You've seen them there. Things that are barely there. Crossing the road out of your periphery. Darting past, just beyond vision. Vague and out of focus as if through the bottom of a glass too many. Smeared voyeurs peering from the undergrowth. You never get a good look but what you have seen strangles your innards like an intestinal noose. Looking as if God took some divine brick and smashed two of his pathetic creations together. Hoping to end their suffering but merely compounding it. All mangle and disgust. They shamble, or do they walk? From one ditch to the other, they pass through hedges with no gaps. They dissolve into the mist. Limbs like miscarriage calfs' and faces like drowned cats. Then at other times looking almost human. Dripping and writhing as if in slow motion. Dancing in all their dilapidation. Crumbling from one realm to another. You know to stay on the path, never stray, look ahead, push onwards. When you turn your back they follow you. You never know how close they are. Their breath is the scent of elder and always seems at your neck. They scream in the dark. They scream like foxes being fisted. Always screaming. Always. They curse the sun you were born under. They curse all the lord's festering bounty. Screaming. Reaching shelter you lock the door and escape into narcotic slumber but their strangled chorus follows you into your dreams. How long have you been dreaming?

To the right

You don't go down this way. Not since that night. The rain cut sideways and turned the moon into a streak of misery. A pale scythe waiting to reap the earth. Between two points and too many pints you looked for shelter. You forgot your coat. You forgot your senses. You forget a lot of things. But you'll never forget her. Neither home-brew nor imported poison could wipe that slate. Soaking you ran to the stinking elder. You ran to shelter from the torrent. You didn't even see her in the shadow until she reached out. Cold twisted hands and a nose like a beak, her hair so long you never saw it end, all undergrowth and briar. But her eyes seemed to glow, unblinking and impossibly green. You couldn't look away. So familiar, as if plucked from the skull of your memory. Your head swam and then you were naked, her calloused fist around you. Like a crow trying to rip a worm from the dirt. You writhed in ecstatic fever. Slipping in and out. You never saw anything but her face and hand, all the rest melted into the shadows and leaves. As you reached your prone climax her face changed. The moonlight thought the rain and leaves, a frozen dappled shimmer across her. Everything looked like it was underwater. Her lips curled like smoke and she laughed at you. It echoed in the night. She laughed as her face shifted. Growing distant then closer. In and out of focus. But the eyes remained unblinking. Those green eyes. You remembered them now. You had forgotten. Impossibly green. It comes rushing back. How had you forgotten. Naked in the dirt like a failed fledgling she ripped the seed from you. Her face was now that of your mother. Your mother laughing at you. Throbbing shame erupted. She was gone. They are all gone. You remain. Not a trace of your ichor. She took it with her.

You go forward.

Stumbling over your own feet you walk on. You'll cut through the bog. You think there's something you once called 'home' that way. You drank too much. Of course you did. There's no other way to drink. You emptied your pockets and your stomach. Spilling it all just to extinguish thought. To sit in smoke filled misery. To sit with all those you loathe. You wasted everything, not even caring enough to force a smile as you split the G in God. With those idiots. Would-be saints and would-be poachers. The same talk, the same thoughts, the same noise. Cowards. No else seems to remember when there were lights in the streets, or before the hills turned red, or how they got there. No one ever remembers. But you do, or at least you did. You thought you did but now you are unsure. It's all vague now. Indistinct and just out of reach. Like trying to remember a dream. You wished you were anywhere else, but there is nowhere else. You should have left his place but no one ever leaves. The roads always come back. Now you find yourself, in this bog, on a road you thought you knew, lost. A road you thought you'd walked a thousand times. A straight road you cannot navigate. And now the wetness is creeping up on you. Why are you wet? It's not raining. And now the flies. It's night but the flies are still out. You can hear nothing else but their pulsating drone. They swarm around you, surveying any slither of exposed flesh. It reeks of piss. Your footsteps are silent now. You march on. Your boots are so heavy. The dark sky seems made of flies. The road seems to sink with each of your steps. Sinking. All the bodies that sank before you, the rebels, the traitors, the dealers and the poor fuckers who couldn't pay the dealers, pulling you down for another round. You hear them down there. You know what's down there. There are no more stars now, only flies. The groan of ancient machinery rumbles louder, the industry of the underworld, the fucking red hills. It's all down there. More bones for the bracken furnace. More tears for the shot glass. One more for that road, one more for the Boreen.

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"Collected here is the totality of the project. This is the first and last physical document of THE BOREEN. As of this release the project is dead. No attempts to communicate with the artist will be acknowledged or entertained. DESOLATION has been complete."

DIY cassette label. focusing on noise, drone and experimental music.