MAUERBAUERTRAURIGKEIT by WINNEWAW

RMP001

Ritualistic noise abuse

Recorded in Norway, March 2024

In anticipation and dedication to Þórr.

MJOLLNIR
Strike Jotunheimr, a call to campaign. Crushing countless skulls of jotun warriors, primordial beings. His hammer repulsively drawn repeatedly from their cracked crowns, foreheads caved, draped in blackened brain and flashing in blue light. The hammer violently spins across and beyond our cosmic understanding in a flash, everlasting lightning under a dark storm sky, camouflaged and imminent on return to its warrior god, bathed in blood and magic. Thor, who moves the oceans, drinks the oceans. No less pulsating with life as the erect phallus of Mjollnir or the time of his worship, now lost to us, as we are to it.

OWL
The Owl flies stern within the thick night air of the forest filled with tranquil purpose. Wings beat the air in perfect motion, the sound of it amplified forever. Visceral insides and biological workings of the Owl hums low and clicks, built by a deity's hand, formed to hunt and digest its prey. Melted in stomach acid. Scanning the dark forest floor with god-like precision through its ever watching, growing and glowing green eyes. The Owl observes its surroundings with computer-like precision, its claws grasp with sharpest accuracy, devouring prey, brain first.

WALLBUILDERSADNESS
The builder awakens. He has only one function. Encased in a grey fog, breathing dull and dry ash into his lungs, he adorns his hammer. Black coal covers his vision, bones ache. Grunting, raising, dropping his hammer in a crushing force, the movement permanently damaging this builders muscle and bone structure. His skeletal frame is cracked at every corner. He has been building this wall longer than he can recall. Each blow, dust envelopes his vision, his lungs. This wall protects his shame. This wall protects from the new world. At what cost? The builder has found to be losing purpose, and yet he continues. For what else can he do? Where will he perform? Where does his future lie, if not behind the wall? Time is slow. The winds are powerful. Each day is the last. The same.

VEIN OF YEW
The yew roots writhe underground, thousands of years before. Interconnected, breathing in mystery. This language is above our own. Rooted in poisons, the earth is not what it once was. The yew extends into our world, towards the sky, bearing down upon us. Watching and observing. Only the tortured will see it. Adorn the poison.

HE IS WITHIN
Spirit of Old writhes within your chest. Twisted, deformed, clawing at ribs. Vomiting upon your heart. It needs to get out, but cannot find the exit for there is none. It demands worship and reverence. To be killed. Severed from its source, yourself. His breath mixes with yours. The taste is metallic. His nails grow through your fingers. He watches from behind your eyes, at the world which he once knew. He churns your stomach acid, feeding from its contents, forever screaming, forever rotting, until you are able to do the same.

Label run & owned by Waste Walker

Pounding heart & bloodied strings.

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