hERMANN NITSCH MUSEUM
" A HALLUCINATORY JOURNEY INTO THE VOID"
The purgatory of no thought scrapes by like a scorched field left blackened by fire and the emptiness of blind eyes, cursing gravel, dry wells, cabins retching with the smell of death, long distant clouds creating cataracts over the expanses as thirst stretches the skin into opaque leather- taut and yellowed.
Rolling headaches give way to nausea, the search for nourishment causing hallucinations of movement, disease carefully cocooning the weak in feather thin wraps of black silk. Funeral pyres alight against the murkiness of above, where the howls of mourning are only matched by the final breaths of the living.
We move into the next room
As the room is bathed in weak lights, and the frigid realm of removal breathes over us all, the drones continue, the melodies horde their secrets. Blood. Majesty. Burials. Religious zeal. Faithless prayers all envelop behind occult symbols. The splintered fingers clasp rusted locks, keys folded in time, rubbed loose of their teeth.
The third rooom
The wind gathers, spiral webs cocoon the air. From beyond you can hear the screams, but know not their origins. All is tempered in a grey mist. The cogs of the machine have begun. Slowly coming to life.
A thin sliver of light pierces through. "I'm weak, take what's mine".
Alas the long hallways of perdition strike forth in utter blackness, matches struck against the wall simply whimper and stun.
The final rest
In this purgatory there is no ceasing. Darkness and strain have strangled all. The floor swallows its dusty carpet, rings of blood arrayed against temple stones, the long spiny fingers of winter crushing bone, tooth, spine, marching on and on and on. While the howls penetrate the ceiling from the pits beneath, the fire's have long died, but the burns remain.
The crushing weight of infinity, of the beyond, of God, of the macabre, of loss, of abuse, of deceit, all whirls into the void and bleeds through our eyes until we see no more but hell. And the chants of the invisible wail with the taste of fire.
Fever breaks in the early folds of morning. With rumblings the cogs begin their rotations. To and Fro the levers switch, creating the first sparks of light. Sparks turn to light, light to fire, fire to unspeakable forms.
Rivers of penance bleed out and taint the floor in blood red. The colour of chaos.
A thin voice brings the illusion to ground for a bare few seconds. "Thank you very much".
HERMANN NITSCH MUSEUM
Vico Lungo Pontecorvo,
A version of this appeared in the publication of Bad Sounds Magazine in 2012 as part of a Swans review, but it was written by the same author.
Leave a Reply.
"Tastes are subjective, so take everything with a pinch of salty tears"
CITIES / Places