1. INTRO

(instrumental)


2. ANATOMY OF THE MACHINE

The chemo failed her, for the second time around.

The tumors spread, throughout her body.
An unshaken faith, as she asks, "why me?" But across the world, it's the same story.
And this time, she works the factory.
Assembling components, where there was once a village.
A techno-wonder, a fucking toxin-heap.
It adds up, as she succumbs to this machine.

Lives synthesized.
Ecosystems cast aside.
This logic immortalized: for this air conditioned nightmare.

Under a pile of crushed cars.
Under the sky of falling bombs.
Alone in our sanitized homes.
We breathe the cancer of Progress.

It's long term suicide.
For medicated silicon smiles.

A system built beyond capacity.
Temples built with our own blood.
Comprised of slaves to power: it may change faces but it still remains the same.
The iron lung, a smoking gun, a sealed fate: until we pull the plug.

It could never, have been sustained.
We are the cancer, in this iron cage.
It carries on, because we believe, that we are more than, cogs in this machine.
It pulls the reigns on all our lives.
Until we realize, that the grid is the enemy.


3. EMPIRES' PLAYGROUND

It's stumbling, bloated, dying body, throws itself into the sea.
Colonial dreams of conquest complete, bleeding the Earth of everything.
Communities torn and bodies enslaved, souls stolen by missionaries.
Conquered, decimated, "liberated" their told, and the cycle is set to repeat.

Shackled limbs, piles of hands, scorched earth decay: another kingdom for Europe.

This blood thirsty cannibal spreads its disease.
An imperial wound across the southern hemisphere: an eternal frontier, empires in need.
The agrarian curse of insatiable greed.

We've been here before.
We'll be here again.
Because your modernity, is built upon graves.

This is what we've become, an empire of slaves.
This is what we've become, blind to consequence.
This world that we've made, grown beyond capacity.
This world that we've bought, this is our legacy.

It comes through your TV, and to the foods you eat.
The shit-zone of global technocracy: their blood covers our hands.


4. STARVATIONS' SERVANTS

Outstretched arms are what remains, of peoples once connected with the living spirit.
The wildness, the breath of the forest: intertwined, through all the lives.
Till their plow, till their sword, and now our soul lies amputated.

The gods of sun, the gods of seed, the gods of soil, the gods of oil: the desert patriarch, the hungry priests, the hanging martyr, sustained disbelief.

Empty stomachs, fill these empty skies, with false promises given by the hand that feeds.
While their standing on our backs.

Now I've shed all their lies, all the wounded lives set aside.
And now my, only prayer is for a life returned to the eternal wild.


5. BLOOD OVER BORDERS

They say this is our nature.
They say this is our desire.
They need us to believe: that we need their control.

Warfare is a contrived response to a created dependency.
Domestication, subjugation, sedentism, civil delusions: breeding a society built beyond its means.

Control: over our bodies.
Control: over this surplus.
Control: over our wildness.
Control: over our lives.

The stakes have been laid.
The boundaries have been raised.
The alliances have been made.
The stakes have been raised.
Blood soaked lies, a reinforced sedentary demand for reliable control.
The border fences, blocked migratory paths: a cancerous growth, the cyclical pattern.

We once: lived as bands, lived free.
We once: lived without tribal divisions.
Agriculture: carved up lands, communities.
Civilization: blood lust and warring.

Once we are removed, everything else becomes a resource.
To conquer and grow, to plunder and pillage: feed the needs that are created.
In the middle East, the forests of the Americas, in the deserts, the plains and the seas: time and place, it happens again: civilization has blood on its hands.

This war will not change, this war will not end: blood will spill.

This war will not change, this war will not end: oil will spill.

This war will not change, this war will not end: soil will spill.

Till we bring civilization to its end.


6. THE DOMESTICATORS' HAND

The ten thousand year mistake.
Never had such a decision put so much at stake: the surrender of our adaptivity.
Selective breeding, prolonged needing: genetically deformed for a thickened herd.
Selective breeding, ecological grieving: the wildness bears our scars.
Forced breeding, captive living: reduced to the sum of all parts.
By the domesticators' hand.

They've built the stockyards of their dreams.
This is what we're all bred to be.
Consumable fodder for their biological killing machine.

They don't give a shit about our lives.


7. THIRTEEN DAYS

They raise their toast to, their own mass profit gains.
The shareholders smile.
They see no end in sight, to their system or their greed.
But the end is not theirs to see.

The price of their small victory is the greatest threat of what we were born to be: re-emerged with our ancestry.

What they've wrought is omnicide.
What we've bought is ecocide.
A blind complicity: inflicted wounds without relief.

But there, are those, who cannot ignore this wholesale reduction of our animality.
Here stand, the Huaorani, our fates intertwined.
Surviving millenniums fighting off the sedentary, just to retain their own primal ways.

For Exxon, for BP, for this American dream.
Civilization, annihilation: while it fights from its knees.

This is what you ignore: this selfishly driven urge.
As the Amazon runs to shit: for thirteen fucking days.
This is what you ignore: an unspoken moralized war.
As our world runs to shit: for thirteen fucking days.

The road brings the demise.
Missions reign and demonize, such "savage wastes of flesh", sold for wages or left for dead.

This is, our reality, regardless of our choice.
So long as Industry wins hearts and minds.
Until the Earth is bled dry: they will destroy every last bit of life.

For ten thousand years, or thirteen days, it consumes all the same.


8. WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT

And suddenly it happens.
This world where machines now rust.
The night sky devoid of all of our synthetic suns.
Their buildings falling, a return to unabated decay.
Their world has fallen, as the toxic air fades away.

And here we stand.
We scarred but we're still alive.
The sins of our parents: replaced by songs for our children.

It was never easy.
The fallout will always remain.
Bodies forever turned carcinogenic.
The sea and the soil, tainted by our legacy of plastic.
Our nightmares will stay as we're overcome by the present.

Again the bands still gather around a bow drill fire.
Communities arise from decay: ancestral bodies begin to remember.
As we awaken to our beings after the death of the civilizers.

The past lies before us now.
As we become the future primitive.

The end of their days; is the beginning of our lives.
Freed from self-imposed restraints the wanderers will re-arise.


9. AMOR FATI

These walls will crumble, under the weight of ten thousand failed attempts.
Domesticated lives spread thinly over the surface of this façade.
And now it's withering away.

The forests have fallen.
The soil has washed away.
The reserves have dried.
The grip of the iron fist loosens from around our necks.
Their image of control fades into nothingness.

Our senses awakened.
Their era has ended.

Haunted by what we don't see but cannot ignore.
This itching sensation, that something's gone horribly wrong.
It comes as waves, it comes as floods.
It comes as winds, it comes as sun.

The pumps run dry, the virus spreads.
Our nightmares will come to haunt us.

And as the end comes for the machines.
As the ambient electric hum fades.
The cracks deepen, the wildness returns.

As falcons reclaim their perches where cities once laid, overdrawn.
A monument to this living earth, an epitaph soaked in blood.

Will we learn that when you walk a straight line through the circle of life that it's inevitable that you hit the other side.

A forest reborn, over fields of concrete.
Our place is here.
Among the feral herds.