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NOM041_PORENUT - POSTNIHILERA

by Porenut

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1.
Intro 01:53
2.
3.
4.
Manifest 04:12
MANIFEST: Povedal mi: „Napíš manifest“ no tak som ceruzu zovrel v päsť v rezolútnom odhodlaní, že vydolujem dogmy z hlavy... 400 cigariet a prázdna strana, akurát vo víne moľa pláva — Niet už čo kričať, za čo sa biť, môžem ísť pod jabloň hniť. Debilnosť rýmov sa vyčerpáva tekutý mozog scelí káva! Červivé jablko jak naschvál padá Samozrejme — jeb do pohára! (Kurva!) Nadávka sa v krku zastaví, bo mozaika z fľakov od kávy má väčšiu noblesu, než veršíky plné pátosu. A vždy keď sa sladká letargia dostaví život už nejakú pičovinu pripraví, aby ťa stiahol z tej dráhy po ktorej si si krúžiť chcel (Zopakuj si vlastný sen: Nonexistence brings new reign!) A keďže zjavne neviem čo s týmto životom, nespíšem manifest, furt budem kokotom! ------------------------------------ ------------------------------------ “Manifesto” He told me: “Write a manifesto” so I grabbed a pencil with my fist resolutely determined to mine for the dogmas in my head... 400 cigarettes and a blank page a moth floating in my wine – There is nothing to scream or fight for, I may as well go rot under the apple tree. The idiocy of rhymes exhausts me the liquid brain shall be solidified by coffee! A wormy apple falls, as if on purpose Bang! Right into the cup. (Fuck!) A curse word halts inside my throat, because a mosaic of coffee stains carries more noblesse than rhymes full of pathos. Every time the sweet lethargy comes the life is ready to throw in some shit to drag you out of the track you wanted to follow (Remember your dream: Non-existence brings new reign) And since I obviously don’t know what to do with my life I won’t write up a manifest, I’ll be just a dick forever
5.
Postnihiler 05:40
POSTNIHILER Množstvo vody mu pretieklo pod plťou, kým sa naučil nenávidieť, najmä seba v pokornej tichosti... Už zas začína askét dúchať do kosti, kvíliac o prázdnote sveta ohňov, radosti. Olupuje kôru dreva, ryje dieru svojho diela, banalita strašná z nej vyviera — Slovo sa nepýta zo srdca von, potrebu ukojí chlieb so šmalcom... Postnihiler na plti k brehu dorazí, sprostota davu v ňom spletie plamenné obrazy. Vo vatre spáli nevedomosť biednych más, Prorok, mudrc, pyroman, šarlatán — Počuje už plápolanie svojho víťazstva pysk páleným oblaží, aby zaspieval: Pieseň plnú múdrosti... odvahy a hrdosti Man muss noch Chaos in sich haben, um einen tanzenden Stern gebären zu können Horí plť a Postnihiler horí s ňou, stále však sníva za múrmi výkrikov, že ľudstvo aplauduje ohnivej guli vpisujúc sa do očí, do duší... Krik v prázdnote a rýchly pád... popol padá v popol... už asi po stý krát! A rieka tečie ďalej... ------------------------------------ ------------------------------------ “Postnihiler” So much water passed underneath the raft, while he learnt to hate, mainly himself in the meek silence... And now the ascetic starts blowing into bone, wailing about the emptiness of the world of flames and bliss. He peals the bark off wood, carves a hole into his work, terrible banality wells up inside – The word doesn’t want to leave the heart, satisfy the need with a buttered bread... Postnihiler´s raft arrives at the shore, where the stupidity of crowd weaves fiery images. The ignorance of miserable masses burns in a bonfire, Prophet, wise man, pyromaniac, charlatan – Only hears his victory blaze soaks his mutt in spirit to sing a song full of wisdom, courage and pride. man muss noch Chaos in sich haben, um einen tanzenden Stern gebären zu können The raft is on fire and so is Postnihiler still dreaming of walls of scream, humanity applauds a fiery sphere inscribing into eyes and souls... A scream into emptiness and a swift fall... ash into ash for the hundredth time! And the river flows on...
6.
Diabeł 01:37
DIABEL Z góry, z góry, nie z wysoka Skocył diabeł do potoka, Do takiego głębokiego, Co nie wyjdzie nigdy ś niego. (Hop, hop, hop!) ------------------------------------ ------------------------------------ From the mountain, from the mountain, not from high, The devil has jumped into the creek, Into such deep, That he will never come out of it. (Hop, hop, hop!)
7.
Chata na brehu zeleného jazera, kde zažívam dobrodružstvo ticha a po smrti tu vlci moje kosti roznesú: Sám v zajatí drevených stien, šukanie krýs mi kradne spánok. Bručaním bachora sa povznesiem, šak samota je mi vykúpením... Tvár uväznená v mrakoch na hladine jazera, posledný dôkaz, že som z ľudského plemena — Na čo však hora pramálo dala-la-la, a búrku komárov na mňa tá kurva zoslala! A keď som zostal už takmer bez krvi čosi sa vo mne pomrví: to pýcha s túžbou von z tela vyletí v obludnom gargantuovskom grgnutí! Ideál pokryli snehové záveje, vôli dochádza dych, sledujem plamene, tancujú v černote končatín — žijem hoc’ len spím! Tvár uväznená v kruhoch na hladine jazera, nepripomína nikoho z ľudského plemena, už sa viac na horu ponáša, keď sa v letokruhoch kostí odráža nekonečná rutina: jar, leto, jeseň, zima, zima, zima! A keď sa vlčie tesáky zahryznú do mojej mršiny, pochopím jediné: sny nie sú na to, aby sa prežili! ------------------------------------ ------------------------------------ “A chalet on the shore of a lake, where I experience the adventure of silence, where the wolves will carry my bones when I die” Alone, captured within the wooden walls, rats’ fucking steals my sleep. Croaking gut I pretend to forget, loneliness is my salvation... A face imprisoned within the clouds on the lake surface, the last clue I belong to the human race — But the mountain was not impressed, the bitch sent a storm of mosquitoes at me! And when I was almost out of blood, something squirmed inside of me: pride and desire flew out of my body in a monstrous, gargantuan belch! Snowdrifts covered the ideals, The will runs out of breath, I watch the flames, dancing in the blackness of limbs — I live although I sleep! A face captured inside the circles on the lake surface, does not resemble a member of human race, no longer it resembles a mountain, when it reflects in the bone growth rings, eternal routine: spring, summer, autumn, winter, winter, Winter And when the wolf fangs bite into my corpse, I come to understand: dreams are not supposed to be lived!
8.
Nostalgia strateného fanatizmu: Vystrelení z vlastnej osi do hlbín vesmíru, ktorého hlbiny za fľašu kefíru vymením — bo pri nej sme v krčmách kuli plány: — podpálenie pekelnej brány — odtrhnutie hlavy hintej kurve, čo dáva rožky holubom-bom-bom A keď realitu zvrtlo do slučky, my od strachu maličkí, s bielym bajúzom, buranským bľakotom bežali sme: jebať po bytovkách hrdzavým roxorom — Aj keď čin to zbytočný je a nevedie k úspechom, s láskou sa prizerám krvavým pľuzgierom, Ihlou hmatám vlastný hnev — Pich! — celý sa rozleje. Hnisavý vodopád rozhryzie útroby, jazyk, oči, uši, mozog odplaví... A teraz ako vyschnutá predkožka prídem s vyznaním úprimným: že svetonázor vyjadrujem už len radikálnym zívaním! ------------------------------------ ------------------------------------ “Nostalgia of lost fanaticism” Shot into the depths of space out of my own axis I’ll trade those depths for a bottle of kefir besides which we plotted plans in pubs, to set the gates of hell on fire to tear off the head of the pigeon feeding whore And when the reality twisted into a slipknot, fear made us small turned our beards white, made us screech like rednecks we ran to: smash the blocks of flats with rusty metal rods – Pointlessly, with no eventual success lovingly, I look at the bloody blisters, With needles I poke my anger – Poke! it spills, putrid waterfall dissolves the innards, tongue, eyes, ears, brain it sweeps away... And like a dried foreskin, now I come forward with an honest confession: from now on, I’ll express my worldview with a radical yawn.
9.
Starec, ktorý zabudol…: Sedí pod orechom Porenut s Neplechom: Ach, nuž nie je to závideniahodný stav bytia — minulosť ma sere, budúcnosti sa bojím a prítomnosť iba nudí. Od istého času mi už žranie omietky a zbieranie zdochlín z koľajníc nepripadajú ako dobrý nápad. O to radšej na to všetko spomínam a radostnú nostalgiu trochu čerí vedomie, že som si nikdy nepísal denník a nearchivoval minulosť. Väzby sa stratili, zostali vnemy nafarbené v dúhových farbách. Medzi nimi si už vytvorím nejakú fikciu, v ktorej nevystupujem ako totálny čurák. Na samovraždu som príliš zbabelý alebo lenivý a vlastne život nestojí ani za to, aby som ho nenávidel. Pubertálna rebélia je už trápne nemožná, starecká múdrosť sa nedostavila a prognózy (vraj) nie sú optimistické. V medzičase úporne mávam rukami, hmýrim sa, zdolávam štít a neviem, či už náhodou nie som na zostupe... Vlastne neviem či je to štít — a nie pahorok z ktorého lepšie vidieť na cintorín v rodnej obci, viac než do neba. Ale čas už zdeformuje spomienky a v brnkaní drumble sa z toho stane príbeh heroickej výpravy plnej potu, sĺz a sebapremáhania, ktorý vyrozprávam po desiatom pive ako starec, ktorý zabudol... ------------------------------------ ------------------------------------ “The old man who has forgotten...” Under a walnut tree, porenut and neplex sit: Well, that’s not a much enviable state of being – the past makes me angry, the future – I fear, and the presence bores me. For some time now, grazing the plaster and collecting corpses from railway haven’t seemed like a good idea any more. But now I like wallowing in those memories. Gleeful nostalgia is slightly rippled by the realisation that I’ve never kept a diary, I’ve never archived the past. The bonds are lost, but rainbow-coloured sensations survive. Among them, I can create some kind of fiction in which I am not a complete piece of shit. Oh, these fucking self-preservation mechanisms. I seem to be too cowardly for a suicide, or lazy, and the life is not even worthy of hate. The adolescent rebellion is awkwardly out of reach, old man’s wisdom never came, and prognoses are not optimistic. In the meantime, I persistently wave my arms, I squirm, conquer the mountain peak, and maybe I am already descending... What peak? Just a hill from which the graveyard in my home village is easier to see, and the skies. But the kaleidoscope of time deforms the memories, strumming of the Jew’s harp turns into a story of a heroic quest full of sweat and tears and the need to overcome oneself after the tenth beer like an old man who has forgotten...

about

Scabby black metal with a glass eye and wooden legs, forsaken by both - forests and cities. Banished to live in a hut near the border of nothingness,
where just mice listen to his songs of crooked wisdom and only a pair of flies appreciate his poems about the burden of freedom.
Postnihilera comes out as black 12 vinyl accompanied by Svjatogor´s magnificient design. You can get it via Nomad Sky Diaries.

porenut.bandcamp.com

credits

released May 9, 2020

Pořenuťák — Guitars, Bass, Lyrics (2, 3)
Neplex — Vocals, Lyrics
Breza — Guitars, Guitar Solos
Svjatogor — Drums, Drumbľa

porenut.bandcamp.com

Guest musicians:
Vilozof — Solos on Idiolerant Idiotes
Szturpak — Vocals and Harmonica on Diabeł

Recorded at Nihil centrum in 2017–2019
ncstudio.home.blog
Recording and Mix by N.N. alias Pořenuťák
Mix and Mastering by Miroslav Spevák — SPK audio


LP released by Nomad Sky Diaries in 2020
nomadskydiaries.blogspot.com

Artwork by Svjatogor
www.svjatogor.sk
www.instagram.com/svjatogor.sk

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Nomad Sky Diaries - Sky Burial Bratislava, Slovakia

Nomad Sky Diaries & Sky Burial are diy cassette, cd & vinyl labels .
We like noise, dark ambient, drone, black, industrial, power electronics, avant jazz and a lots of experimental, extreme,..

We offer almost everything for free, but we ask that if you enjoy it, please consider donating by purchasing.


nomadskydiaries.blogspot.com

skyburialproductions.blogspot.com

skyburial.label@gmail.com
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