by Convivial Cannibal

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The neon blue digits of the car stereo flicker to read 4:44am. That's when the fire hits me.


released February 27, 2017




Convivial Cannibal Clan Long Beach, California

Climbing the charts in ritualistic bliss toward our golden autokabalesis.

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Track Name: Unseen Mountain Peaks
The neon blue digits of the car stereo flicker to read 4:44am. That's when the fire hits me...
Track Name: Dimensions In Stagnation
"Dedication over you and yours. That they might be ruptured, reared, raised, released, and set roaming freely away from all confining mass. Forged upon the heavy anvil, the esoteric doused in the babbling brook which is semantics. Rites are passed over by hands, ritualistic signs endow the waters with a blessed holiness. They are humble fools when possession of their ignorance is held close by perception. Them in their nothingness beam forth rays, piercing voids and casting a light as others do bones onto unacquainted pathways which before had always been mute darkness. Overcome with bliss, consecrations come and are laid before as they shall hope to liquefy and permeate downward. To leachate and collect in pools. For even in the smallest trickle a seed buried can sprout. The nectar seeping through shell, leaks upon the thirsty heart which beats outward from under eternal slumber stilled once again. Halting dry spells cast with sudden downpour. Where moments before for millennia, the dust of their ancestors whirled about on hot winds over worlds deserted of life in it's spiritual drought. Ubiquitous, desperation always hears the crackling of shriveled souls right before it's own combustion of a spontaneous nature then sparked and shattering to every which way. Countless in all forms and places it shall spread across as ether over the voids as it has done before and thus again will rest where it once had been again for the very first time."

-Sumguay S. Nodirl
Track Name: Proving Existence Proves Stubbornness
to be rather honest though in benevolence stilled benign by minds made soft as flustered youths. by constant tapping thoughts out in code rhythm punched into keyholes in foreheads. turned to open or lock. how things should all work when written in sans script on a stupefying lonely bitch left puppless by grabby hands holding metal detectors over ransom of a beautifully barren beach stilled of any life but elemental. somewhere far off from the likes of the counted. like some unlovely faced down drowned floater upon the rejective waves that cradle. the hot nose of a fresh expiration date reachable. Roses under the apex tippy toe.