Tuxedomoon
No Tears

Every time (every single time!) I hear it, I feel the urge to literally tear my skin off with my claws in a hypnotic lunar dance and, still unsatisfied, engulf myself in the pure vampiric atmosphere that has been created.

The possessed percussion completes the sabbath, that keyboard carries the labyrinthine flavor of the night, a never-ending night. The strobe light captures indescribable moments, the nature of the saxophone is transformed, the singing exorcises and stirs demons, the distortions carve out finally liberated paranoias.

Together, in the frenetic dance, we share our inner massacres. A party with a metallic aftertaste like the savored blood that invigoratingly propels us into ceaseless sonic epilepsies.

The rejected light paralyzes salvation, consciously out of control we are immersed in an electrified plasma of dark madness. Enchanted, we can do nothing but yield to the occult deluge.

And an orgy of splatters of damned souls stains the air thickening it with perdition. The vortex is so strong it implodes to survive.

The acrid sweat lubricates obscene anemic couplings in an endless spiral. Understanding the moment unleashes a lucid madness that makes the illusion effective. The delirium solidifies, cradling us in the immobility of an escape.

Visions stack up creating a spiral staircase that we descend, slipping into foggy hysteric places. The noise of friction and the jolting reverberation smash us unrelentingly against nothingness.

And in all of this, we tremblingly comply with the whisper of vampires in perpetual abstinence from love, here lies the drama of the undead: no tears for the creatures of the night... GOODBYE!