Reward on Moozar : http://reward-my-music.com/9135 The return of the great beast Choronzon is here. Lest you know the proper evocation you will certainly never make it to the Ziggurat Of Dead Shibboleths . 40,000 Ephraimites have preceded you. 40,000 Ephraimites have died. Participate in the Mass Ov Choronzon, cast your ego into the infinitude to request Inferni... you most certainly deserve it! Video Directed by Ferenc Teglas http://www.youtube.com/user/koponya Purchase CD: http://veilofthorns.com/store/store-home/cds/choronzon-ziggurat-of-dead-shibboleths/ Digital album: http://inner-x-musick.bandcamp.com/album/ziggurat-of-d­ead-shibboleths ... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVPYG21wFt4

Download now for the sweet, sweet price of nowt: https://digital.panicmachine.com/album/panic-pandemic Ontological Anarchism 00:00:00 Aesthetic Shock Tactics 00:05:52 Unpossessed/Unpassing 00:09:24 our Cacophonous Ghosts 00:13:33 The Time/Death/Birth Gimmick 00:19:36 Body and Psyche (Dissolution) 00:26:58 Viral Linguistics 00:31:41 Either/Or/Neither/Neither 00:35:27 The Machine in Repose 00:43:27 Disdain Transcends 00:48:06 The Process of Conditioning 00:52:30 Human Rites (Schizoanalysis) 00:56:57 AUMGN 01:06:59 The end came and nobody noticed. No bangs or whimpers; not a ripple. The souls of the faithful were swept up to their reward, leaving a mass of aimless, fearful husks behind. They too did not notice what had happened. Their essence was shredded and consumed by the ghost they’d created over generations. To the faithless, the shells of the faithful seemed to be much the same, perhaps there was a bit more of an air of desperation, but it was hard to quantify. The wrecks could be seen, though nobody ever noticed them, their vehicles, perfect in their shine, cell phones always at their ear, or seemingly talking to themselves with their earpieces in. They are but characters in a nightmare being experienced by a drunk lying on a street in a parallel universe. He wonders in his sleep who could possibly want to listen to these vile, empty vessels for hours on end. A poison in his gut twists at his insides, so he shifts in his stupor. A wave engulfs a small nation. A war drags on in an arid and hot part of the globe. Death-squads wander through the surrounding streets. They know who he is and wish to separate this pole axed creator and the world he’s dreamt up. If they can bring it into a separate existence they can colonize it, for it already contains a population of perfect slaves. The light was going out of both worlds, fading into entropic languor. The end became boring centuries before it saw fit to happen. As usual the promised spectacle failed to entrance. Audience participation was necessary to pull off the trick, but the illusion could not be agreed on. Gods were created, and though formed fully in the minds of humans, ruled in unquestioned tyranny. Every one was dead by the end, though they had never lived. They had been brought into existence by human thought and feeling, but had also pre-dated them. They survive the end and predate the beginning. None of them were real. The death-squad smelled blood. They didn’t know the reason for their hunt, nor question it. They’d play. They’d move. This set them apart. Blind rage was a tool to hide the futility of the search for meaning. They wanted the drunk for his self induced psychosis. Many were outside the fence, but didn’t matter any more than the billions of clones within ... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDN-orJkZ6Q