951 Frankford Ave
Philadelphia, PA, 19125
Doors 8:00 PM
This event is 21 and over
"I'm dreaming you," the Voice whispers in the dark.
This is the sound of a star exploding. Its heart bursts outward in fire and energy. This is the sound of creation, birthed naked-raw and shrieking.
This is the song of a world split wide by bestial mouths.
These words gather in about you like a shroud, encasing you in cold certainty.
Vision and voice, ecstasy and agony - a breaking crescendo of majesty painted in embracing limbs and whip-sharp fractals of hair. The aura of these aurals speaks a language hewn from the language of vigilant systems caught forever in a whirl of suffering. These are not cries of victims, however, but of strength. The faces you see moving about in flashes of white light enrapture the mind with the words they spit upon reality's stage. They stalk like sentries, mighty in their agony. The echoes of their edicts rebound across the psyche long after; not nightmares, but the jagged stain of bitter memory cloaked in a caress. There are other things said upon their stage, other worlds born and obscured in an eclipse of horrific intent - but we will not speak of them here. These words are to be heard by you only.
The scents - old soil, the sweat and stink of animal hunger - disappear.
"Wait until it opens," the Voice says. "It will amaze you."
The instruments of these Bestial Mouths are cacophonous: hammering percussion and industrialized synthetics wrapped in the lyrics of euphoric dread. The shapes they form - crumbling mythologies, voided personalities and the clenched-fist orgasmic crush of lost desires-are as immediate as they are intimate, glimpses into the world that these three inhabit. Don't look too closely, however... it's easy to get lost in the night.
There-now you've done it. The kaleidoscopic frenzy has vanished. The shining beacon is lost, now, a fading idea as ephemeral as the drying imprint of a kiss. What you think of as a room is suddenly, terrifyingly vast. No stars shine here, and even the idea of ideas is elusive. The only absolute, in this great is uncertainty. Only the thought of you remains.
There it hangs upon the oneiric idea of Self, and as sense begins to uncoil itself in your mind, you perceive the grinding, shapes of rows of white slabs approaching.
The ceremral chaos of Bestial Mouths is an invitation to dream darkly, a monstrous glamour to dazzle the eyes of the spirit - their texts a prayer to unlocking secrets of the shattered soul.
What salvation you might find there is purely coincidental.
"We dream each other," the Voice whispers, and in a great new darkness you drink this knowledge in discarnate wonder as the teeth close around you.