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(Eng.) - El Panóptico del Incubo - (The Incubus´ Panopticon) The jail of two eyes. The Panopticon. There are no secrets. All words and whispers, even thoughts, are heard by the watchers. The incubus rules the north side of the tower, while the succubus rules the south side. There is a smell of sex everywhere. Monks and nuns, held in cells, hold their noses or vomit bile. The jail of two eyes. The circular void that separates the tower from the cells. The measure between pain and passion. The incubus writes erotic fantasies and filters them among the nuns, making them sick, filling them with vice. The succubus gets excited by sucking in the sweat of despair. The jail of two eyes. The blood. The buried eyes of God. The Panopticon forgotten by Lucifer. A kingdom apart. A hill out of the maps. Incubus and succubus have dinner, during the night, and share a long tongue kiss. The Incubus says: For every nun who sighs sensually, my plots grow in the underworld. For every nun who sighs sensually, my spirit fills with strength, with cursed poetry, and the rats cheer my name. For every nun who sighs sensually, my place in the Panopticon is justified and I sharpen my sword and cut the hair of a guardian angel. The Succubus says: For every tear shed of a holy man, my body gains more youth and beauty. For every tear shed, I am dressing in Babalon's outfits, whose anagram is BBN. For every tear shed, my place in the Panopticon is justified, and I carry an arrow in my bow, which I shoot towards the heavens and which pierces the soul of a cherub.
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(Eng.) - La Playa de los Muertos - (The Beach of the Dead) The only law I respect is that of the revolver, of the fire and the ashes. I walk through a hollow world where servitude is the aristocracy. I'm heading towards the end of time where men's toast and women's jam are the breakfast of the Grey Gods. I pay tribute. I offer sacrifice. My left hand and its lying path it's cut by the axe's edge. It hurts me. But I endure the pain. I light up the bonfire. I entrust bones of ancient warriors. The flames are my book, my devotion. I take my seat on the sand to contemplate how the sun becomes an egg one with rubicund breasts that offer the glory of milk, always denied, always cornered. I met a lot of widows along the road. They all wore mourning. They carried their husbands' open corpses on their backs. The smell was unbearable. I threw up when I saw them. One of them felt pity on me. She licked my eyes with her dirty tongue. I ran away. They were left behind. The ones in black. The ones who will always cry. They tied me to the memories of my mother. I was subjected to images of husbands of mud with steel fists. Grandmothers who did not love their grandchildren but devoured them on New Year's Eve. They left me locked up for a thousand days, confined with my mother. Her hells were mine. Never ever a paradise. Not even a small one to carry in the pocket. Never. He knelt down to receive from the Grey Gods a forbidden kiss. They made deep cuts in his arms. In those wounds they introduced chains and many rusty coins. They sewed the cuts and gave him a new name: Al Ger Non. They sent him far away to combat against dangerous enemies that put on edge homeland and religion. But he never came back. There were rumours that Al Ger Non would have fallen in love with an important adversary’s daughter. it wasn't possible to verify it because nobody wanted to go to the land of the enemies. Everything was terrible there. Better to forget to be forgotten. All the monsters were confined to a crystal box. No one could touch it. Only the high priest who had four heads and a mouse's tail. He could manipulate the monsters locked up extract information from them and weave a grimoire of cloth a magic garment that will wear that chosen one to kill the Grey Gods. Thus it was heard. Thus it will be repeated for generations. My sword is soft. My words are too. I was a poet. Now I'm a decrepit thing that crawls on rough walls. They spit on me. They mock my soft sword. They say I don't fight anymore because I lack courage. Come on! Dare to touch a single hair of my prehistoric beard and my sword will be stiff again. I'll cut you into slices. Come on! The black angel had white wings and red hands with which he made weapons for us. The world could be something better but it didn't want to be it. On the other hand, chaos and its daughters were sweeter. We use the black angel’s weapons to attack our friends. We fooled them. We offered promises impossible to be fulfilled. And they believed us. We paint our hands red such like the black angel and we pull the triggers. All gunpowder of the universe destroyed the universe and almost straight away, it created another. There was not black angel nor room for any religion. Only survival of the most fragile. The victory of defeat. Human leaf trees screaming all night which it was day. Caressed by the cut cheek that bleeds lucidity. We were defeated in our success. We murdered the king and enthroned the queen. We murdered the queen and enthroned the beggar. His orders were curious: to turn the air into earth; that dogs were cats; that women were men; that all life should resemble death. The beggar king, wise, madman, hermit, cherished, hated, acclaimed, trampled. No book recorded his reign but some of us still remember him. He lives in our icy heart. We catch all the idiots. We gut them and simmered them. How tasty is the meat of an idiot! Exalt! Extol! Contrary to what old ladies think, eating meat of idiot it doesn't make you one of them. It immunises you against them. The snakes got tired and stood up. They looked at the Grey Gods. They insulted them. They promised revenge and many other calamities. Then they built skeletal-boats. They furrowed the firmament intending to find the sacred abode. But their mission failed. Grey fire fell on them. The dust of the martyrs descended onto Earth and formed a lake. There is where the desperate go to beg. But no one answers to them. Behind the kiss there was a betrayal. Cold lips almost of dead. She embraced me and stabbed me with a knife so long and sharp that my whole body got mashed. The face of the Earth is also the face of an unnamed tomb. There we will go to rest in looking for our blood candies.
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(Eng.) - 12 / 65 : El Goce - (12 / 65 : The Joy) They were opposites on everything. 12 worked in a small, suffocating office. 65 was self-employed and cosmetics saleswoman. They were opposites but they coincided in something: a morbid pleasure, an unachievable utopia. They both dreamed about stabbing each other. They wanted to watch themselves bleed, but the Law forbade it. The taboo eaten by politicians and spiritual leaders. The Taboo that burns the criminals’ imagination. The anguish grew. It was the covert need. 65 and 12 met in a pub to chat. The theme -the axis of conversation- was always the same: to imagine what it would be like feeling the blade entering their bodies... the warm blood flowing through the wound... It was just a matter of time. The first to fail was 12. Her job performance became ruinous. Her mind was deviated, occupied by her daydream. 65 also staggered: she lost many clients. Her tax debts grew. She didn’t pay the bills and saw them piling up. Very soon the two friends realized that they had to fulfil what they so longed for: to leave the Rule of Law, the supposed irrational crime... The only thing that mattered was to consumate the desire. They prepared themselves. They waited for the snow of winter. The white snowflakes. The tears of the skies. They chose the day, it had to be the sum of their names, that is 77. On the seventh day of the seventh month, they waited for the night to fall. Then they took off their clothes. Naked, facing each other, they knelt. 12 lifted a knife. It was beautiful, just bought. Its blade shone thanks to the candles they placed in the room. She stabbed her friend. Of a swift, precise thrust. 65 bled. In her face there was happiness, ecstasy! "More... another one" begged her friend. 12 did not hesitate, held the knife firmly and proceeded to stab again at 65. The floor filled with red liquid, while the friends groaned loudly, enjoying every second of the act. It didn't matter what would happen when dawn enlighted that room. All that mattered was pleasure. Fantasy became true. Beyond... an indefinable kingdom.
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(Eng.) - Las Ocho Hijas de Henoch - (The Eight Daughters of Henoch) Apocryphal. Noise trapped in a page. Inharmonious beast. Apocryphal. Lethal dew on the city. Blood and rain. Mystery and cacophony. The beast sings a sweet melody. Apocryphal. The mother gives birth. There are eight babies. The prophet arrives at dawn. He comes from the East on horseback. He carries on his hand the tattoo of salvation. Apocryphal. The prophet blesses the babies. "They are my daughters and they will defend the eight most important and powerful cities on Earth," he says, after giving them a magical kiss on the forehead. Apocryphal. The newcomer mysteriously emancipates himself in his room. The owner of the hostel says that there is a smell of angels. Apocryphal. The centuries pass and the daughters are perfected. They are immortal. Fine weapons of Heaven. Apocryphal. The beast on the page, the eternal noise of the fall. From the last fall, from the last mistake. Apocryphal. The lies of humanity will cost them more than they think. Men love, women sharpen ethereal swords, children count the wings of flies. Apocryphal. Noise, beast, the eight daughters find the grimoire. They release the demon. They cheer his name. They exalt it. They take off their clothes, offer their bodies. Nipples. Wet hair. Smiles. Old Testament eroticism. Apocryphal. The freed beast, the Duke of a Thousand Faces, embraces the eight daughters of Henoch with his warmth. God is afraid for the first time in his existence. The Son of Man looks the other way. The scene is too strong. Angels vomit, the atmosphere darkens. Apocryphal. When the beast, whose voice is like the noise of the beginning of time, is about to penetrate the bodies of the eight with its greed, they put their hands together. They form a sacred octagon. -What is this? –asks the demon. "The eight kisses that will return you to dust" the young women say in unison. Apocryphal. The beast that no longer has noise. Death that comes unexpectedly. The twilight of evil. Henoch claps from on high. God breathes in relief, and that relief dispels the shadows that clung to the world. Apocryphal. The eight return to the countryside. They light a pyre where they burn their clothes. Apocryphal. Something is very wrong. The eight play with alchemy. The Son of Man is suspicious. He talks to his Father, but He doesn't respond. Ultra alchemy and metaphysics. Apocryphal. Henoch appears with his throat cut. The blood that comes out of his neck forms a satanic rainbow. Above him, the triumphant insignia of Incubismo –INCB 906- that cannot be revealed. Inverted Kabbalah. Apocryphal. The eight daughters drink the liquid Philosopher's Stone and they appear immediately upon God. Nietzsche was right: God was dead. Apocryphal. The heiresses destroy the Demiurge's body. The Son of Man cannot believe what He sees: the Almighty Father never existed. Apocryphal. Stink to Demiurge slain. The Justice is reestablished. The eight goddesses who rule the world. And in the last Heaven, there is only one Mirror.

about

Desde 2006 y a lo largo de los últimos quince años, el Incubismo surge y resurge de la mezcla de elementos estéticos, filosóficos y culturales que flotan y vuelan sobre un humus contradictorio y extraño. Su misión es desfigurar y transfigurar símbolos, ideas y objetos de la anodina cotidianeidad.

El Incubismo es una meta y un proceso. Objeto fractal. Grimorio fallido.

El Incubismo fue, es y será.

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"Los Sonidos del Rito" es un compendio y un inquietante legado de quince años de Incubismo, interpretado por escultores sonoros como Fluor (Fuente Luminica Universal Oscuridad Recíproca), Darío Martínez, Djinn7 y Avral. Sus obras habitan promiscuamente con los textos incubistas de Diego Arandojo.

Paisajes postindustriales, música concreta, electrónica experimental, ruidismo y atisbos de post-rock y shoegaze. Cada pista significa una comunión con la suciedad y la trascendencia. Cada sonido y cada palabra reflejan la monstruosidad que un incubo seductor y horrendo impregna en el incauto testigo / oyente / lector de la obra incubista.

Una cruel invitación a descender, gozar y sufrir.

Arte como Rito.
Magia y Estética.

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Pistas 1 y 2 son parte de “Ciclo de Thule” (2006) incluido en “Trilogía Incubica” (DVD/CD, 2011) editado por GH Records.

Pistas 3 y 4 son parte de “El Panóptico del Incubo” (2006) incluido en “Trilogía Incubica” (DVD/CD, 2011) editado por GH Records.

Pistas 5 y 6 son parte de “Opus 23” (2007) incluido en “Trilogía Incubica” (DVD/CD, 2011) editado por GH Records.

Pista 7 es inédita y fue compuesta en 2009.

Pista 8 fue incluida en la “Las Playa de los Muertos” (2019), edición digital de Incubico Sonoro: incubicosonoro.bandcamp.com/album/la-playa-de-los-muertos

Pista 9 fue incluida en “Trilogía I: El Goce del Silencio” (2019), edición digital por Incubico Sonoro (2019): incubicosonoro.bandcamp.com/album/avral-el-goce-del-silencio-trilog-a-i

Pista 10 es inédita y fue compuesta en 2008 y remasterizada en 2021.

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Since 2006 and over the last fifteen years, Incubismo arises and resurfaces from the mixture of aesthetic, philosophical and cultural elements that float and fly on a contradictory and strange humus. Its mission is to disfigure and transfigure symbols, ideas and objects of nondescript everyday life.

Incubismo is a goal and a process. Fractal object. Failed grimoire.

Incubismo was, is and will be.

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"Los Sonidos del Rito" (The Sounds of the Rite) is a compendium and a disturbing legacy of fifteen years of Incubismo, performed by sound sculptors such as Fluor (Fuente Luminica Universal Oscuridad Recíproca), Darío Martínez, Djinn7 and Avral. Their works inhabit promiscuously with the incubist texts of Diego Arandojo.

Post-industrial landscapes, concrete music, experimental electronic, noise and glimpses of post-rock and shoegaze. Every track means a communion with dirt and transcendence. Every sound and every word reflect the monstrosity that a seductive and horrendous incubus impregnate in the unsuspecting witness / listener / reader of the incubist work.

A cruel invitation to descend, enjoy and suffer.

Art like Rite.
Magick and Aesthetics.

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Tracks 1 and 2 are part of “Ciclo de Thule” (2006) included in “Trilogía Incubica” (DVD / CD, 2011) issued by GH Records.

Tracks 3 and 4 are part of "El Panóptico del Incubo" (2006) included in "Trilogía Incubica" (DVD / CD, 2011) issued by GH Records.

Tracks 5 and 6 are part of “Opus 23” (2007) included in “Trilogía Incubica” (DVD / CD, 2011) issued by GH Records.

Track 7 is previously unreleased and composed in 2009.

Track 8 was included in “Las Playa de los Muertos” (2019), digital edition by Incubico Sonoro: incubicosonoro.bandcamp.com/album/la-playa-de-los-muertos

Track 9 was included in “Trilogy I: El Goce del Silencio” (2019), digital edition by Incubico Sonoro (2019): incubicosonoro.bandcamp.com/album/avral-el-goce-del-silencio-trilog-a-i

Track 10 is previously unreleased. Composed in 2008 and remastered in 2021.

credits

released June 13, 2021

Todos los textos son de Diego Arandojo.
Material compilado y masterizado por Fluor y Darío Martínez.

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All texts by Diego Arandojo.
Compilated and masterized by Fluor and Darío Martínez.

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about

Incubico Sonoro Buenos Aires, Argentina

Incubico Sonoro is the sound-sculpting section of Incubismo.

Incubismo is an aesthetic, philosophical and cultural avant-garde collective born in 2006 in Buenos Aires, Argentina.
It is focused on symbolic, archetypical, surreal and occult matters that lurk since ever on the human phenomenon: in body, mind, soul and spirit. INCUBISMO radically expresses itself via visuals, sounds and literature.
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