Pax Americana

by DSM

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about

Looking to put this out on a 7". Any label help would be highly appreciated.

credits

released 09 August 2014

Connor - Guitar
Jay - Bass
Dion - Drums

All of DSM contributes to vocals.

Recorded/Mixed by Jay at The Borg Ward Collective over the course of 2014.

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about

DSM Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Milwaukee burling league.

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Track Name: Escapist
Eighteen shitty years pass, and my existence has been reduced to pacing around in circles, belting out manic soliloquys to an audience of used needles and sad little empty dope baggies. Lay back, never sleep again.
Dopamine spikes and my life refracts into vivid kaliedoscope colors and dancing fractal patterns. When I crash, I dream in grayscale. When I wake, I wish I hadn’t.

Lay back.
An escapist death.
Track Name: Decimatio
Hey there, Snowflake. Your mouth is a pucker from which words fall out like hot offal dropping from a dog's ass onto linoleum. Somewhere hidden between the detritus is a back yard of molted exoskeletons and former liasons desperately buried in bravado. Don't leave the salted circle. I am not your bedfellow. Do not pat my head. The sum of every quark and boson binding you; negative. You are an ant laying privileged eyes upon God. Without a banner to guide you through the night, watch the pigeons scatter as I punch you until you stop breathing.
Track Name: Black Highlighter
Cause and effect. To alter the is, redact the was. So mote it be.
Mote it be.
Our concrete hexacombs tower over the many lead kissed remains of second place. Do cattle not march up the slaughterhouse steps of their own volition, agog? Broken promises drenched in bleach; immortalized as soiled laundry sprayed with perfume. Dried up gene pools scream in the breeze from the dirt beneath the strip malls and the parking lots, forever purged from the collective conscience by barbarians wielding red pens and black highlighters. Drones of empires with eyes forward until the broken clock reflects true once more.
Track Name: Indigo
It was assumed that we were supposed to change the world, but we were led astray by a pied piper. Sordid omnipresent Pan of the plastic abyss. Engineered! A generation of idiocracy destined to spend their lives worshipping various lit screens and paying homage to the circus of fantasies and self-promotion. Unearned self worth and life on-demand. Altruism and compassion wither under technological weight. Unintended devolution, Generation: Me. We were supposed to change the world, but we lost our way. Devolution by way of Singularity, overwritten. Deus ex machina.
Track Name: Empty Paradigm
Your composition is silicate based. No heart and no brain. Purging residual gamma particles you've leeched from within the ether and draining the fucking life from those nearby. Something about you resonates disharmoniously, and I want to shatter you. I'll quarter you with Occam's Razor and leave your carcass ripped asunder in black trash bags by the freeway.
You read like a Plath novel.
You are the walking event horizon.
And yet... sand pumps through no heart.
Synapses fire through no brain.
Traveling light years along strings of the multiverses. Micro to macro, a track-marked ghost adorned in lavender and gold painted skin. The stagnant Jester that weeps while no one bothers to pay it any mind.
Track Name: 49%
Raze the barrel over one bad apple then rub the tumour with ash and declare it healed. Foolhardy ideas multiply and divide... Invoked, the inalienable. Whispers underneath the deafening clamour of calcified pineal glands and coaxial rage. Of smoking snake oil and cardboard children. Suffocate over circumstance.
Suffocating under 51%.
Pliable convictions will bend, and the bent will be broken. The broken will be discarded and once discarded, we'll be forgotten. Can you still smell the pillars of smoke drifting on the wind? All for one, watching stardust, blood, and bone intermingle in flames. I let live yet can't live, but at least I'm safe now.
Track Name: Pax Americana
Why don blinders when you can sew your own eyes shut? Vapid waste. Wear every money shot like a tiara.

Frogtied like a whore, prepare for a lifetime of every excruciating inch.
Two fingers or three? Three fingers or four? Fisted until torn. Disassociate and bleed out.
Are orifices not meant to be fucked? Faces to be slapped? My enemy, you will lick the leather boots and thank the cadre for a proper caining. Flash the tadpole grin. You are betrayers of self and idolaters to the laws of wicked men. They of the copper athames and obsidian hearts.

I've rejected this existence for a prison of surveillance.