1. |
83 Wars
04:03
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2. |
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Just casually watching the oil spill slowly slick and fill the sea with dark,
and Atlas getting sick to death of playing the victim like he gives a fuck.
These days he’s just holding up our ego, amassed to a ball of hash that’s smoked and blown out on the regal.
To the ether.
Like we’re either on that muster for the jewel encrusted lever-keepers,
branded with an iron, gripeing the over reach with the divas,
or teaching a ravenous flock of the newcomers,
the bummers of living in millipede,locking the legs into unison, pushing the sandstone for the bitter-sweet.
Pylons til the grim reap.
Rock-picks to the roadwork fucker.
Rewards for the new meat.
6 feet for the old man mutton.
You can watch that oil spill from the sideways glance, of the cocktail swill in you and your ilk’s iconified class and paying it no mind.
We’re eyeball level for sitting to witness the creeks clog, every capillary filling with menace and gunk, coughing the street smog.
Rats out in the brittle breeze, trying to hide the sick,
swarming round the nucleus, fiending for a fix.
Just know that even when the trample has been bred into the flock,
there’ll still be a couple torches flaming fierce up the block, that couldn’t be snubbed out… for now.
Crammed into the carousel.
Crammed into the carousel.
Jammed in that revolving door.
Rammed into a revolution.
Huffing on eachothers fumes.
Crammed into the carousel.
Crammed into the carousel.
Rammed into a revolution.
And each of our gods be lining up,
taking their turns at Midas touch,
licking their mandibles,
watching us setting a fire to files of binding trust.
The fabric of any defining line of life, innards of bile and puss,
pooping that practical anarchy outta the cavity onto the shelf to dust.
Relics of positive energy,
looping together to puzzle an enemy,
stripes on a zebra, vendetta mask, community meet-up.
To a dream scape like a site map for the brand lords,
Like a Claymation of an ancient civilisation and its downfall.
But even when the trample has been bred into the flock,
there’ll still be a couple torches flaming fierce up the block,
that couldn’t be snubbed out… for now.
Crammed into the carousel.
Crammed into the carousel.
Jammed in that revolving door.
Rammed into a revolution.
Huffing on eachothers fumes.
Crammed into the carousel.
Crammed into the carousel.
Rammed into a revolution.
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3. |
DDP
04:00
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4. |
White Trash
03:28
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5. |
Shallow Grave
01:49
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6. |
Useless
03:26
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Suburban Dark Sydney, Australia
Music not to be messed with, Suburban Dark (SD) is a duo hell-bent on keeping things straight and tough. Self-described as “fight beats”, their analog-synthesizer infused sound is deep, minimal and razor sharp, intended to be played loud.
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