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Dead Presidents

from Seraphylogenocide by Z(enseider)Z

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Ali Vegas beat

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Ninety-nine lives quantify consciousness to undermine the loss of this ability to transmogrify beliefs from lies. Ninety-nine hives buzz with information speed signs of discontent to new, new tribes of elemental fives and we head for azure-cerulean astral skies to theriomorphically heightened communion with my siblings and InI. Feline surprise will leave behind linear demise. Grab multidirectional megaphones and harvest freshly encrypted strains of mind. Thru depth in text or audio cutup skills we flex rest assured in your heart we've sigilized with the best. Don't even run your fuckin fingertips across the desk. There is no sense to make. There is no one to impress. Our fear leaves us without distress. Take every-fuckin-thing in jest.

Advise, protagonize, and analyze the shallow shortcomings of the stereotypified and ostracized. They need emotional engineers to rebuild their broken minds. And, we on-site, to sever the connection to they last line to outer heights. Hold that knot in the pit of your stomach tight. Don't jeopardize the rites denied, amplified, and surrendering to the identified. Trivial eyes. Cut down to size. Watch the meter rise, mercury plummets to new indeterminate minus heists.

Still confused? No excuse. Back in school the hard knocks left us black and blue thru and thru. There ain't no truth? D'fuck we fight, bleed, trip, and spit for all thru-out the trialsa youth? Was we asleep at the wheel when semi-aut spray hit Case cross his face between Morris ave. and 22? Right. Too many adjectives suffocate beneath a guise called I, we, me, and you. Some skills've no need for successes as a tangible proof. I'm still standin' wit my feet on the concrete and thats an accomplishment where I been, dude. It only boils down to details of what I seen on the routine. Daily antidotes for conformin to they scene. So many shades of green rule supreme, but shit I must admit I still ain't even sure who the fucks livin' who. Dead president double-penetration or phony rugged thugs without an ounce a nice or gram a smooth.

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from Seraphylogenocide, released December 22, 2003
Written, arranged, and spit by Eian Orange

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Z(enseider)Z New Jersey

Premiere aural catharsis and designer sophistry for psyberpunk scumfucks and bottom-feeding occultural scenesters.

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