Critiques on Divisional Litanies

Let’s whitewash it all. Your normality and sterility is killing me and I am not supposed to be conscious to it. The spirit of attack must always come through. The march forth into awareness never stops. The struggle must be onward. Must begin to realize the enemy is nearer then you think. That convenience, that service, that taken for granted. That every moment regulated. That is the enemy. The surroundings, the lushness of this all, the grandiose saccharine fantasy of now. Fucking fantasy world. Normalcy and the fallacy and reality dancing together in some sort of nasty sermon on three way sex...

Catabolic Collapse- Demo

Catabolic Collapse- Demo
Anti-Civilization Acappella Harsh Noise

"The steadfast amidst the graves of the sullen triumphs. Stroking our worthless human egos. As the poison of our iatrogenic everything consumes all. The silence in the trees. The sadness in the dawn as it leaks callously onto our landscape of mistake. The wistfulness of the damned waiting for cataclysmic death. Dreaming of silence everywhere."

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My Two Cents Smeared In Shit

Endlessly the forthright nihilism of shadow puppetry foreshadows the decline of decaying cultural mores as the forays of primitive recess into the brains nether regions. Like light in the séances of ugly truth the cults march forth in their decimation. The violence underwhelms in its mediocrity all because there is too much stagnant peace book ending the moments of glorious upheaval. The type of peace when you get fat and have kids. The peace that you awaken to in the cold sweat of youthful memories. The glorification of the violence comes easy as the weeks pass into months and into years. The silence of the throes of life. The nice times intertwined so fiercely to your core that sunny outlooks are here and the pleasant disposition is probably not to far away. The snarls and contemptuous looks. The facades of glamorous hate. The urges to take, have, hold and never want. Cast about strewn like dreams. Dissolved into the hands of shaking times. Atoning for sinless nights in the fronts of monstrosities consisting of petty movements. How can one night yell into the maws of life and not want a decently terrible response? The type of response warranting the change of address and name at the very least. The chaotic boredom of nihilism sitting still as creativity has faded into memories. Where would we be without ruins holding reality to its word?