1. |
||||
|
New name for an old cage
to trample on brain waves.
Sugar pill for vintage skin
tempts plastic fate.
The calendars will tell you what you are.
Calipers to define the empty space
for dissonance relief.
Colors fade to Bedlam, there’s nothing left to reason.
No scores to frame.
Colors fade to Bedlam, there’s nothing left to reason.
The past has left you with dirty fingers and excuses,
but it’s high tide and there’s no one left to blame.
|
||||
2. |
||||
|
Past prime and never was I close
to the pictures and pipelines you formed.
Barrel-chested voice,
wrap around my dainty wrists and resonate.
All your hooks inside,
pull me along for your ride.
I'm your bleeding son.
I am your broken son, unaligned.
Drag me behind.
I cast a lure, never cleaned the guts.
I tried to follow, but couldn't match your stride.
The mountains you move crane necks
measured against the mounds I've shuffled around.
My target's in flux,
your shadow stands unwavering.
Birthright cologne and arsenals
couldn't keep you down, old man.
I'm under the weight of band-aids and aspirin
strapped to my breaking back.
I'll never walk far enough.
|
||||
3. |
Paper Cuts
02:14
|
|||
|
Anesthetic to vocal throne
returns the midnight that birthed our bones,
here to shatter.
Walking targets.
We’re writing out scripts in dead tongues.
They’re all turning away.
We’re leeching ourselves dry.
They’re all turning away.
That we could recant Hell,
the setting sun on this vigilante town
we’re back-renting ourselves from
to repel the midnight turn.
Here to shatter.
Walking targets.
We’re writing out scripts in dead tongues.
We’re leeching ourselves dry.
50/50 I’m a walking dead man.
|
||||
4. |
Locust Bean Gum
01:54
|
|||
|
Catch the wrong end of the knife.
Breathe in the swarm.
It’s too late in the day to recalibrate,
relocate Hollywood to the backyard
and farm new saviors.
We’re lost in red tape like spotlights in acid rain.
We’re building bombs under Levitical Law.
Assembly lines melt in monochrome.
If it’s too late in the day to recalibrate,
let momentum sweep the dust away.
Call the game.
Give me something that breathes.
Give me a reason, seasons,
or let me go.
|
||||
5. |
Old Sparky
02:54
|
|||
|
The wire swings the man just a little further out to the right.
He knows not what he’s done.
There’s no recourse to fight back.
Behind the two-way glass,
you’ll find yourself
the passive inductor.
You’ll wish a plague upon his head.
All red palms will be avenged.
Swing the rope.
This broken face, our mirror:
Take it away.
Take it under while we’re sleeping.
Let the jury hang on wilting bones.
After midnight, we don’t answer the phone.
Further and further over time,
our eyes anchor to the right.
Swing the rope.
This broken face, our mirror:
Take it away.
Take it under while we’re sleeping.
Let the jury hang.
I’ve never seen myself.
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
12-gauge laugh track with licensed forehead
stares us down.
Bereaved binary - sudden digital clips.
Forced into rerun oblivion.
There was supposed to be…
a table turned, a crown reversed, a shattering.
Beaming signals, handed down.
Posturing to your own reflection.
You are everything.
Everyone is you.
|
||||
7. |
Dread
01:54
|
|||
|
Hissing analog static -
the dulled organs of a wedding ring.
Hung refuse dangling from a living room tress.
The cycle is relieved through
a hole in the head.
Rotting vanities.
False walls abbreviating.
The prognosis weighs a thousand bricks on my chest.
This end was built into me.
|
||||
8. |
Vegan Neuroscientist
02:15
|
|||
|
Balding man would like to procure a cure
for his shadow and his stomach ache.
Hypothesis on a burner to the boiling point,
he traps the past like rats
With splendid tumors, sweetly placed.
The license to erase for knowing’s sake.
Licentious to erase for capture’s sake.
The line is easy to cross.
Numbers
pour in
to dead veins
in his graying skin.
Save this white liberal from his curiosity.
|
||||
9. |
Combover
01:43
|
|||
|
Gavel to gavel, silkscreens of fire.
Your voice
haunted, the same way
ice melts on,
traces bare skin
for the siphons, the short-attentioned press.
No shade for the obelisk.
Desert flesh on a stick for all to see.
All around the podium that your lungs inflated,
your cities and all their vagrants
burn.
|
||||
10. |
Ruiner
02:18
|
|||
|
Masticator, you swallow everything.
The topography shifts with your breath and spit.
So breathe and spit.
We’re flooded by the waves of your tongue.
We run until bones begrudge
under the weight of what they haven’t done.
Ruin me,
so I can’t see your hand working against your bitter offspring.
Ruin me,
so I can’t hear you breathing,
so I stop dreaming of your sharp teeth
on my back.
So I can finally accede,
it was never up to me.
|
||||
Lower Automation Illinois
Noise-adjacent mathpunk from Illinois.
Lower Automation recommends:
The Banality of Menu
by Glass noose
You might have seen Tristan fill in on drums with us, but when he's not coming in clutch for us, Tristan makes music that is sometimes mathy, sometimes mellow, and always incredible.
go to album
We've played a few stages with WWWK, Highly recommended for people that are into proggy metal with weird time signatures
go to albumIf you like Lower Automation, you may also like:
supported by 35 fans who also own “Lower Automation”
One of my new favorite groups. /Hope and its lyrics (particularly near the end) made me misty eyed.
go to album
supported by 32 fans who also own “Lower Automation”
One of the most unsettling albums i have heard in a while. Chat Pile creates a grotesque blend of noise and groove that brings me back everytime.
go to album
Zasługuję na istnienie
by Melisa
Polish trio Melisa combine elements of noise rock, grindcore, mathcore, and sludge with lyrics that balance between poetic and political.
go to album
Before The Day Has Gone
by Bellini
Ten years may have passed since the last Bellini record, but the math rock group sound as fierce as ever.
go to album
