The Stand Alone Complex

by Tomorrow Kings

Track Name: Nigger Rigged Time Machine (DOS4GW)
SKECH185: It’s the Black Hawk Down-coat rocker. Shadowbox a forest to Sand. Paint with anger; glaze your face with razor blades. Nat Cole Jazzy pattern. Blackhole Atom-Smasher. Human-head Totem Pole stacker Last Laughter Legend Ruby Weapon.

Malakh El: Drinking Jacky D happily. Rapping slappily after me laughingly thrashing bastards with classic frees and a Django like mastery. Killing rap haberdashery. Maybe by happenstance. Just had to be me giving all you humans clarity.

Collasoul Structure: It's the fat snatch lip twister. Captain tap fist snifters. Ass I bass slick fisher. Catch'em jack this nigger. Wrong adventurer. The lawless fallen emperor. Alcoholic balling Shawn Kemping. All in vintage shirts.

Wizard Jenkins The Great: Sin Eater. Loco whisperer. Grand Theft Auto game cheater. Magnetic beatbox telekinesis. Former boy genius. gone rogue phoenix. Nathaniel Grey Dorian. Convinced vyle to make an MPC Delorian.

Lamon Manuel: Sorry, kids. This isn't a Death Grips song. It's gryphon spawn raised in Kemet to believe your head twists off. Blood of Weishaupt diet. Touch stigmata muff facepalm. Tell every Heather I've ever met I'm pretty gentle with a chainsaw.

Gilead7: I’m locked in a monastery spinning pentagrams in the midst of instagrams. Snapping Father Pfleger as Alitzer as Anton La Vey as the Berlin DJ Crushes crosses in catechisms. Battles with Christians with broadswords hit henchmen fighting for King James’ version of piss immersion.

I.B. Fokuz: I be that axe of irregular. Antenna’s on paramount. Pendent with a crest star with relics that's still on Mars. Lens on a avatar. 7 planet 36 cipher tent camouflage. Fokuz antioxidants.

S185: Mixed Martial Artsy: Second Hand throat-chop. Cardboard colored Ninja disguised as my soapbox. My basic training is raising Wolverines out of Water. Freakazoid Speaker Noise Mega Deuce Foot-working in the deepest void.

M.E. :Chaotic Fibonacci cocky body rocking sloppy kill shot. Kiddo, pardon my schizo. Crescendo making your wheels lock until your whip flips and explodes. The truth is exposed. Into space outer you go until snot bubbles your nose.

C.S.: Head-butt cannon shooter. Avid MMA watcher. Bread truck, carrying super Chatham kid grenade launchers. Chronic arm-barer. Artistic stutterer robotic Ron Harper. Positive aggressive mom-charmer.

W.J.T.G.: Sitting on the thrown of a trash heap. Grouchy Oscar, see my posture? Nigga, don’t ask me why my majesty seems just like a tragedy to the motherfucker who ain’t peep this shit last week.

L.M.: Removing a human jaw makes every word a homonym. My nigger rigged Tesla coil run on malaise and Klonopin. Monolith of ex text apologies and white rapper uptalk left me a front lawn away from Aryan skulls on my front lawn.

G7: As extreme as an ex-teen who became a whore and blamed it on two engorged cunts he finger fucked in a wet dream. At the age of sixteen my cassette caught the pastor fucking Playboy centerfolds. Sermon wrote in sperm ‘cause his dick’s the pen he holds.

I.B. We're the Indians, Indigo, Gods, Olmecs, Cherokee, Black Foot, Moors, all that. Call that indigenous. Not limited to your text. We’re martyrs of today's seeds. So welcome Tomorrow Kings.
Track Name: Imagine Tomorrow (Greetings From Tuskan Remix)
M.E.: Fresh out a slave state of mind refined and unfrightened. I’m a beast over beats like vampires and lycans. Put “pause”(paws) on that braggadocio. This is showdown at High Noon. Consume the El’s the Sherrif at this rodeo. Mufasa of Pride Rock rockin’, huntin’ hienas. Hip Hop Hipsters with a flow as fluid as aquafina. Cause I’m ‘Oh, SO SERIOUS’. I just hope you listenin’. While we be play-in position like video game systems. My role is to free souls. But sometime in the 80’s, the powers that be been don’ put in the cheat code. I throw punches in bunches like Roy Jones. And clones tryna destroy home, Sherlock. With babies slain in the street, Nobody screams MURDA. You’re too collective use to rappers that you never heard of. Try to take out the conscious emcee so we scream “Word Up. And in the atmosphere that trapped us until El heard us. I got a divine swag to my step nowadays. As my stream of thought transforms into title waves. Each breath a clean step to the level next. Using cultivated intellect thru this man made Earth maze. Street sweet flow with angles of observation. Bullet time rhyme. Breaker 1-9 design. Galaxy is mine till the stars cease to align. You reach in your rhymes, I reach in my mind. Who draws quicker? Jean Michel glow always drew the bigger picture. My species appears to be a society of grifters. And I hope that my sobriety delivers. With a twist, I give you a gist, and uplift those goin’ thru tough shit.

Sense One: Mark cassettes up with caution. Stretch tapes like sick walkmans. You a dead man trying to call shots like Charles Darwin. The game’s morphing. Hard knock like Annie orphan.You should take what you could get like sellouts with no auctions.

W.J.T.G :It ain’t ‘94, nigga. We can’t go back. 4/4 boom bap flow. It’s the same old crap. 4-5 .9 milli walking the lamo trap. Cliché he say-she say. I been there, Black. Done that. I’m sick of this shit. I need something new. Cure of Hagakure, New wave of Sun Tzu. Paul Mooney, Dave Chappelle, George Carlin too. Coltrain, Thelonious Brain, Dizzie Davis, Blakey Roaches Smokin’, Dukes counting futuristic frames from Mahavishnu orchestras Cadillac Chess Games. T.K. mind frame is a Linux mainframe, Musical Rubix Cube-Oshe-Hood –Boys-Bomb-Squad-Spray. It seems like Today is a very Odd Ball Day. Niggas with loot for throwback shoes trying to ball play. Singing varsity blues. Roster cuts in the hallway. We coaching the new school with suicide drills all day. Yall keep failing the class ‘cause you ain’t learn the lesson. Thirty-year-old demo niggas is still rapping but you ain’t plan for the obsolescence. We got a suggestion. We got a suggestion.

G7: Materialize on the wall of the Buddha. Been so long since I’ve seen such degenerate devolution with my own eyes. Shocking ad hocking for boogie popping. The DJs play jibberish and they skip to it. Laws of entropy limitless. It’s dark and I wish I had a lightsaber so I could stab it in the chest of Mark Fulla Flavor. A perpetuator of broken records. A hum dum of drum collages. Call me the maharashi with a trance that slams monotony when I meditate. Bahamadia beautiful but her skill is a skeleton in the eyes of the future. From the perspective of a King from 2099 backtracking to 2009 but it looks like 1999. And to them I’m divine like Cortez to my Aztec neighbors. My helmet soaked in Starfleet lazers. Drizzy Drake and Ang see me as space invaders. And that’s fine. I’m cursed to be an innovator from the sins of the bloodline of my grandfather. Stab with sharpened clay ancient potters.
Track Name: Sell Coke To White Folks (Montana Macks Remix)
.B.: We chop it up in cinderblocks, spin it round. Show you how to kick it with Dante. A carmelistic pilot is only a entrée. We blazing in the attic serving eagles to hombres. A novelist artistry, more importantly unscathed. We made it through the murder hall where crackers are sautéed. Niggas still caught up in a trap with one leg. Searching in the dark, still blinded by sunrays. We analyze.

Chorus: Sell Coke To White Folks
Toot that shit. Light that shit. Snort it.

L.M.: Collared based Basquiat. King model Hottentot. Blood money-hooked nose knows no honor's stock. Chisel Carter bricks. No jumpshot charisma. Living Clipse b-sides. Call it Black nihilism. Like, 18 to 1 later, chemistry and cheap labor. Walking on ether built a drawbridge of R.I.C.O. cases. Post-race flavored human shield of public defenders. Hope in a foxhole away from miss class dementia.

S185 : June Cleaver coke song; swapped it for apple pies. Split screen the Golden Age: Wally distant. Just the image of his mother’s fuck labor for party favors! Ward wears the laugh mask to abstract manhood to the neighbors. Beaver’s left to watch her relive youth through absence. Beach body cometh. Cumming spotlights the struggling. Blue eyes sunken. Once tucked sons in monochrome with the same hands that exchange cash after swallowing.

M.E. : Let the bass rock like dome knocks from Dun Dutta Man. Sun in hand, making back alley deals with Cunningham. First glimmer of blue shimmer I do the running man. Chalky love blue flame old player new game. Moving smooth as Bruce Wayne, while sold souls stand outside begging for loose change. Just for a jug of jungle juice to stimulate the right brain. But it all sounds the same when your stuck up in this game ‘cause I
Track Name: Dropkicks From Saturn (Dr. Quinn Remix)
W.J.T.G: We are Tomorrow Kings. We have a message for you.
Back from the future. Rap Karma Sutra. Scrap, scrap what you used to. You was napping. See what happened? Crack in your mucus. Acting like a doofus. I make wet Medusas.
While you stalling we be balling. Hacking niggas stupid. Attacking they shitty shooting.
Decapitating Confucius. Running blades full in paid. All your shit is useless. We make rap, abusive. Cooking, chopping, screwing gravity. We dropping kicks from Saturn.

C.S. :Marty Janetty. Dropkick Murphy Eddie. Charlie, we ready to open up your belly. Hope your heart beat is steady. T.K. tagged around the world with Sharpie machetes. Messy. And who gon’ clean it up? The custodians. All they want to do is kick up dust at the podium. Do it for the kids but we don't fuck with Nickelodeon. Okay, so you winning. Nigga, what? Get your trophy bent. Homie, this that shit you thought that you could classify. Ask hip-hop if you ask it's pops you'd think our music's bastardized. Gassing rapid madness to keep the savages satisfied. Check us try to catch us cash us fast. Want to capitalize? And you really think that’s gonna ride? .

M.E.: Catch me in yo jam on some cool shit/, Up in the place you trying to hate and locos is choosing. Blood in the water. They matic and auto to move in. What you gone’ do then? ‘Cause if you cant blend with my mens you catch a bruised chin. Open doors of opportunity letting the truth in. ‘Cause if you ain’t one of the gods or then squad then we boo him. I’m on some sneak peek freak shit the opposite of losing. So watch what you doing?

S185: "Not you, nigger!" It's Little Willie Brick Hands. Flip ships at a quick glance. Splash the eye third. Exploding landmine punch a human face into quicksand. Cool your fans off. Irony! Tilted crown smooth hands get mistaken for the wind. Wilting life and buildings alike without changing to a new stance. Break it down: I got a home fortress made of Four Horse Men corpse. What else? Those corpses are bathed in mutated animal endorphins. What else? The animals in question are two-headed tigers and swordfish. The swordfish was outfitted with weapons stolen from Transformers. Now it’s time for the chorus.

I.B.: Dropkicks from Saturn. Supernova sound scapes stomping through your tavern, tipsy off the crime rate. Chopping up these classics, push it through the circuit plus pterodactyl apparatus. Flyest off the pendulum. Origami paper cuts bleeding by design. I'll slice that aura to the baby crumbs. beasting till I die. The highest marker spark a mania. Track archer target practice spark the match and blaze it up. Why these cats afraid of us?
Track Name: Art Rap To Make Babies To (Lt. Headtrip Remix)
W.J.T.G : Suede Generic Surplus make your puppies hush. Wallabee Dollar Tree. Pray my green don’t discuss. Bruce Banner soda quota. Apple sour face disgust. Apple Bottom facing up. I don’t need a flow company to poke her funcrusher. Plus this paper getting fat like Anastasia Vanderbust. I like big girls. This track is a macking truck. Or what? It’s a van shooting scenes in the back that demand a cut. The pie slither, the eye glimmer, man why shimmer? Who got the keys to SWV hot winter cabin confessions? Damn, what happened? This chord progression taught these dumb niggas a lesson in rapping paper. Cellophane be they only brain. Yelling “bang bang” but they cooking up the same thing. Sugarcoated candy colored gray cain. How your baby momma turn the Red Line into the midnight sleazy train?

C.S. Ayo, it's Big Rob, the weirdo. Been a thousand years, Blackcula is here. Ladies, let me nibble on them earlobe. The lent-licker considered a superhero. Freaks can't resist the French tickler. Peep my beard show. Fantastic voyage. Whooty world discoverer. Nigga shapeshifted to big booty girl's comforter. Fluffing up her pillow. She don't know that I’m abducting her. Wake up in my basement. Tofu and yoga's what I pump in her. Chatham Rick Jamesing. You know how the story goes. Championship tour the globe booking all the glory holes. Me and the brown shark busy whiskey dipping Oreos. Dicking thick chick tutorials. Mister Daddy, no Maury show. No, he don’t always talk the sex so disgusting. No, I ain't the one that you'd expect good old loving. But I bring the bed in breakfast with them cameras on, muffin. Nice to meet you. I’m director of Midwest Coast Productions. Coochie!

G7: Woman, I want to swim in your soft pink ocean. I manufacture white lotion you lust after after my songs are spoken. Asian with the harps, I enticed you with the cuneiform. Amidst dark sky, I enter your eye and kiss your nipple ring. I’m nasty with the up and up on the level. You a rebel, your body oddly protests against my clothes that hit the floor. Your belly button is an art gallery. Your buttocks are buttlocked but I pry them open to paint colors and my tongue is the brush. Pussy pop, gloss edible incense over clitoris. Too tasty, my lips won’t let my dick hit the shit. And you go to art school. Think I as I thrust my fingers deeper. You scream and shatter pottery with the pitch. Your luscious tits. Skeleton key for a dong I pick any vaginal lock At Columbia or L.A.C.M.A. or Hyde Park Art Center. Lamon and I proved the pimp Resides within the Nigger Rigged Time Machine. I got her so wet she squirted on her canvas rampant.
Track Name: Henry Hyde (Uncommon Nasa Remix)
Chorus: I’m not sure anymore who keeps unlocking my door.

W.J.T.G : My mirror image seems shiftless. Dicky Trickster. Shadow Lancing mister. Fire dancing prick stir. Pimp in a fiery fur. My dreams seem less like a blur. More like sleepwalking. The camera told me what had occurred. A bunch of niggas shit talking. Left the whole scene in a stir. Blood on my sleeve, as it was. Nathaniel Grey Dorian Wash. Dark Phoenix Pyromaniac spark. It’s funny what you see in the dark. The money only steams when it’s dry. For fill my color schemes when I’m high. The truth we mix with acid when we lye. I see thru this plastic when it’s dry. Disastrous activity, mystery in mind. Decaying in captivity, cavities in my eyes that I throw these darts into. My hearts protective scar tissue.

C.S. :No official count but it's estimated over a hundred decimated. Finger nails and stray ponytails left the basement. That day a sea of eyes watched and washed me away. I stop and I say, "I didn't mean to hurt you." You look at me and say a demon cursed you! I think about how it was seen in her shoes. The man you thought you knew had skeletons upon the roof. Wonder if you're still his flower in the attic. How is this a savage beast when love pours out of his cheeks and his chest? His heart once stopped for me now it beats for the flesh. Yes! I’m a beautiful mess. Splash their color paint on sheet canvases. Confess to these damages. I stand a man who just regrets the way that he manages. Coulda got away. What if you never caught me? Bundy loved to kill women. I just love to kill them softly. I can't help it. It's so hard to get 'em off me.

S185 :You can get used the smell. It only sticks to thoughts. Screams die, gurgles fade. Meantime, crows gather, eyes dry out. Used to be quiet. Now I don't speak. There’s a difference with reach gripping. Hunting those who see victims tailor fitted for) daytime abduction. Children? Never! Women? Never! Building. Feeling dizzy? Really dizzy? That’s the serum in the coffee you sipped as you watched her skip. Barrettes shiny in light. You thought I'd forget? Always 6 or 7. 2 miles away for your house. Found blood stains on your couch, plus panties. Now there’s a meathook in your mouth. That could've been my niece. Now I'm naked. Hatchet. No blood on my jeans. Maybe then it'll stop their screams, they follow me sleep. All 30 of them wanting to go home, chained to your lawn. Dead seeds growing like weeds in a Dead Sea City. Shred the gut flesh slow and one by one they float. "Thank you" echoes. By the last one? I hamburger the pervert. Burned the body. Wore the ash out into the rain so his mud is fed to the rats. As I evade the police, I see another orphan garden and laugh.
Track Name: Michael Jordan (Samurai Banana Remix)
L.M. :IQ or credit score? Write brood and edit more. All alt everything. Haiku for leper porn. Gang assigned gender norms. Quote ham. Turning Black's 5 days serving crack. Weekends at Bernie Mac's. My head's full of blown glass. Roadkill menagerie. Showbiz animatronics licking LSD batteries. My posse's on Klonopin, watch lists and camera feeds. Trend polished shit divine labeled something Japanese or Joseph's not-the-father dance. My obscurity honor badge is 20-dollar bills burning themselves to ash. Tax rapper teeth ambrosia, alchemy and ghost luck. When offered golden ulcers even vultures pose for close-ups. But all I need is a coin flip and an icebreaker. What else? All i need is conjoined twins and a lightsaber. What else? All I need is Christina Hendricks or 15 minutes with Megatron and somewhere to bury my white neighbors.

S185: I'll Pet Cementary Wall Street. Zombie Slave Slaughter. Get caught in a tornado of brass knuckles. Hello, I'm an Afro-Future Splinter-cell. Orwell Galton flogging subversive asserting, "This Is NOT Poetry!" It's a noticeably electric collection of Starscream sonic booms given color refined to perfection French pressing this bastardized set of sounds into a Throbbing Gristle remix of tides hitting in a downed Sentinel. Heroin chic Seraphim speak sweat nothing specials in mixed baby phrasings like "I held you as my example!" Pro-Black t-shirt in a pool of milk. Or Apollo Creed shook off the punch and cracked a Philly statue. Stating "For every Black man with a perm a slave master gets his demon wings polished in hell" and what have you. Fuck it! All I need is a Bain Capitol Barbers and a Voodoo Doll. What else? All I need is Ratchet and Clank burners and a tooth dog. What else? All I need is the unabridged 13th Amendment printed and stuffed into every box of Michael Jordan shoes that's bought, then I'll be happy.

Vyle: Inverted model name on the tongue just above the ankle. True Religion peppered in a crowd of parental units wrangled. Handful of injuries. Horsehair ornament entangled. Franchised mall queue adjacent to buildings. Thank you. He keeps cleats mistress and tee times to not negate from schedule and treating the reasons we would get robbed for these 20 years ago credible. No preorder, reporter in-stores or campouts. 30-year-old in tents next to the food court. That man’s foul. Girlfriends sent to the front of the line like it’s U.P.N. programming but that's a faulted design ‘cause the last kid queue doesn’t think it is cute. And Deandre that just got off the job, he trying to get him some boots. All I need is a generator just to risk take. What else? All I need is a fast connection to confirm my order through Eastbay. What else? All I need is for when that door opens for my girl to not come back with a pair of Dikembes.
Track Name: Feat. Lil Wayne (AF THE NAYSAYER Remix)
M.E.: I dirty myself in righteous thoughts and bathe in bad attitudes. Communicating with creatures of celestial latitudes. Never put my hands on bitch but I have backsmacked a few dudes who don’t know that being a man is something they have to do. P.S.A. I’d be the shit whether with or without a crew. And since the truth is the former, I just blaze marijuana. The beat plays and I get warmer. Don’t say that nobody warned your. Running your school of thought like Time Warner. We all want to be master craftsmen but knocking Illuminati. Study your skills and talents. Stop being so fucking cocky, boy. Damen ya not one livin a facade son imitating God’s son. Golly golly gee whiz yours truly third king of the Earths secrets rockin with resoundin uniqueness.OVerthrowing weak shit with ease Kick more funk than gingervitis disease. And cool as a winter breeze.

W.J.T.G : While fetching for Stepford husbands we wretchedly wrecking functions. Durden Tyler wilding out at this luncheon. Catering staff made the matradee a cherry bath. Stomach crunching his beauty. Lynching David’s plot in this undiscussable movie. Made a soup sayer a Sufi. Holy Grail out of loose leaf. Now he receives mail under true green, meaning the lawn. Last week that nigga went to sleep and woke up as a Hellspawn. Lil’ Wayne. Last week that nigga went to sleep and woke up as a Hellspawn. Lil’ Wayne.

S185 : These are my wedding vows to death repeated to my lifeless pounds of flesh. I floated by chicken wire over a town drowned in ambient sounds of stress. Loved "Loving," the round about it projects, collecting ground surrounding lesser mounds pronounced "Moutains." Found sounds allowed for my mouth announced in the miles and miles I "trekked." Anit-hero: built my house out of the smiles and frowns I wrecked. As solid as disappointment. Artistry profound even when alcohol clouds the set. Televise reality; fuck faces and crying match to peel back what the shroud protects. Yet the crowds abound even as the clown announce "It's all a game!!!" and fades into war hounds and sex. Planet dirt : 7 Billion. Underdog : 7 Billion. Preach Semitic growth through Wardone sound effects. Viking funeral the radio for all the kings lost and drown in debt. The depth of inception from failure is fuel. View a fool bleeding, his crown is stretch. Growl is breath run afoul. Success plows the best fertilize the ground with checks. Sprouts a fresh glittery Golem to run for miles. It's vexed how it rest in a life that subscribes to hands around the neck. Cowardly perhaps, but I stand entranced by the Swan Song that sounds like friends… Fuck That!
Track Name: Gucci Don't Give No Fuck (Carl Kavorkian Remix)
L.M.: Passive aggressive or manic depression or cannibal lessons or fashion protect us or. Passive aggressive or manic depression or cannibal lessons or fashion protect us or. Passive aggressive or manic depression or cannibal lessons or fashion protect us or. Passive aggressive or manic depression or cannibal lessons or fashion protect us or.

S185 : Break down a Loco: Living, warm, flytrap takedown. Crown dugout. Opiate adventure. Soviet injure a circle. Invert a virtue to Continental red eye conversing versus "True Love." Pussy Muscle Politics. Hippy shock. Chalk outline. Artsy niggers rock a helmet!!! Dictionary sculpt: Fictionaut. Official Whiskey sipper (liver) black slash a backslash. Can't "Like" button a legend. Alas, Apocalypse Cassette invented a sect of Weapon Words. Superb Humanity. Observe a term turned Gimp Mask. Pimp black ink on surface. Done and said, insert a circus on tongue bursting into two ears comes Tomorrow Kings. Now what we have here is a failure to see properly. Probably, not accepting your earth blinks… where was I? Atop of these sonics breaths an All American, cocoa dipped, since the Cherry Tree chop. Bury me Modest trail. Dusted off… (A) catalogue of Carnage, Practical Krakken: hands on every fold of the path. Flip flaps to flight. "Fan first" is a fantasy and sugar spoons for the cowardly. Fallacy given phalanges gripping fiction now living with a Rock Biter grimace. Pigeon shit sniper, siphoning the subtle science of Time Machine slang. Nigger motherfucker. People are strange!

Chorus: Gucci don’t give no fuck.
Unless its about money, hoes, cars, clothes, herringbone xylophones.
Gucci don’t give no fuck. Unless its about corporate takeover, rapeover, shitstream makeover.
Gucci don’t give no fuck. Unless you’re advertising on your shirt, or raising up you skirt.
If you lighten up that work, then you lighten up that purse.
W.J.T.G. : Tommy got dumped in a landfill minefield. Calvin was inclined to design new wine distilled. Fendy had plenty. Burr Berry was a fairy. While the Prata was a Parana, carrying troi donna. No wonder. Jacob with make up ugly ralph pourin’ Marc cocoa while skiing the channel Alpine. When the Eve Saint Banana Boat republic quoting rhymes of Christian missionaries wishing Gianna was more of a pornstar in time than Donnatello. Teenage turtleneck Coochie Sweater wearin’ type of fellow. Valentine dreams of brick roads lookin’ yellow. While Oz prisons are filled with niggas wishin’ that the cotton they be pickin’ wasn’t sold to the old landlords. While poppy field ovaltine is sprinkled into bored androgynous six foot adolescence who are dumb enough to act high, and know not to question why.

M.E. : Gucci don’t give no fuck neither do I. Earth link face of a sphinx with lighting in his eyes. Chatting bunnies up. Turn ya scooper to a looper when I shoot’er with my blunder bust and make her run my money up. Vice clutch on my protecting my investment like a pistol properly tucked while im feeling naughty and buck. Talking tough will have my wolves marking you up. Sippin Jack rip of da piff chillin stalking you up. Get lost in the twilight of a Vatican night. Committed and itchin to strike the back up of temple with Timberland spikes. Then pop the top on Sprite I’m so cliché. But I got the order to slaughter every dj. Then hit the replay kids don’t listen these days. Anyway aint no changing them we use the old ways to maintain the stem root of the situation. Whose mantra is stay ill or face obliteration cause it’s a TK nation/
Track Name: Black Power In Hell (vyle Alternate Mix)
M.E. That was the sound that knocked him down no witnesses around. As an unlived life lay around dead on the ground. And then they came the blue and white lights. Caught up in local hype. Blamed it on a local gang. It seems the more things change the more they stay the same. So why should I even Fight when this pain got a hold on my brain in the form of fear hate and shame. I gotta maintain my thoughts before I lose my cross because everybody got one to carry. And I know its true gotta make it through before im dead and buried. We all take a loss in exchange for a gain don’t worry cause its all the same.

S185: Pistol pissed blood on a thug. Drug his body down as maggot lunch. Walked passed his husk on the way to the Barbers chair. Baby Mama shriek meets a “Hide the kids!” call and this song does what for their loss? Tattoo my face with bear traps to match this dirty pastor, niche market artist rapture harvest of fundraiser performance checks. Accept this murder/suicide wheelchair backdrop painted with faces fading faster than my thoughts on next weeks beer tasting. I can illustrate this Nigger Tragedy for outsider amusement starring little brothers confused and colluding with my art school musings. What’s introspection to an aunt’s junkie brain, moms ‘89, if it reads more like a comic strip at a distance? Should you make a corpse dance for attention in the thick of a group-think? Viewing you as the artsy exception to a wall photographed ghetto loop. Basquiat-Baldwin-Rosebud-Chuck D blender human Boheme bloodying hands for write ups fathering public-private moments when there’s enough Black Mothers crying on film to hold us for a while? Give them nigger-tinted esoteric to unwrap to match row patchworker flag waving. Painting the race amazing. Graced a storm converted Christian cakewalk of shame. Caged with the World’s Fair argument the monument’s a balcony. Swine scented alchemy. Feed a dream until it leaks out as speech. Reach a lesser man as years missing. One man’s amen is another man’s half finished sentence. Prism prison. Bag it. Manage iconoclastic devotion frozen youth in Sisyphus walk. Chalk it out. Sirius thoughts of converting the dim to the decided. Black Power In Hell.

Chorus: Fuck what, they say, you can be whatever you want. Don’t let them, tell you that you’re just a nigga.

G7: Off off in the cut with a record and a scissors. shitting on the red, black and green. Greed run the revolution bloody with a dagger dragging through the dragons Spanish cobras sagging jumping out my pocket attacking Jesse Jackson. Hang him from a noose and pull ‘em by the bandwagon. Stabbing klansmen syncing with the Neil Young Crazy horse raise a force like Slum Village raise it up. I knuckle punk a honky. Nothing angel ‘bout an Anglo. Devil’s halo hang from Satan flowing racists nation. Burning Dante in infernos where I carve the state line. James Cone is the state sign. If God is a white racist better kill him. Split his children for no shillings, but revenge for my mammy. You had she go to the back of the store. Cotton picking pussy, fucking demon stab you in the solar plexus with Pitchfork. Their reviewers don’t review me. I hew a niche in a cavern where lava falls and ensnare a Caucasian to the walls. I’m hellish with the sentence. Wrist scarred and fist charred. Sex with succubus, eat and hiss at her Swiss chard. I get hard and bone her with a boner til the seismic waves quake Purgatory Lori Dan’s a black panther for killing vanilla mixes then ending her own vanilla existence.

avery r. young: dem folk / (dey) dont roll like dey used to (junebug) / dey sunt blk power to hell / (i heard) fire brimstone & no wattah / (junebug)

I.B.: Customized as the fallen for fallen knowledge/ a mothers a good intent, When it’s clergy was forming vices/ back when, when the backs was broken for private islands/ you could read his story and plummit/ we numbin’ to sky’s/ violence employed, we rose from the ashes of a broke cracked slave with his vision recoiled/ shattered/ a little to do/ the only thing is filling he’s shoes/ riddle me this/ what u envision is you. What’s up nigga, what’s up black/ I guess we good enough/ we hood enough for that or until they tell to add you good enough for half/ in order for reparations need a nation and a flag. But who cares we still money hungry. A license to kill if another brother takes it from me. Internal Revenue Service is still lurking/ and baby girl around the block is outside still twerking. Crippled by the pillars/ we killers to advertise. I’m a Moorish American Moslem/ descending from Moroccans/ sitting on north west amexem/ pissing out toxicants/ cause being free, never was an option. So many bodies underneath nobodies conscience/ downing a bottle, we follow, and hobble for ignorance. The Pot sizzling, we living in spells before a slave its a reason we fell/ Black Power Hell.
Track Name: Robert Davis and The Robots (Jeff Markey & Elucid Remix)
G7: Radioheads play out in 2199 as I stand on the fossils of 2013. A city built upon mandibles of skeleton. Who were skeletons when they had flesh and bone, acting as overly made up with make up Clowns before the microphones. I know them because I saw them in my travels backwards in time. From my dynasty to the dilapidated faces of the graceless on stages. Raisin’ angry grapes to be burned by suns. Incompetent clock wasters upon the brink of being pushed off of the galaxy. Spending wind speaking of the destruction of what should have never begun. Common transformed into the very bitch he scoped in Cube. The right move is to return to our heritage. That we fail to possess… ‘cus you and I do not exist. I use a rocketeer jetpack to fly over cats that bust caps I block with lower cases. This realm I swim in is utopia. Every MC and their rhyme scheme builds density. impenetrable by the. exegesis of sages. On spell check check spells that slay mages. System of a down syndrome plans a head swell. Pens frail and break as the open-ended foundation of this nation. Where birth certificates are intricate. Documenting a child’s inception and trajectory to war what tomorrow will be. All state and country envelopes are pushed to the cutting edge. Are push to the cutting edge. And all stagnation being dead. And all men and women getting head... and the robots.

W.J.T.G.: Went to an alternate universe to see a better version of me. Went to an alternate universe to see a better version of me. Back from the future again. Here’s lookin’ at you for the win. That’s what my reflection said. Maybe this is just inception, But the way the glass liquefies and bends around my hands when I reach in. It should be shards but I swim between black hole dimensions. Space and time continuum, within the drums the dumb are mostly intrigued by. There was a time when I only wanted to be high. Thinking that time traveling translated to bloodshot eyes. But then I had to stare into my past and figure out. How to piece together my broken ass within this mirror inside this glass. this can’t be real. I need to slow down, still fast and be still. Inside this time machine, riding this wormhole at warp speed. Pushin’ to the cutting edge so I can figure out how to be free.Went to an alternate universe to see a better version of me.Pushin’ to the cutting edge so I can figure out how to be free.Went to an alternate universe to see a better version of me.

C.S.: Two baby mommas, five kids broke. With a sorry job. I live at home, and the only real chance that I had to go. Is already gone. Many years ago with a rope and a few strides. Could’ve put us on. But I’ve chosen to lose my. Grip slowly I’ve broken that bro tie. Now Jyroscope is just Fokuz and look who’s not. Going to photo shoots large. Explodin’ show you a true star. Tourin’ the globe doin shows. My nigga please don’t send me no cool post cards. But it’s no ones fault but rob. And he Chris Paul tossed up lobs. I just missed all of them slipped. Didn’t want it jumped ship. swimmin salt bum cod. Fishin’ for inspiration. Catchin’ empty huggies boxes. “dad im hungry”. Shoppin’ at jewel folks from high school see me chummy salmon. Disgruntled but delighted I still keep in touch with brothers. A bunch of writers who fucked up ciphers and loved one another. Remember when we did security at that loft space? In 08’that was so great. Ain’t I sittin’ in the wrong place. Couldn’t I just have slowed down with the Going out and fuckin all day? Did what I had to do zone out then put it all out. I put it off wake Up you motherfuckers don’t nobody owe you shit. Time will never wait for you no matter how outta control you get
It together while you still can remember that. When you bump ya head. Just patch up yo scrape
And continue making that cutting edge
Track Name: Automatic Door Leaving (I.B. Fokuz Remix)
W.J.T.G.: Blazing trails is such a lonely act. Tortured artist trying find Aloe Vera in a desert plan. dyin’ of thirst. Attempting to steadily react to my heart pounding me from being bezerk sounding. If silence ever befalls me,
may all the sounds in my mind shrapnel thru my skull capturing 1000 words ending in rhymes or a piece of my spirit splintering into a rose vine.

C.S.: Don’t call us poets. We’re a writers guild of know it. Alls who are honest and rawSo off-spoken that we can be off-putting. Sitting from your comfort zones friend. We need your eyes bugged, ears peeled hearts open. To this futuristic struggle rap. Made by the troubled brothers that. Sit and sip until the bars closin’. Tomorrow kings that struggle with their devotion. But we are not our heroes we are our own opponents.

I.B.: Clearly noted as we living in ya stereo/ Islam... walking up that incline, here we go. Fish line silhouetted cap-com patch line/ tap line filtered through cracks. Let me get this off my chest/. I’ll been stitching it years. standing on a thrown trying to elevate these kids.If its it one thing I know/ I’m inspired by my brothers arms. Forever indebted, same goes for the wave of tomorrow.

G7: I build up like a rechargeable battery. The posterity that survived the neo sonic calamity. And I’m tempted to support their architecture with Tetris. So I plant in kids extensive pyramids before I’m beheaded. Sure I will be. I know my neckblood will stain their axes. When pax his, they counter with delivering a pre-paint brush brandished canvas. TK is here to smash this. Artists, art like there’s no leash. And politics has poly ticks that you should wrench pick from your pen. I saw the future with my pupil and tossed it back to the youth. Like a goalie choosing to redistribute the futbol to opponents. Mixed blood oceans the oppressed and oppressor. But my hair texture texts my “fist” to “pick” to help those under pressure. So I broke the spaceship with fuel enough to airbrush stardom. No returning to a land where elves freeze orbit so clock hands harden. Your problem is my problem. Masses of child plugged in position with zeroes and ones ‘til we inject a two and foil their prison

L.M.: a phalanx is just a dot at a distance. most’ll miss it. perfect circle of patron saints of all things but business. is it living? does it listen? is it in fashion? maiden hell.
analog valium dispenser for less attractive dechanels. this could’ve been legal tender. shit. a pound of lung to fuck with. bloomed too many causes of death to pick just one: husband. no disrobed museum of new women i won’t do drugs with. too many absent everythings pull these ribs apart. punished. have i ever told you the story of the panhandler who told me to go back to africa? that shit reminds me of rap. hymn of dizzy wrath. witchcraft of misquoting. it’s black. skinned on fight weight on scales of vulture math. am i my dead weight’s keeper? left hand cast of leeches. tell him sit bitch and pretty scab work’ll break his fever. cannibalism is occam’s razor slack for king eat king when the downfall of alchemy is feeding.

M.E.: I once was lost in a former shell of myself then resurrected. With a special kinda love manifested I became invested in the outcomes of my existence. As the sovereignty of my success became persistent. My queen speaks I listen my daughter moves in rhythm. To make my new decisions this is my true religion. Collude to preview my winnings. My cup over runneth till my time a cometh.

S185: When shadows speak of spotlights, its mere babble to travels to the most gourmet of breadcrumbs and words are sped up to walk across rooms and open doors. Given a lost cause lurking at a youths winter inventing a choking hope for more, this is slave song english we developed into minds that define the Universe into words that work as elephants in the room. Lacking cowardice to break sweats at confused faces. Mistaken God for Gospel complimenting the landslide of man unto the raw nerve of nature as it jerks earthquakes to make lifespans go color bar, Indian “Stand By.” And be inner circle clever. The revolution will not have t-shirts sold at booths and stylist. That concept is a counterpoint. We’re smiling through gunpowder summers. And It’s likely that next year they’ll be a new Jesus on to tour for a season as a 9th Wonder. Angry? “Bitch I Might Be” I’m the part Merman descendant of a slave that brave the waters with her daughter because in her thirst she hallucinated her children would have to explain their humanity in a foreign tongue. So the guns I stick to are Sixtoo Trapdoors into the awkward space between self acceptance and oblivion. Molded with my angry hands out of the metal that took my Grandfathers eye… while building your railroads.

Def Cee: Fuck it!