Live and direct from the truths centre. Dude better, do better, together, my crew too clever. Dusty hook dweller, rock a scotch bonnet atop the head bredda. Concoct joints as hot as raw red pepper. Thought bench-presser, Pineal Gland expander, cerebral weight-lifter. School fools with no class - extra-curricular shape-shifter, take shifts to grip Bic 'til skin blisters. Spit sicker scriptures, split atom, sip elixirs. Light a flame to flicker within sister, she insist I'm slicker 'til the cinders. But I'm out the window quicker than wind, and no disrespect to the fairer sex, I'm just a drifter. Ever since I sensed their sinister whispers. Left home after they bugged the light fixtures. Scramble the channel, re-route the mixer, don't touch that dial, you are now tuned into. The truth transistor, fact adapter, psychedelic synapsis-smasher. Chill as Buddha or the Japanese Macac of the pools in Baraka. Proof-reading mantras while feeding God answers, to eternal questions. Better depth-perception than Slick Rick, still ruler of all grammar. Re-route yer Medulla Oblongata. Try angles, get Bermuda'd - wiped off maps or lost form faster, than playing blink war with Medusa - rock forms fractures. So I put a crack in the plaster-cast mask of all actors, I ain't after none of that canned laughter. Matter of fact I body-bag a hash tagger. Re-tweet this: fuck a fad-led pack of wankers. I'm about to re-route the unconscious, after a quick word from our sponsors. Always be shit at judging the dose. Not begrudging a ghost, a tumble in snow to escape his troublesome woes. If I say – there's just no pain after. If I say – I feel cobain after. If I say - with a John Coltrane swagger, blow saxophone straight leave yer membrane shattered. Brain matter, shapes, patterns. Grey matter, strange patter. Brain matter, shapes, patterns. Pia mater. Tender mother. She oversees the grammar. The truths centre sending, seldom resting, forever the better for letter-vetting, never ever sentence stressing. Second-guessing set-ups, schemes, stanza, scansion, single to multi-syllable stretching, sketches spread in the session. 'Til suggestion of seventh heaven's sent in sections, up the spinal cord, to be formed in the cerebellum. Gamma slay, half they lame chatter. Break the chains of restrained rappers, that's how ya make a brain matter.

Ballad, ballad ….this is the ballad. This is the ballad. Of the one-and-only Hoverboard Lucozade Bandit. This is for David Cameron fucking that dead pig, Syria and tax credits. Never mind that hype bredrin, Corbyn's got a new bike helmet. This is for Jezza’s geography teacher swag, this is for Yeezy still speaking crap. This is for the subway pizza rat, Master Splinter bring a piece a that. This is for Netflix and chill, that’s just slang for a Bill Cosby sleeping pill. This is for Drake and Meek Mill, this is BSE, don’t ya know beef kills? This is for Shia Leboeuf kid, Shee-a, Shy-a - I don’t know how to pronounce it. How dyou pronounce it? "Just do it!" Don’t let your dreams be dreams, ken. But when you dream they're dreams, so how can they not be dreams then? Shia’s going too deep for me man. This for my meme dem: Bad Luck Brian, Old Economy Steven. Peeps start greeting, sheep start bleeting. They'll get the "shhh" like Sean Connery speaking. This is for the dead raccoon of Toronto. Goin' in pronto, goin' in honcho, goin' in bronco, goin' in’s my motto. Unless I’m goin' out or goin' unconcho. Go 'til I'm gone though, just like the bandit. Ghost out the co-op. This is the ballad. —— This is for sophisticated trump: “The bad guys will always have guns” ...and apparently poorly-fitting rugs. Real presidential run - surely you’re shitting us? Should we be sitting up? Should we be shooken up? Man on the tube is bug. If it ain’t down for truth and love, I’ll say it with him “you ain't no muslim bruv.” Je suis Charlie, but I’m hardly. Ain't cold-hearted, or late to the party. Don’t pick a side, coz both sides are barmy. I’m a pacifist, both sides have armies. This is for Putin, Netanyahu. This is the shit I ain’t buying. This is for Merkel and Obama. “Why the fuck you lying?” This is for Cecil the Lion and the importance of his death in defining, what we had suspected for time man - that all dentists are tyrants. Oh yeah - and all humans are bastards. Make their moolah then vanish. Raping, consuming, abusing the planet. Walk away singing “Hakuna Matata." This is for Black Lives Matter. This is for Syria. This is for the modern ruins of Palmyra. This is for all political prisoners. This for tagging on conscious bullshit, at the end of the rap kid. As a pay-off for the rest being jokes - This is the ballad.

Alcohol, Valium, a little green, uppers, downers, caffeine, some nicotine. Yeah my records clean, I just dipped it in some Listerine. Call me Mister Sheen, yer local dole office libertine. Methadone, Mescaline, Methamphetamine, Methadrone - meow meow like the cat that got the cream. Cream: cunts rule everything around me. I'm just chasing pussy, yes my curiosity is keen. But it's killing me - stretched out like a limousine, little man, sipping lifes lemonade is bitter sweet. After killing a kilogram of fill in the blanks ya philistine. Opium milkshakes fresh off the boat from the Philippines. Lose my head - daily visit to the guillotine, reflect on if that reflection in the mirror's me. Mindset Byzantine - filled with vicious visions and wicked dreams - but no lucidity. Spend my days with a woman like me, smoking blue cheese and drinking chai tea. Highly likely, you'll find me high in pipe dreams. Hash pipe, glazed-over glass eyes penning a ripe scheme. Constructing two hour joints like Spike Lee. My girl nagging - just do it - like Nike. After too many decidedly dicey nights themed with unsightly-type scenes I feel as if my bloods poison like Ivy. Hook me up to an IV drip - this trip is too lively. Life being life - is kinda really shite, sat on the couch on that anaemic vibe. From the ashes of my hashish watch the phoenix rise. Mask slips off the real disguise, now i'm feeling like: Drugs are the road to destruction - believe the hype. But fuck it, at least it's a scenic drive... Flying high...in the friendly sky...without ever leaving the ground. Acid, Opium, Barbiturates. A seemingly limitless, almost infinite amount of stimulants. Listlessly listening to the dissonant, rhapsodic instruments, melodically spasmodic. My logic's myopic, my biopic's psychotic. My rooms clogged in, fumes toxic. I'm neurotic, a few swallows of hard tonic, fly into a bubonic plague of rage, induced by narcotics. Washing out my mouth with a bar of carbolic soap, microscopic scope is a large problem. Lost in the cracks on the ceiling, staring till my soul goes stale. When I leave the room, I leave a ghost's trail. Inhale until my skins pale, tall tales told to prevail cold jails - details hold bail. As we grow old and oh so stale, tryna get feeling from my words, but they ain't written in no braille. Unaccustomed to dodging customs at the border line, ain't the road that's tripping – travelling through different states of mind. I thought this state sublime – but all disintegrates with time. Until you chase your mind, chasing time. Like an astronaut's vision – staring into space, incubate thoughts of my inner-state. Interbate reality to gradually stimulate me into realizing that I'm in a state. Awake, I shake, my fake, self to take the consideration my limitations are soon to break. My cocoon it cracks – in a womb of candle wax, in a room of shallow facts, consumed in the contents of the spoon I lapse. Life in time lapse, my grasp only slips. My eyes have trouble focusing. Flying high in the friendly sky, without noticing, my broken wings.

Forget these rappers-cum-lecturers. Same old story: there's none betterer, some rhetoric etc. etc. My difference is, text is printed in bold Helvetica. Swiss design, cleaner lines, information architecture. Art is textured, bars are weapons, barbarians turn bards with barbed pencils. Caesarians for sections of society, happily living in the womb of mass-produced garbage products they consume. Coz these 16's channelling the Sistine Chapel and the sick scenes captured in the back-rooms of the Vatican. Far beyond fathoming shallow hallows of this vapid scene, but I'm still going in, you best prepare the Vaseline. Acid-trip atrophy, track is just alchemy, rise from the ashes, see we ride like the Valkyrie. They told me "Best be on your guard." But I be on my God and when the beacon sparks I'm beyond the stars. I'm beyond belief any concerns that you had, leave em. Totale bars, pen doing Cruyff turns on the pad, weaving. Vocal art, a zone apart on the parchment. Flow like Noah's Ark on the seas Moses parted. Most art is artifice an artist's slip (Freudian) first and last thing I'll be playing Madvillian's "Accordian" - listening to Stones Throw in a glass house and I never pass up on the chance to pass out.

She a bird of summer, I murmur somewhat, hon not made for me to catch in nets. She a blur of colour, I just tried to get the number - like Ishihara test. Is she past perfect, a text I had to stress, that infact the present tense - when syntax in sex, lack of tact the tax for sins of the flesh. Carnal is the knowledge. Pseudo copulation, like Charles Darwin picking orchids. This is awkward "Barkeep could I please get some Martini with this olive?" Usually the don is, an adonnis - on it, cool as a pond is, in the dawn vapours - slick. Seen me sipping whisky in the office - old school class like Don Draper. I could don a cape or be on a caper. Don Juan's wreckless son, setting songs to the sight of the setting sun in a cadence. Composing to the sound of her breath or thumb, rapping syncopations of impatience atop table tops while she's waiting. You must understand, usually I'm much more a man but in her presence my artificial intelligence failing. Failing, in my slumber, it's her number I'm taking, but when I awaken, it seems I'll have to, take a number, and stand in line waiting. She – re – programmed – me. I wasn't meant to have emotions in the C. Drive. Strive, to see why, we dive deep as nights, sleep. Honey check it out you got me mesmerised, with pleasures I don't dare memorise. Take the Turing test. Got an F. I guess at best I tried. But love will make fools of men and women alike and many times, i've been fooled by women I liked. Schooled by the human device of lust and just between us – justice is just ice. To melt in the heat of the moment, love is a machine only deep as it's components. But likely to make people opponents, for affections, for apologies and corrections. For a second, likely to re-route deep truth. Leave fools crushed. Crashed? Re-boot. Loading loading, too much emotion, got my metal heart corroding. Fools rush in, first love had me blushing. Now these tears got me rusting, combing dustbins for custom-made components. Not accustomed to this human costume that I roam in. She's a walking grenade, face like thunder. Tryna take that number..I'm just tryna take that number. In my slumber it's her number I'm taking, but when I awaken, it seems I'll have to, take a number, and stand in line waiting. Give me piece of mind – is this time i'm wasting? I lack the patience, I can't be waiting. Left asking, the question, do replicants dream of electric relaxation? Left asking the question: Do replicants dream of pseudo-copulation?

i) Dose Dose up the micrograms, open your eyes and scan, dope how the mind expands. Drop down the diaphragm, you want a plan, I'll draw up a diagram. Dropper the milligrams, cleaner than Cilit Bang BANG! Weight up the kilograms. Spin like a ceiling fan. Me? I’m just chillin' fam. Break up the pill to yam, feel my hands, getting sweaty - 
feeling I'm, getting tetchy. Walls are closing, room is waving, 
raw emotion, hallucinations. View is strange and truth’s evading, heart swing in a cadence (check the clock)... Man it ain’t formal, hand on the journal. Man on a journey
, whispering "phantoms can’t hurt me" but that's when they heard me. Taking a breath in, waiting for heaven, shaking it sets in... Must be the demons fighting in my head 
that's clouding up my clarity. Sometime it seems like I'm a one sec
ond slip away from insanity. That a trip, and I grip till hands they bleed, 
but gradually 
facing depravity, awaiting a cavalry, finally fall from the face of reality.
 Inside the subliminal, try to speak syllables, that might describe with a line on the rise of the visuals. This taken me hostage, plain
 swear every thoughts insane, 
trapped in the wallpaper's pattern, 
staring at the same spot again. Lost in places - time and spaces, swear this aint the same - hours move like days, that square-foot of cracked wall never strays my gaze. ii) Patterns Paralysed by pursuit of passing, paradigm permuting patterns. Predisposed to the perfume attracting, pre-concieved notions of potions protraction. Plainly asking for problems, the random of quantum, phantoms that blossom. From solvents, Pandora's been shadow-boxing, shallow solemn within each pattern forming. iii) Strange Chatter Live and direct - from the truth's centre. Don't touch that dial, you are now tuned into...the truth transistor, fact adapter, psychedelic synapsis smasher. Acid-dipped triptych, third eye enhancer. Couple a tabs to realign an off-balanced Chakra. Visualize a fender-wielding Frank Zappa, slash Franz Kafka chapter crafter. Or Carlos Santana, dance with black magic mama cita. Man I leave the bodega with a stammer, smoking coronas - aroma evoking the potent panorama of a night-time Havana. Someone must've spiked that cohiba, I feel a hot sweat and cold war-type paranoia. See a bay of pigs, bay for blood kid – in a banana republic. Cobbles run red with the fever, fire, souls, cadavers. La Revolucion wont be televised - cloak and dagger. Robert Oppenheimer's doomsday devices activated - nuclear reactor cast yer eyes skyward like Rapture. Holding the rungs of Jacob's Ladder, over a lake of magma, await the here after. Am I scared? No! Why? Coz I see so clear after... No fear fathomed – so near phantoms. Imagine abandoned mansions, a memory in every atom. A mixture of measured and random memorandums. Whether feather or bantam, adapting my weight for the state of the challenge. Awake to my fate each day in the balance, exist in the grip of serendipity's talons. Sipping a liquid-elixr filled chalice, from my lips to the tip of the tongue to the palate. To the back of the throat, antidote to the malice. Down the rabbit-hole just like Alice. His mind channels (very strange). Trip-like madness (very strange). It's quite fast kid (very strange). Wait a second, while I instagram this. Is this enchanted, or am I just paranoid? Excuse me and my french kid – but this feels like a movie directed by Gaspar Noe...and I don't fancy the void. Boy better, ploy better – blessed be the foil. Fools and jesters fester under soil. But no jokes required when I wrestle that toil. Until the day I shuffle of this Tesla coil. Coz we – all gotta find our matter and no matter if yer mind don't matter man. Never mind, you'll have to climb that Matterhorn. Them the times you'll find your brain matter more. Coz we all just gotta find our matter and no matter, some time it's all anger man. Pick yer fights - don't get conned by the matador. Them the times – you'll find your brain matter more. Coz we all just got to find an answer for what reason we've been placed on the planet's floor. You could use coke or pills or acid or any type of vibe to tryn make that brain matter more. Coz we all confused and scramble more. Create illusions, false hope in the above. But if yer looking to make your brain matter more, you should know...it's just love.