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.
credits
from BRAIN MATTER,
released February 29, 2016
Words and Music by TH!NK.
The debut, solo LP from TH!NK. Funk, Jazz, Psychedelia and Golden Age Boom Bap combine to make a kaleidoscopic, multi-layered and entertaining palette for insightful lyrical acrobatics. TH!NK
