Instrumental is 'Fuck Your Compression', from Sly Tendencies' (Earl Sweatshirt) unreleased mixtape, "Kitchen Cutlery".

LYRICS:
I like this beat, let me take a crack at it,
and beat every chance I get to death like a crack addict.
I'm blowing smoke, this shit's embedded in my blood stream.
I kick up controversy just to hear a fucking cunt scream.
Michele Bachmann be sobbin', says my shit's suggestive,
so I retort, "Hey whore, you got the spliff reference?".
An impressive, festive, majestic mesh of new and old.
They praise, "Doom, you just too cold".
Brash and bold with some hash on hold.
I called ahead they said, 
"It's best you're told to bring along your billfold".
Best believe, though I'm pressed for these green leaves turned currency, I'm quite equipped with the means.
Grab my keys and I Dash for the door like I'm Damon.
Always reignin'.
Sensei sensation. 

So they say my style's soaked in class and elegance -
why, 'cause I rhyme with a sense of substance and intelligence?
I'll fucking crush you like a stampede of elephants,
then get to goblin your guts like a pack of parched pelicans.
Was that an OF reference in reverence?
"It's so hard to tell, I swear he only speaks in irrelevance."
That's the essence of the bestest, the bees knees.
Got Blake Lively to Skype me on my fucking green screen.
Goddammit add another fucking bastard,
catch me at the Masters, 
in my blaze orange captain cat jacket.
Cut the racket from the ratchet.
The buzz of the traffic's got this goddamn man so ecstatic.
It's so fuckin' fantastic.

Am I the dopest, most focused, explosive free range form of far-fetched psychosis? 
I'm the Oprah of intelligent hip-hop;
you slave your days away for change, 
in the company gift shop.
You're looking at a legend in the making.
They said the game is for the taking, 
so I took it without hesitating.
I can't help but cause all this flawless awesomeness,
that constantly keeps these crazed kids from fuckin' pausin' it.
Cautious, careful of where and when to use the genius,
'cause none of y'all enthusiasts are in my fuckin' genus.
Dickheads are from Mars and bitches are from Venus,
but all I know is yours wants all up on my penis.
Fury-like flow, you know it's Cold, such soul, the meanest.

Fury-Like Flow (Sly Tendencies/Earl Sweatshirt - Fuck Your Compression)

Instrumental is 'Breath of Fresh Air', produced by Anthony Davis (Ant), off Dynospectrum's "The Dynospectrum" album.

LYRICS:
I'm the dude, but hold your piss;
a smooth-lipped, lewd Lebowski.
Fuck with the wrong sleuth, 
I'll bruise that screw-loose, boozy mouthpiece.
As catchy as a virus,  as deadly as a pistol;
I'll stray off path and slang dismissal by the fuckin' fistful.
A mouthful of missiles and a satchel full of swagger;
dizzy dippin', stabbed them dimples with an ancient, 
mangled dagger.
I'm going ape shit on that '98 shit;
back before inflation had gagged the entire nation,
when not every situation was plagued by a lack of patience
and most folks could actually hold a conversation.
Got caught staring…
"Shit girl, shoot me!
It ain't my fuckin' fault you look that good in a 2-piece."
She laughed and asked if I'd like to smash in the backseat.
"No need to even ask me, with an ass that sassy."
Gorgeous face, two sleeves and a backpiece;
a rabid mad hatter grinning, scratching at his acne.
Morbid? Dark? Sure, but oh so illustrative.
She tells that she fell just barely short of sedated. 
The illest native, sip the nausea and it's mosh pit -
a toxic gin and tonic on the rocks, 
splashed with odds and gobbled on tonsil gossip -
just hum to myself, 
keep my hands and jaw in both my pockets.
I'm grippin' rockets, in the Complex with immodest.
Kill your Oddjob six shades of dead,
now tell me who's the hottest.
Let's be honest, with enough room to unleash,
I'll have you cowered in the corner like a fuckin' pussy. 
Cunt, please.


And let them dames know I flamethrow in plain clothes.


Flamethrow (Dynospectrum - Breath of Fresh Air)

Instrumental is 'The Abusing of the Rib', produced by Anthony Davis (Ant), off Atmosphere's "Headshots: SE7EN" album.

LYRICS:
All it takes is a second,
and you're lost within the rainfall and the mood set.
At peace with this eve, 
for she's still barely been that rude yet.
You knew steps toward the door could spark some rapture.
Life is but a photograph, so point, shoot and capture.
But, what a disaster,
who still resonates with laughter?
Obvious to nearly none the sum plays puppet to it's master.
Another bastard - 
no resistance, no triumph,
but what would you expect when public school's a mental 
dry hump?
And don't we know how we gloat and play the martyr?
Just eat, drive and fuck faster,
but work smarter.
I've been farther than the deepest depths of despair;
came back with an empty knack, 
two black eyes and cold road flares.
But I won't even go there;
see, I left for a reason,
and it had little to do with the untimely death of a season.
It's the breath of a heathen against a spiritual necessity,
to reconstruct and adjust a mind to shrine brevity.
Still, six steps ahead of me,
my shadow falls face-first;
like innocence lost due to misplacement of some case work.
Let's hail today's hearse.
Lost, never found.
This hopeless young hound's bound to it's arsenal's sound.

And if I could show you, you'd still never see it.

Another dreary day;
dark, damp and dismal.
A pristine piece of TNT that only barely fizzles.
Where is it that you are, when lost behind that stoic canvas?
I can sense a sour storm,
this place looks less and less like Kansas.
You panic at the thought of ever finding social peace,
for total grief has made your sheets to be 
exactly where it sleeps.
Hazy gaze, 
still we look but don't see.
If only we could calibrate these cagey hearts that won't lead.
Never felt more used, it's true, 
this Modern Life Is War; cheap and disconnected.
A collect call that's rife with roar,
suggests how we should dress, 
screams "Invest!" and so much more,
while the population slaves to pay for what it can't afford.
And the churches!
The church is a motherfucking circus;
a worthless, recycled crutch that feeds without purpose.
They're nervous, know we may expose those overtones, 
for being what they are; a charred jar of ash and bone.
Yo, aren't you taking shit a little out of context?
Buy faith and sell your soul.
God's a game show; how's the contest?
And then there's congress,
money/power-hungry nonsense.
Smite and ravage, 
conquest in the bastard name of progress.



Hazy Gaze (Atmosphere - The Abusing of the Rib)

PRODUCED BY CENTZ (@CENTZ)

Lyrics:

Just some hot shit.
Psychotic god spit.
Mosh pittin' with the smitten bunch.
'Wolves against kitten' stuff.
Euphemism for a prism to a blind eye;
a nickel felon ridin' high,
sickle sellin' cyanide.
Hemoglobin rodent;
racket in your nervous cyst.
Madness in more than March, 
but keep that bracket murderous.
Resurgence is only rad if you threepeat,
and you only get a welcome mat if happenstance is needy.

Bleak chic, 
jux the groove with some bread crumbs.
Jaws bite,
I write to try to move the youth from bedlam.
But it's rent/gas/tuition versus hedge fund.
Chumscrubbin', 
bummin' 'round the town,
downing red rum.
Noggins bobbin' in the spot with the bass up.
If you ain't vibin', I suggest you get your ears and face fucked.
So turn me up some.
The catalyst to madnesses;
baddest kid to leave his twenties,
hungry as your statuses.
Not a fuck to give about the glitz or Gucci,
and all I truly, really want is y'all to shake your booties.
And what's wrong with a ballad or a love song?
Enchanted anthem.
Fandom phantom.
Magic 8 rubbed raw.
My Sharona's potent, 
pokin' at a ripe corpse.
If you ain't having fun with it,
then what you really write for?
Poetic doo-swing.
Ginning and juicing.
Bruising alter egos;
Beatle fruit head-to-shoestring. 
Do-si-doing with the dopest of a new breed.
Hazmat razz brat;
delinquent on a rude spree.
Moody, snooty, bougie foodie without pretense.
Special uninvited guest asking if there's lean left.


NOW YOU SAY (DEMO)

PRODUCED BY CENTZ (@CENTZ)

LYRICS:

Hope is pain.
This Locust Reign is locally grown.
Graze. 
Uphold and bestow strain.
Merry, mighty golden age; 
magnetic, electric splendor;
intrepid pep-defender,
reduced to a septic blender.

Hope is pain.
This Locust Reign is locally grown.
Graze.
And don't you dare think to think for yourself.
Icarus shelf for any gumshoe who comes through.


2 and 5 make 8;
shut the fuck up, go and buy it.
A steady diet of How To Shit a Diamond.
Stern-perverted, nerdist, introverted island.
Just a Worley wide grin for some violence on a violin.
Her name was Violet, she spoke in prose and poem;
broken home to growing old beside a moldy soda's foam.

"Quota's comb will always stick you with the sharp end...".
Heard her voice shaking, as I scribbled on some parchment.
"It's not an art trend; the two can't co-exist.
I've hope for this,
but you have to know the vehicle from motorist".
Just then a motive shits,
only for a moment, 'cause the shadows breed the nervousness,
bleeding earnestness.
God was spillin' blood from every first-born son,
with a hearse-sworn stunt pep, yet Luci's murderous!
Sold you on a stupefying batch of vacant thought.
Apron's off.
Red breakfast.
Pass Pebbles; paint what Satan brought.
Placebo ego; infomercial monologue.
Drama nod.
Oscar saga; doggy-style promenade.
It's on and on...
never-ender December.
Emperor of Solitude,
another evening to dismember. 

Milk the mediocrity, lame is the new black.
Cusack of boom-bap.
Doom rap.
Let's bring groove back.
This hollow earth, in fact, 
was swallowed first by a tendency to wallow.
Houston, we've lost Apollo.
Rhyme saying saviors.
Raiders of the Lost Bark.
Temple wrap mappin',
gyrators of the froth marsh.
A bratty pack of gabbers jabbin' at the right brain.
Scary-sown merry-go,
Strangers On a night Train.


A smorgasbord of boredom, hence the Horror Biz.
Hoarder kids be driving late at night,
elated knife and corpse to ditch.
The corpus quips with each and every druggy nonchalance.
I'm bathing in a lake of hate, parading ugly ambiance.
Surfing with Rosa on a Wave of Mutilation.
Cue the station;
Rubiks Cube of tunes to shoo the new invasion.

Something Wicked This Way Comes
and it's more than some recycled sip with shitty, midi bass drums.
Art Is Hard, but don't you want to Burst and Bloom?
Cursive mood.
Shoot out the lights and ride until it hurts to move.
Immerse in Doom.
Aesop 'til my grave rock.
Lucy Ford blues to bruise the average static.
Hate not.
I'm Built To Spill, baby,
headed Straight To Hell.
Cape and belt to the lost sum.
Caution: Too often awesome.
Like, OK Computer,
No Surprises, shuffle Basie.
Don't mean a thing without the swing,
best skip if it ain't tasty.
Swanky sounds abound from every single brain storm.
Change doors, if you ain't getting down with what you came for.
This is My Unsaid Everything,
a Phoenix In Flames.
Zenith parade in freezing rain to sing a song of seizing change.

Don't they know it's the End of the World?
Skeptical spectacles furl; a second symmetrical swirl.
The swan song of another new wave, 
'cause shoegaze, will only really be dope still for a few days.
I went deaf on the day the music lied.
Defiant mind, 
chimed with battle wounds and attitude for 'units shy'.
An ode to those who sailor dove into the unknown,
who sunk low enough to thank grace and wave to sunstroke.

QUOTA'S COMB (DEMO)

Instrumental is 'Shrapnel', produced by Anthony Davis (Ant), off Atmosphere's "God Loves Ugly" album.





LYRICS:

Verse 1:
Too much cocaine, not enough Rogaine.
No wave. Avant-gardening.
I'm darkening these soulless, self-absorbed, egomaniacal garter queens.
The arguing starts lean, but always grows more tense as she gets more bent.
Fuck this.
I'd rather fist-fuck Dick Buttkis in public, 
with Lohan and Cyrus hanging out my fuckin' Cutlass.
A misfit. A Punk In Drublic.
Birth a Nervous Breakdown amidst a number one club hit.
A disaster? 
Shit, I can barely function,
without disdain, dismay, disarray, or interruption.
Or all of the above, but people love to make assumptions.
"What's the combination in that concoction?
Let me guess, speed and X, whiskey, brandy, scotch, gin, and queludes."
And filleted remains of Hussein, too.
Hey, you. 
What's up after the show?
I feed off mood food, rude tunes and laughter, ya know?
She goes, "I got nothing, let me lead you on blindly.
To the 'T' what I need, exactly what I take kindly to meet is you,
someone to use and abuse. 
I'm gonna drown you in gasoline, knife-fight you for the fuse".
"Dude! I swear this chick's perfect, she's cute!
I'll disregard all missed scars and imminent feuds".
'Cause, we tend to grow lonesome as the cold chill casts, and we all know that.
So we pair off by the thousands; with un-still pasts.
Sooner than later I hope we wise up to the fact that skin is a poor substitute for virtue.
If addressed they're obsessed with attention, they'll hurt you.
Pay mind to your stage fright.
Hearse cue.
It ain't nerves dude, she'll hurt you.

Verse 2:
Maroon the news, a batch of gravity and zig zags.
Lust biz mags; I'd rather bust in a jizz-rag,
than lend my right hand to lady ill-intent.
No matter tone or volume it's always still intense.
But more immense, the threshold for the torture;
once was tasting fruit, but now I'm face-down in the orchard.
I gave a quarter of my life to figure out,
that love's not just a gamble, but a match of scream and shout.
Some demon cloud's always lurking, murky tides high.
An avalanche of afterthought; 
the laughter sought, a drive-by.
Rules and stipulations, always more to abide by,
with little in return.
Let the brittle middle burn.
Mixed-up, a stick-up of emotions.
Each ruse, a new bruise;
break bones and bleed oceans.
Exhausted and such a preposterous notion - reciprocation -
accosted, yet nothing but commotion.
Nevermind it, this love nonsense, I'm done trying.
Tired of finding nothing in the fuckin' fine-print,
but bullshit and more reformed rants from before.
Who's rich within relationships?
We're cancerous and poor.
Answer the door, there's more than just the taste of salt.
Let yourself love someone else, finally blindly face the fall.
I hate to stall on such a tired trail of coffins,
but I'm just sick of often,
I'm just trying to leave a paw print.

Hook:
Hearts explode. Art errodes.
Caught in the undertow and chokehold.
What's next? What's left? What's under her dress?
Just a mess of shrapnal.
Common cause. Comma, pause.
Enough head trauma to blanket in gauze.
What's next? What's left? What's under her breath?
Only death and shrapnal.

SKIN (Atmosphere - Shrapnel)

PRODUCED BY CENTZ (@CENTZ)

LYRICS:

Can't win.
Caught in a backspin.
Fought every box, every month for my passion.
Bled each fraction, every last ounce for a mouth like a glass house;
call it Camp Cast Out.
Grave Rider;
every day a massacre.
Just enough uncharted Mars to make NASA purr.
Fear and self-loathing on the coast as a dump truck.
Feeble-minded dumb fuck.
Pins, needles; slump-struck.
Maybe beauty buried deep within the misery,
but damn 'em if their ministry ain't shaping any symmetry. 
And good things always come with an asterisk.
Cancerous exchange, for there's still another ass to kiss.
Masochists twist in the teeth of a shark's bite.
Disregard the bite marks; welcome to the dark side.


Never learn, never love, never leave.
But who's to really know what forever means?
Crossed Capulets. 
Lost Angeles.
Evangelist death machine disheveling ecstasy.


Three years.
Three cheers for an existential crisis.
Exponential vices keep me handcuffed still to this Groundhog Day.
Broken, hokey horoscope;
low-key sound-off phase.
With friends like these, and kids like us,
shit's fucked;
though we only ever wanna be loved.
But, always a veil, a screen or a facade.
Get god in a cup-to-go.
No fucks to sow.
Thank the wind for jazz and all the ramblings of my faves.
You're all fuckin' great;
you made me more of who I am,
than half the folk I knew.
A bit ashamed to say it's true,
but in this moment realized, humble kudos overdue.
Here's hoping to an escape within the puppet show,
and if you ever find it let the Master of Fuck-Its know.
'Cause every single damn day, I keep kickin' the bucket, yo.

LOST ANGELES (DEMO)

SLC FUNKT is a Minneapolis-based hip-hop trio.
Members include:
SCIARK - Emcee/Producer
Binge Crosby - Emcee
Chef Dahmer - Emcee

S.O.L

Portals

Psyche A Go-Go

Mr. Grief

Constant Sorrow

Produced by Centz

"Sky-Bourne" available via all major online music retailers/distributors.

Sky-Bourne

KINGDUMB.
If it only eat what it need, then let it live.

Binge Crosby

Popular tracks