wanted u

Midnight Marauder

Cortex always has those mystical-sounding samples

Cult

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)

Here is a preview mix i did for Chairman Maf's new album "Zoo" out now @ https://chairmanmaf.bandcamp.com/album/zoo

Chairman Maf "Zoo" album preview mixed by Cyril Snare

Shimmer

Full Discography at www.centzbeats.bandcamp.com 
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Shimmer

Centz

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