Don't Care

Fuzziekiss & THEHOMEBOIII - Don't Care

y u so me4n

eyes open before i go (prod.shadow)

The air hums low with whispers of thought,
A canvas stretched, her brushlines caught.
The café buzzes, but she’s somewhere far,
Lost in a world where symbols are stars.

"What stories linger in the curve of her hand?
What secrets unfold in the lines she’s planned?"

Her brush moves slow, like a dancer’s grace,
Tracing a serpent with a human face.
The sun and moon, a union bold,
Bound by chains of silver and gold.

"What does it mean, the dragon’s tongue?
The wheel that turns where the stars are hung?"

"It’s the circle of time, the world own game,
The search for truth, for a hidden flame."

Through the twelve gates, where the riddles gleam,
A sacred path, a golden dream.
Lead to silver, silver to gold,
The right and perfect meanes unfold.

The colors shift as the story grows,
A phoenix rises where the poppy blows.
She tilts her head, the brush held tight,
"It’s the ashes reborn in the fire’s light."

"And what of the stone, the one they seek?
Does it live in this scroll, in words they speak?"

"The stone’s not found in the gold they crave,
It’s the heart that loves, the soul that’s brave."

Through the twelve gates, where the symbols play,
A sacred science to light the way.
Lead to silver, silver to gold,
The right and perfectest meanes retold.

Her eyes alight with the fire she stokes,
A story lives in the art she evokes.
The serpent coils where the eagle flies,
An ouroboros of infinite ties.

"She paints a world where the broken mend,
A map of hope, where circles end."

"Are you lost in thought, or lost in me?
The symbols speak if you choose to see."

The dragon breathes, the phoenix sings,
The cycle turns where the fire clings.
"We’re all brave, in our own way,
Turning grief to light, to find the day."

"And you, the artist, the keeper of dreams,
Show me the truth in these gilded streams."

She hands him the brush, his fingers still,
"Add your mark, wherever you will."
He draws a line, where the rivers meet,
A quiet echo, soft and sweet.

"You’ve gilded the stream with a silver gleam,
Now it’s part of our daring dream."

"Together we build what the world can’t see,
A map of hope, a legacy."

Through the twelve gates, where the secrets hide,
A sacred path where love abides.
Lead to silver, silver to gold,
The right and perfectest meanes unfold.

The brush lays down, the colors blend,
The story told, yet it won’t end.
In every mark, a piece of flame,
The right and perfectest meanes remain.

The Right and Perfectest Meanes

inside?

Yeah, Im Flexin

with me (ft. xykho)

Så lunka vi så småningom
Från Bacchi buller och tumult,
När döden ropar, Granne kom,
Ditt timglas är nu fullt.
Du Gubbe fäll din krycka ner,
Och du, du Yngling, lyd min lag,
Den skönsta Nymf som åt dig ler
Inunder armen tag.

First up, mate on the 3:12 train,
Rain on the window, steams up the pane.
Slumped in his hoodie, boots untied,
Dreams of a holiday, budget denied.
Calendar packed, phone battery dead,
But still he smiles, lifts up his head.
Life ain’t perfect, but hear what I say—
Breathe deep, love, it’s just another day.

Tycker du att dagen är för lång,
Trångt kontor och dresscode tvång
nå, välan än så hör då denna sång.
ta dig sen dito en, dito två, dito tre,
så går det lättare.

See her there, oat latte and toast,
Posting her brekkie, “I love me” post.
Ring light halo, filter glow,
Underneath it all, she’s just tryna grow.
Swaps her heels for battered flats,
Walks home alone past streetlamp splats.
Café philosophers, heart on sleeve,
Little sips of courage before she leaves.

You ever feel that weight?
Like you’re carrying sky bricks in a Tesco bag?
Same, mate. Keep walking.

Tycker du att världen känns för stor,
nå, välan så spring från storebror,
ta dig sen dito en, dito två, dito tre,
så går det lättare.

Old gent down the allotment rows,
Whispers to his tomatoes as they grow.
Wool cap, flask, Radio Wales hum,
Weather app says rain but the sun’s still come.
He lost someone once, don’t talk much,
Tends the soil with a gentle touch.
Weeds or wildflowers? Who’s to say?
All of us bloom in our own weird way.

Young lad skint, pockets all bare,
Friday pint ‘cos he still don’t care.
Mates on the WhatsApp, banter’s alive,
Takes the long route home just to survive.
Council flat lights, moon on the wall,
Swears at the stars but forgives them all.
Life ain’t golden, but still it’s bright,
Even cold chips taste good at midnight.

Tycker du att skatten är för hög,
Lön som aldrig dög, hela livet sög
nå, välan ta så chill drill, puff puff pass
ta dig sen dito en, dito två, dito tre,
så går det lättare, ser du de?

Parent at 4AM, bleary-eyed stare,
Rocking the baby, whispered prayer.
Milk-stained T-shirt, “We’re alright, yeah?”
Heartbeat lullaby fills the air.
One day they’ll grow, dance on their own,
But tonight you’re together, safe, homegrown.
Lean into the moment, don’t rush through,
Even messy love is the purest true.

Tycker du att natten är för lång,
Mata, byta, gång på gång.
nå, välan ta dig då en stund,
ta dig sen dito en, dito två, dito tre,
så hittar du tillbaka till dig själv lättare.

Säg är du nöjd? min granne säg,
Så prisa värden nu till slut;
Om vi ha en och samma väg,
Så följoms åt; drick ut.
Men först med vinet rött och vitt,
För vår Värdinna bugom oss,
Och halkom sen i graven fritt,
Vid aftonstjärnans bloss.

Song for dinner

Fazekas x 8jaxx - What I want

Vogue

a low floor under a higher ache

Patience is percussion on the rim of rock,
drip spells doctrine into lime and chalk.
Grain after grain, a grammar under frost,
letters in the limestone learning what is lost.
I set my jaw to gentle, let the rhythm choose,
soft knocks, small knocks, news against the bruise.
Clarify or calcify, the fork inside the throat:
one path is water writing, one is turning to a coat.
I practice being porous where the day would plate me tight,
let meaning seep and brighten, not harden into white.

Little laws in little drops, low work, long light;
I keep a softer center where the corners want to bite.

This is what the waiting’s like, drops of sulphur born from strife.
Is this what hope can be, blindfolded photon, cascading endlessly.
Strike, wave warm and boldly, collapse into the only,
only one that ever was, feed the growth of fern and moss.
Maybe all of us are alike, alike alone together on this tall steep hike, 
this is what a loop is like.

Hill with a hard old heart, I climb and keep it kind,
boots rhyme slate with breath, I loosen in the mind.
Stubborn grace is cheek against the granite’s stubborn face,
neither breaks the other; both remember pace.
I knock the same small syllable until the music yields,
not cracking for a triumph, but opening to fields.
Clarify or calcify, I hear the proverb ring,
Dyfal donc on knuckle bone until the welter sings.
Not every edge needs filing; some just want a palm,
a steady pulse of nearness drumming them to calm.

Stone learns slow from water; I learn slow from stone,
to carry weight without becoming wholly bone.

This is what the waiting’s like, drops of sulphur born from strife.
Hope is how a photon hides, a wave that will not choose a side,
blindfold on, it rides and rides.
Strike, then warm and boldly be, collapse into the only,
only love that ever was, feed the fern, invite the moss.
Maybe all of us alike, alike alone upon this hike,
this is what a loop is like.

Wave says “both,” and particle says “pick,”
I lay the coin on tongue and let it melt, not click.
Knees know slate, hands know shale,
heart is a hammer that has learned to fail
at breaking; now it learns to name,
to tap until the shape is tame.
Clarify the salt from grief,
calcify the false belief.
If I must harden, let it be to hold,
a shell around the tender, not a prison made of cold.

The ridge is long, the weather’s loud,
we are a hush inside a crowd.
I see you shoulder daylight’s load,
I hear you counting stones to code.
The choice repeats in rain and rhyme,
turn to crust or turn to time.
I keep a cup for clarity and carry what I can,
I leave a chalk-white outline where I used to be a man.
Grace is not a lightning strike; it’s knuckles, breath, and will,
the courage to stay soluble and sing while standing still.

Tap and listen, listen and let go;
the mountain keeps no anger that the moss does not outgrow.

This is what the waiting’s like, drops of sulphur borne from strife.
Is this what hope can be, blindfolded photon, falling, free.
Strike, wave warm and boldly, collapse into the only,
only one that ever was, feed the growth of fern and moss.
Maybe all of us are alike, alike alone together on this tall, steep hike;
yes, this is what a loop is like.

Clarify, not calcify, let the drop decide.
Knock, and keep your knuckles kind.

clarify calcify

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clarify calcify

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