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

Axiom: you arrived and every unit of time re-sized.
Given: two hands, a kettle, a room of weather.
To prove: love—solved for the exponents of my heart. Q.E.D.

Open to Page One: Discovery, ink bloom, coffee ring, smudge of jam.
Footnote: the morning was rain-shaped; the window wore stars from your stickers.
Your fist, a conker, I write: specimen of thunder held in velvet.
Habitat: my chest. Range: all hours.
Control notes: when you breathe in, the kettle agrees; when you laugh, the clock forgets itself.
I measure your world in silly units, seven ladybirds from wrist to window,
two sparrow-hops from bedside to brave.
[plucked fiddle echo]
On graph paper, I draw a proof,
the curve goes skyward wherever your name lands.
You yawn; I annotate: soft weather event, localised; probability of wonder = 1.
I copy the sound of your socks on the kitchen lino, shh-ssk, shh-ssk,
and the way your hair argues kindly with the wind.
Margin note: hold gently, not tight; we are custodians, not cages.

What’s fragile isn’t weak,
it’s simply telling us how to touch it.

Hold lightly, keep warm; never hard, never harm.
Hands like pockets of calm in a storm.
Write it down so the heart remembers,
feathers, freckles, rainy Decembers.
If love is a bird, then open your palm,
let it sing, let it land, let it go, stay calm.
This is my field guide to holding,
letters, maps, a lantern unfolding.

Identification: hair the colour of wet oak, eyes—bluebells after rain.
Call: a three-note “Dad?” ascending like a kettle nearly there.
Diet: toast soldiers, crumbs of moonlight, stories with the crusts left on.
Favourite words: nearly, anyway, hello again.

Distribution: windowsills, bus stops, my left shoulder at dusk.
Behaviour: picks wild names for ordinary streets;
renames fear into a pet we can train, “sit, wait, okay, off you pop.”
Control sketch: little boots on a canal path;
I notate the rhythm, tap tap rest, tap tap rest,
and underline the secret: you walk like you’re listening.
I test a theorem: if grief is rain, then love is the coat that doesn’t mind getting soaked.
The numbers behave; the page fogs slightly; a teardrop becomes a lens.
Conclusion: you make even the hard bits gentle by naming them true.

Hold lightly, keep warm; never hard, never harm.
Hands like pockets of calm in a storm.
Write it down so the heart remembers,
feathers, freckles, rainy Decembers.
If love is a bird, then open your palm,
let it sing, let it land, let it go, stay calm.
This is my field guide to holding,
letters, maps, a lantern unfolding.

When it’s small: hold near the heartbeat; count to four.
When it’s loud: make tea; open a door.
When it’s fragile: two hands, wide breath.
When it’s heavy: ask the floor for help—sit, rest.
When it’s leaving: don’t clutch; stay near.
When it’s storming: sing its true name, not its fear.
When it’s silence: place a chair beside it.
When it’s joy: step back, don’t hide it.


Advanced Section: absent phenomena; care protocols for the not-here.
I log the shape you leave, oval of air on the pillow,
steam ghost on the mug, faint moon of a thumbprint on the pane.
I practice holding without keeping:
wrap the memory in breath, not tape;
warm it with song, don’t laminate.
I chart the routes where I still find you—
in hedgerow grammar, in puddles rehearsing the sky,
in the way the village exhales when the bus doors hiss open.
Footnote: when I say your name, the rain stands up straighter.
Lemma: love outlives its evidence.
Therefore (by mornings): the proof re-proves itself,
my heart, exponentiated, still resolves to you.

The rule holds: we never own,
we hold, we learn, we’re loaned.

Hold lightly, keep warm; never hard, never harm.
Hands like pockets of calm in a storm.
Write it down so the heart remembers,
feathers, freckles, rainy Decembers.
If love is a bird, then open your palm,
let it sing, let it land, let it go, stay calm.
This is my field guide to holding,
and i’m still learning.

field guide to holding on

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field guide to holding on

Dancing salamanders