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

Kitchen lino is a glacier at two in the morning, 
We’re sitting cross-legged, ignoring the warning.
That sleep is for people who have their lives sorted,
Not for the ones whose grand plans got aborted Or paused,
or rewritten in biro on palms.

You’re dissecting the silence with minimal qualms,
Drawing Venn diagrams in the grease of the box,
Wearing nothing but anxiety and odd-coloured socks.

You say, 
“If I am me, and you are just you, 
Then what is the substance that binds us as two? 
Is it sticky?
Is it magnetic?
Is it just the rent?”

I say,
“Star, pass the salsa, your logic is bent.”

But you’re digging in deep, archaeology of the soul,
Trying to find where the two of us make up a whole.
The toaster is listening, the kettle’s confused,
By the strange attractors that we’ve introduced.

But don’t give me multiple-choice feelings tonight,
I’m too tired to tick boxes or prove that I’m right.
We’re a thesis untitled, a blurred-out design,
Two distinct messy chaotic lines. 

And you’re asking for definitions, for strict boundaries,
Like we’re nations at war or undiscovered countries.
But if ‘us’ is a concept, a thought in the air,
Why does it feel heavy when I stroke your hair?

It’s Impostor Syndrome, that’s what it is,
Playing house in a hoodie that smells like the fizz Of cheap lager and fabric conditioner, sweet.

We’re waiting for the grown-ups to walk down the street And tell us to clear off,
to pack up our toys,

That love isn’t meant for lost girls and loud boys.
But nobody’s coming, the streetlights are dead,
And there’s a terrified quiet hanging over the bed.

And there’s a variable X that we haven’t quite plotted,
A tiny expansion, a calendar dotted.
Biology’s rude, doesn’t ask for a permit,
While we’re living like monks, like a two-person hermit.

You trace a shape on the floor with your thumb, Say,
“Does the equation change if a third one comes?”
A unknown integer, a ghost in the math,
Changing the slope of our whole draft… 
I mean, path.
Freudian slip in the aftermath.

So don’t give me multiple-choice feelings, okay?
The syllabus changed while we looked the other way.
We’re the thesis expansion, a terrifying design,
Tangled up knots in this timeline.

And you’re asking for structure, for a solid concrete,
Something to stand on with two shaky feet.
But if ‘us’ is a theory, abstract and rare,
Why is there tangible weight in the air?

Descartes never had to pay council tax bills,
Or wonder if nausea is fear or just ills.

Sartre sat in cafes, he didn’t sit here,
Watching the future subtly appear.

philosophers broke on the edge of what is known,
Turning our silence to credits on a pay-as-you-go phone.

You look at me, eyes wide, knees in a heap
“Are we ready?” you whisper

“Or are we asleep?”

I say, “Look at the window, the condensation,”

It’s holding the street in a wet suspension.
We don’t need a word for the thing that we are,
Whether a binary system or a neutron star.
It’s the warmth of your knee pressing into my side,
This ontology I can only abide.

It’s the way that you breathe when the panic sets in,
And the way I breathe out where your breaths begin.

So scrap all the multiple-choice feelings, my star,
The answer is distinct if slighly bizarre.
No chart for this living, a chaotic design,
Your hand sweating gently holding onto mine.

No need a map for this territory,
No tools of trade in our inventory.

Closer scoot under the sheet of rain.
To feel you so close,
I Shall not abstain.

Drenched in this station,
waiting for the bus.
This is,
clearly,
an ontology of us 

Yeah, the silence sounds plenty enough like an us.

ontology of us

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ontology of us

Dancing salamanders

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