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RADIO_part4

Talk About It

Let The Morning Come

Before The Morning Comes

Feet Don't Fail Me Now

Made of Gold

Smiling Dog feat. Clayjay

Daydreaming

White City

Big Talk

Protein v2 (feat. Obongjayar & WESTSIDE BOOGIE)

The nine took this one with a tune called Heart Symbol kunesh is a Reiki branch that refracts time and intent as fieldwork for repair. BTNHLLS<3


Lyrics


[Hook]
It’s the psyop army here to— (hush)
it’s the psyop army here too— (shh)
army here to psyop—do you think?
Did they link what you think to the ink in your drink?
It’s the psyop army here to— (move)
it’s the psyop army near you— (prove)
arm me? hardly—barley swish—wink,
still they pick the pin at the shear-line brink.

[Verse 1]
Do you think that they think about me,
like I think about you when the wind combs wheat?
Or the way you think about him—
cicadas stitch time while the hills keep beat.
Are we clear? (Yes.) Good—here’s the thing:
I wanna tell everything, from rings
in the lease-tree trunk to the paper’s sting,
where origin bends and orders begin.
Why’d you move to New York? (Talk.)
I grew up there—then the groove went dark.
Moved back—why? Land-lord took stock,
took all my things when the clause gridlocked.
I had a friend, said he’d come, then ghost,
promised twice—thrice—then absent-most.
So I’m out on the curb, night thick as tar,
and that’s when psyops rolled up in a car:
skim-skrrt—took key, took money and name,
SIM clipped, cache stripped, mapped my shame.

[Chorus]
That’s when the psyop army stole my key and my money,
and my key and my money, and my key and my money.
Not funny—blood in the honey,
that’s when they stole my key and my money.

[Verse 2]
Warm breeze in the grass moves rumors,
beaten hills bruise blue under huge sun tumors.
I trace a path with Dijkstra calm,
shortest way home through a long alarm.
Every “ping” like a hand in my pocket,
every “like” a lockpick, timed to the socket.
They didn’t just take a key, they took a seed—
mnemonic in fog, now a hive’s stampede.
Key-stretch, salt-fetch, hash-chain faint,
a saint ain’t safe when a friend ain’t saint.
Boundary layer breaks—shear turns coarse,
laminar peace becomes ribbed like a horse.
Orographic lift—thought wings rise,
pressure drops, and I size their lies.
They run psyops; I run psyche ops too:
Bayes on the weights, sift spin from true.
Pasture says “Breathe,” breath says “Stay,”
I win with wind when the doubts all fray.

[Y]
It is impossible to see anything in the real realm
unless you become it.
Not so in the world: you see sun without being sun,
see sky and earth but are not them.
In that other truth, you are what you see—
see spirit, be spirit;
see the anointed, be anointed;
see the Father, father is thee.
Here you see all but yourself;
there you look, and are what you see.

[Advert]
(whisper) Meadow sponsor: Jikiden Reiki, clean line, clean drum.
It works with time, intent, consciousness—hums
to resolve the physical, social, emotional, spiritual,
psycho-mental—attunements habitual.
(car is moving) moving—palms warm, green
field rewoven where the wounds once screamed.

[Interlude]
Gentle-warm wind, clover cold-sweet,
crows write cursive in the thermals’ sheet.
A key in the grass where the secrets meet—
I bend, become, and I rise to my feet.

[Bridge]
They said “psyop,” I heard “sigh, stop.”
Breath said “try, up,” and the sky popped.
Chiasmus: I need the wind to win;
the wind needs me to spin within.
They fog consensus; I clear isobars,
bend my arrow past their scars.
You can steal a coin and copy a lock,
but not the book if I am the stock.

[Y]
ytng and aumrasap (kunesh)
tones rung, tongue-brush—field hush.
ytng—young gong—lungs flush,
aumrasap—pasture’s mantra—lush.

[Hook]
It’s the psyop army here to— (breathe)
it’s the psyop army near you— (leave)
army here to psyop? not if I see—
if I see spirit, then spirit is me.

[Chorus]
That’s when the psyop army stole my key and my money,
and my key and my money, and my key and my money.
Honey hides blood till the noon gets runny—
they stole my key and my money.

[Coda]
I lost what I locked, found what I am—
hills drum slow like a birthright jam.
Wind stitches cuts with a pasture hymn—
open like grass; no thief can skim.

Lyrics by: @aumnrasap

Made of Gold

Ibeyi

Recent comments

Parshan

some random fool

viniciuss!

Martin

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