They said stay right there in the spite lair. They didn’t feel the vapor in the night air. A tempest at bay, I vent this sad way. A glass pipe smashed in the ashtray. My silence is past date. This is the last day you get to see a single grass blade. Floodgates – water and mud waits on the other side. I’m opening the motherfuckers wide, and the front breaks on the coastline. A cyclone winds in and the first throes blow minds. The status quo shattered, the rattled folk scatter to the rooftops. They think it’s pourin’ now, but these are dew drops. A deluge in the stewpots, cookin’ the frequency in your jukebox. Shootin’ off imprudent talk, coughing. The pollutants making mutants our offspring. So I’m cleansing, it’s a downpour, and I don’t know what everyone’s waiting around for. Build arks, build pontoons. Be ready for the deadly impending monsoon. This is H2O and it’ll chase you slow. You need a buoyant, reliable place to go. When I say I spit liquid I mean that I’m a drowning victim, raised from the watery grave to take his bounty with him. The tide rises. The heart of Poseidon declines five sizes. He calls Aegaeon, “What it is, mayne? We’ll do the whole world like we did Brisbane.” A wave tidal – a tsunami to wash over this despicable Jumanji. And as your wee vessels weaved outta sheet metal leave and the sea level leaps several feet, peace like Gandhi.
The whole place is in a panic; the people frantic, their very land married to the Atlantic. Oceanic, and I’m the riptide. If you’re out there, you’re comin’ inside. And I know it isn’t right to start natural disasters, ask my mom and dad, they’re practically masters, and I’m the product. Not snow, but of a more fluid conduct. They made me, but I rebelled. Had a parachute, but I free-fell. They said “Miguel, follow that path and you’ll see Hell” but I knew that I was already there by the time I reached twelve. And they sheltered me from the ever-licking flames so sweltering. They said hip hop was evil, along with Manson and other prophetic people. They were preaching from the pulpit, but of course they also taught me not to buy bullshit, and when I opened my eyes, I saw fire; an entire civilization on the pyre. A stagnant quagmire of laggin’ satire, tryin’ to travel fast but always draggin’ the back tires, and it was obvious that the solution to the problem was aqueous. No solvent, just liquid, because it all seems so conflicted. I’m diminishin’ the ignition cause I’m a citizen of conviction, not USA or Earth. Now fluid days are birthed. You want it hot? I’m cold to death. The water’s high. Hold your breath.
None of you even saw it coming, did you? That makes you all part of the fucking issue. You coulda shoulda prevented it, the sediment settlin’ in my mental cellar presented a tentative torrent of enormous proportions; a brainstorm. A whole different kind of audio waveform. You’re bailin’ out your banks but they’ll be draining soon anyway, and not the riverbanks, the ones that keep your pennies safe. This is a warning. Head for high ground. Seal the cracks, your waterproofing is peelin’ back. Feel the draft? It’s comin’ outta the East, and the belly of the ocean is fed by the mouth of the beast. I hope you’ve all been listenin’ close, I hope I distracted half of you into missing your boats, because the surge is your proverbial pound of skin. I hope you all learned how to swim.

Produced by Mike East

12 The Flood

This is the confession of an ordinary impressionable kid with intentions to communicate a message fueled by the bad things that he did. I’m here to save you from the way you dismay over what life gave you. Please read this verse and leech the hurt, bleed and release the curse like Atreyu. I’m freshly dead and no, I won’t just fucking rest in bed. I’m all shook up like Elvis Presley said. I’m thinkin’ there’s somebody else out there who feels like I, but there ain’t a fuckin’ megaphone big enough for everyone to hear my cry. And so I’m calling it out to anybody who’s listenin’, and what I been bawlin’ about is that my patience is fizzlin’. In the midst of this decision I’ve been pissin’ in the wind, resistin’ the mission given for this life I’m livin’ in. This is everything to me now, and it should be to you. I was popped off, lost, and didn’t know what the fuck to do, and now it’s evident. Disheveled devils, elect me president. I’m here to quell your personal Hell… call me Heavensent.
Death is irrelevant, I’m on felon trip. I’m killin’ hella peasants, no sentence or prison cells can quell this shit. I’m tellin’ it straight up, the mouth won’t stay shut. I’m sick from the head down and dead from the waist up. There’s not enough room in this town for your skeletons, I’m the resident Heavensent, full of hope and I’m sellin’ it. Elegant in delivery, representin’ the code of chivalry, ever-present and bent to sever the stress you’re givin’ me. I’m a martyr, a scapegoat. I’m here to create hope. If your ship is going down, I’m the safe boat. When life is sink or swim, I’m here through thick and thin eternally. When beds are burnin’ or you hit a burden you can turn to me. Certainly, I’ll absorb your insecurities and bad vibes. Increase the peace and cut back the lag time. If you feel unloved or you ain’t got a home, take it from a fallen angel. You’re not alone.
Hold my hand press on as the plot sickens. You’ll know the flow is kickin’ in when your heart quickens. I am the wonderful one if you’re under the gun, I’ve got a new soul-serving hunger for blood. Heavensent and Hellbent on adjusting the score, I’m deflowering the damage and I’m lusting for more. Bustin’ the doors down, invadin’ your personal pain, absorbin’ the water when you’re out in the rain. I’m the figurative soldier to cry on, a cold-shouldered vet of tryin’ to get my suicide on. A broken heart and the scourge of the city, intent on wiping down the slate and conquering calamity. My amity shines, a bright light from the dark side. Watching the world burn is quite the fucking stark sight, so I’ll be the one at the end of the day to introduce relief and take all of the pain away.
I know a bunch of dudes are sayin’ they’re savin’ the game, but they’re only interested in displayin’ their name. Claimin’ the fame, disappearing with a fat-ass paycheck. That’s why only a few of these cats have faith left. Your genre is dying cause you reduced it to filth, and if you won’t do something positive, then somebody else fucking will. Give me a fanbase, a box full of band-aids, and I won’t let a person leave without a smile on their damned face. There’s too many douches playing the role of public speaker, puffin’ reefer while their so-called “friends” are huffin’ ether to escape a depressed life, but I am a believer in healin’ the wounds of others cause I had a good fuckin’ teacher. So now I’m here. Pour your hurt into me. I’ve been through Hell enough that my flesh and hair is burning smoothly. No canoeing. Leave your stress in the beats, depression released. Push on. The only direction is East.

Produced by Mike East

11 Heavensent

From paradise into the open wings of a broken dream. I hope the seams don’t split from this free-roam shit. I’ve been homeless, but never like this. I’m in a land lacking luster and I’m accustomed to brightness. It’s pure dark in this room at night, and I heard the North Star and the Moon have light, but they won’t share the glory. They could care less for caring for me. Fair is fair, and I’ll spare you the story. The music’s boring; the rhythm won’t make the feet dance, and though I’m hotter than the fattest guy I’d be satisfied with heat lamps to light the way for perfect performance. I thought I had my thoughts sorted, now the Speech Demon lies dormant. I try to ignore it and force the words, but nothing happens. I need a scanner line for raps so I can tap in, like “Captain! Captain! Nobody knows where the maps went! It’s everything we’ve ever dreaded, now the crew is headed to the chaplain!” And they’re praying for gentle winds and direction to settle in, and even though I’m a practiced nomadic veteran, I’m looking for a place to call home… even if it means that I’ll be all alone.
There’s no counting the towns I’ve passed through like a gallstone; addresses practically tattooed on my jawbone. From Webster to Southbridge, down South to Vero, where I stayed about a thousand places – headstrong highway hero. Two hours North for two months in Orlando, spent half of the time crammed in a van with a band, though; ‘til everything fell apart systematically. Started a metal band so the Madame was mad at me. I traveled rapidly from there to a couple of mansions, living in spare rooms and property expansions. The new group disbanded just as we had made our mark, so I cut the yellow tape and I escaped to a trailer park. From there I migrated to Port St. Lucie, on the border of Jensen Beach, overlooking the blue sea. I used to be blind to the position I lived in, but listen – I’ve been in New York a minute and holy shit, I miss it. But I’m submissive when it comes to my passion, so with the cash in my pocket and a tank to put gas in, I quit my job and my band, said bye to my friends and family, and I found a lonely island and a basement to crash in.
North on 95 was the game plan, the right track. Met a couple detours in the flight path. I fell the fuck in love with the rest of the EC, serene scenery you never see on your TV.
Chilled in an old-ass castle in St. Auggie; gallivanted in Savannah ‘til I got groggy, so I slept at some rest stops, kicked up a green haze, hit Richmond, the DC, and I made it in three days.
Nesconset was a nightmare – that shit right there was as low as it gets, bro - a literal shit-show. Seclued like Gitmo in a basement under leaky waste basins on a double-couch with my boy Jason.
Somehow I ended up arriving in Blue Point, where I crashed at a new joint and burned trees like I was a rude boy. Where I discovered DMT, became a free MC, and realized my true voice.
But just like every good thing, it came to pass, dog, and I never take the opportunity to slack off. I packed my bags, emerged from the black fog, and headed back on the track – last stop: Patchogue.
I crashed on a mattress in the garage where my band practiced on a floor that smelled like cat piss, now adapted to the madness but glad to be past it, and bouncing back like elastic.
I stayed about a year and a half, but with a sneer and a laugh, I’m clearin’ a path, and emptyin’ my fear in the trash. I am a vagabond, an adamant travelin’ anaconda, constrictin’ foes and slowly growin’ the saga long.
A wayfarer, a pain bearer for the downtrodden. None of the places that I’ve stayed with ever be forgotten – the real, the rotten, foes, family, friends, but the road will always be my favorite land to the end. Sing it again.

09 Saga Song Of The Vagabond

I’ve got a mission. It’s one that I don’t take lightly; to rearrange my stars, a subtle change to make nightly. I thought I’d resist, but the strength of fate’s mighty, so I guess I’ll just do it like James ‘n Nike. I’m taking supplements to make my arms grow longer, and I’ve grown fonder of that incandescent glow yonder. There’s no honor in desertin’ a battlefield that’s brewin’ wars, and I’ve grown bored of ruefully doin’ chores. I’ma build my career to the top, even if it ruins yours. Gotta get up high enough to be suffused in the luminous mucous of those superfluous orbs, and as the fluid pours, I’ll be spreading stardust like a magic mushroom spewin’ spores. Infectin’ the sector with decadent smegma collected as requisite medicine or anesthetic when you’re wrecked ‘n dejected. Directin’ constellations, tryin’ to tie up Orion and vyin’ for Leo’s attention to mention that I’m the neo-lion. Fuck what you know about the stars, now I am one. I transformed and move more galaxies than Samsung. Premier victory music express from the champ, son – relay the comments of the stratosphere off my damned tongue. Note how I master the chat axiom, passin’ the late rush, my stellar stanzas advance reverb off of space dust. With ace intensity, I blaze incessantly a laser message beam, a light ray to illuminate and save us. I’ve skyrocketed and I’ve discovered focus there, my mind replenished in exhilarating open air. With a style to admire, now I’m moving doubletime to be on the bright side of the lens transfixed to Hubble’s eye. I’m space shuttle fly, higher than as asteroid – more fuckin’ smoke than the Challenger disaster, boy. I used to partake in the powder, the faster joy, but no more drugs for this man like Castor Troy. My plan’s to prevail. I’m conquering the space-time continuum. You want a piece of history? I’ll bring you one. I’m solar and I’ll grow this ‘til I’ve got my own solstice. It’s tough, but remember what I said about focus? I’m a fluorescent gem, strivin’ to be vibrant in a violent cosmos, it’s hard to not absorb like osmosis. My code is simple to crack, that way it has an impact. No gaseous atmospheres to distract, I’m not with that. I’m crestin’ a wave of lava off a sunburst. My mission is terrestrial, but this kinda shit comes first. I’ve just about got ‘em all where I want ‘em now, and they’ll stay there ‘til they go supernova, darken and bottom out. Strung across the darkness like Chinese lanterns, drained of their radiance to supply these answers; a testament to my temperament, restless with the best of ‘em, restin’ on the precipice of preeminence is what’s left of it. A marvel to behold for eternity in a gaseous state, my magistrate applying the Law of Attraction as I fascinate with my savage statements backed by a vast and galactic caliber, manufacturing a rabid chattering character. Now I’m havin’ a good time proclaiming the real. Throwin’ heat on the beat, ordained to display an array of appeal. I say what I feel, now gimme a moment cause I’ve got a date with a jet. I’m mythic, exhibiting prolific victory, kid, if you’re placing your bet. But I gotta float back down to the blue Earth, let loose, infuse with the humans and prepare for my new birth. Emerge and come to sum it up in more than a few words, to ravage adjectives, stab nouns, and shoot verbs. I’m changin’ my stars like William Thatcher, risin’ like May 2011 was really the rapture. A brilliant master of space travel and astronomy, but down here schoolin’ you fools is where I wanna be. Follow me.

Produced by Mike East

05 Novashifter

Produced by Str33tbeats

Man is god, and we control our own destiny. Today I learned a secret, and it got the best of me. Let’s halt the wishin’. Let’s achieve. Thought’s the recipe for stress to rest in peace. Open up your hearts. <3. Positivity is everything. Suppress the negative beggin’ for an end to agony, get with levity. Intentions better be up if you intend to fly. Project your thoughts, and the universe will then supply. Life doesn’t see the line between desire and fear; whatever’s on your mind, you inspire it here. MC’s complain about how they don’t make enough dough, so we watch their careers die onstage like a snuff show. The truth is rough, though; it’s hard to comprehend. You’ve gotta be willing to wrap something around your head that we were preconditioned to forget as a species, but now the secret’s out and progress never seemed so easy.
When I was shown the truth, the introduction offered words of honest understanding like “believing will be hard at first.” But what I found was the most mind-blowing fact you could wanna learn. I found it harder not to vomit on the monitor, so I pass it on like Rhonda Byrne. It needs to be heard and believed, and you don’t have to murder and thieve. This is a brand new lesson of the birds and the bees, and a new constructive version of disturbin’ tha peace. This is the Law of Attraction – put out your vibes. Make ‘em positive. Evolve; touch other lives. You’ve been controlled from within like a theater puppet. Instead, control your own fate. You’re the creator of it. Focus on your goals, project your energy and love, and you’ll attract the things you spend your slumber dreamin’ of. I’m ready to fly, I’ve got me some wings, cause I’ve been thinking of the stars, and thoughts become things.
And thoughts don’t grow if your mind stays quiet. The whole thing’s real, don’t knock it til you try it. I didn’t buy it at first, I blame the preconditioning, but look at me now, homie – I’ve got the people listening.

04 The Secret 2015 (Napoleon Hill Mix)

From the upcoming and long overdue Chattafrenic EP, a new track as promised.

Giant's Eyes feat. Status631 and Stephish (prod. by DJ Skidzafrenic & Mike East)

All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. Wish I was layin' out on the brightest day
In the sunshine, soaking up the vitamins. I led that life at one time, but I finished it.
Left it all behind for forbidden fruit - the Big Apple was scarier than I admitted to.
But I crash-landed, sucked it up and stuck around.
A landscape frozen with snowmen's what I fuckin' found.
And ice sculptures - feeding on the weak and the struggling like vultures.
Staying in, hiding from the frost, lost in sofas gossiping over alcohol problems - nice culture.
It wasn't all the same, though. I found a few warmer hearts fit to thaw the ice in these northern parts. The kinda dudes that'll dig you outta the avalanche and build you an igloo.
So I get down on my knees and begin to pray, pray to see an end to these winter days.
One foot in the grave when these Florida bones are frozen, side effects of the goals I've chosen.
The layers that I wear are frickin' insignificant.
It's colder than the Devil's heart. Bricker than a witch's tit.
So I'll be heading South when it's snowbird season.
Don't gotta spell it out - you can see the words freezin'.
Hyperborean two-dog night, solid ice skiddin' my tires beneath fog lights. It's alright.
I'm gaining traction in this faction of freezing temperatures and colder dispositions,
I'm taking action.
With an icicle machete, Mike is always ready.
Fightin' off the bitin' frost, I fuckin' slice it to confetti til the rays break through again
And the fun dies
The weapons melt away and I welcome the sunrise.
True I've been gettin' cold feet living on this snowcap - but now I'm bout to go and cold snap
And combat the meaningless cold stares, it could be a cold day in Hell and I still won't care.
You cold-hearted fuckers make my blood run cold, and I'm already cold-blooded
So in cold blood, instead of quitting cold turkey,
I'm killing this shit, cuz it needed a good murking.
I'm out looking for cold, hard cash in the cold light of day, working up a cold sweat
Even though it's colder than a frickin' welldigger's ass
But I'ma make 'em break out in the same sweat, the ones who cold-shouldered me fast
Because revenge is a dish best served cold homie, and these are the cold hard facts.
Now that's a lotta fuckin' ice, innit? Ain't even angry but I'm ice grillin'
Because the bars I spit are freezing together, yeah everyone's looking for warmth.
Even in the weather.
But am I weakening? Never. I wait for the Summer to come
Beautiful days when snowfall is under the gun
By the fire of the wonderful sun, the sickening crystals all melt
And become one with the FLOOD.

C.O.L.D.

By the time I was twelve, I realized I was confined to cell: tied tightly by the binds of a Bible belt
My intel provided vibrantly well, suddenly finding myself in a pyre designed within Hell.
The clientelle cried and knelt, but I could tell that half of them were only there to buy and sell
So as the quiet fire swelled, thought I might as well
Get on my grind and try to find the sky myself.
Dynamite and shells, trynna open up the atmosphere, blast it clear
Manifest a master seer - Chatter's here
I'm knowin' a lot of wordsmiths searching for this,
Digging for clues but only finding more dirt in the ditch.
And yeah, I take a while to be convinced; never sure about the afterlife, but my Demon is
I'll bet my life he's got a story or two. A life like a thrilled movie turned horribly true.
You wouldn't believe me if I told ya about my supernatural soldier
And it ain't just my frickin' vivid imagination,
Just thinkin' about that theory leave me livid and mad enraged, kid
I'm seeing apparations and visions, man. I've got a follower and this shit isn't Instagram
So show yourself, Mr. Man. Who the fuck are you?
Just a fluke in my perception? Are my screws fucking loose?
I've got witnesses, this shit is real. The frigidness I feel isn't normal
This is for the ghost on my shoulderblades, maybe from an older age
Shot off a stage or laid to waste in a motorcade.
It could be anyone - even a demon. Mysterious, it seems. I'm seeing my decency leavin'
Along with all my sanity. If you're a fan of me, then tell me
If this isn't a haunting, then what the Hell can it be?
It's my proof of God. All I need to believe that outside of manmade books written to deceive
There's an afterlife of sorts. A plan and a destination. A higher power at the head of creation.
I don't imagine that primitive authors got it right.
I've read a lot of lies told through the prophets' eyes
But like the game of telephone you played in grade school,
An old idea passed around enough can be made new.
But it's the plain truth. Some don't entirely die. I know a guy who passed, still surprisingly alive
Coming with the photobombs, screwing with dreams,
And my fuckin' homies think he's cooler than me
Every time I think I've got the upper hand,
Something new happens and I have to come up with another plan
A way to push it away, ignore the voices
But we're down to the wire and I'm running out of choices.
I've got another worry deep in my mind, though - 
That we've been dealing with it as a benign ghost
Now pay attention to the message of this verse - 
The fact of the matter is that it could be something worse.
A lone roamer from a darker dimension, raised to higher ground through the spark of ascension
And the theory is demons are serious G's, man
And I don't fuck with gangsters when I can't even see them.
I think it wants to be heard, or maybe it's convinced that I would never say a word
Well wrong MC, motherfucker, you picked a motormouth.
Now I'm spreading 'round the story to those in doubt.
So there. It's recorded now. I poured it out like a libation,
Cuz I'm at the end of my patience.
You wanna be heard? Here's your place among the rappin' vets.
Guess we'll see what happens next.

Mike East

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