produced by Alta Elisi

[Alta Elisi]

Fantasy sings, things happenin', mad again.
Woke up and broke this one down, not found: a pen, penned instead a track, and a whole stack of bars.
Subconscious hooked one good look and took charge.
Fire and brimstone inspired by higher T counts. 
Armstrong and his whole doped crew couldn't do what he put out
In this dream, buxom girls like free meat, struck dumb with high heat, so he   
(Clears throat) ...well, he doesn't love 'em.
Been, like, two weeks since he practiced self-sex,
didn't do any good for his game or his stress
levels, of which, he's on a different plane, entirely. 
That's no boast, boss, he's looking shook and miserly.
 
From out of his sleep, he keeps on it, feeling bittersweet and spitting deep sonnet.
Son, let your words run on that chair there, and bare spare bits of rare wit. This his writ:
“Quit with the ditto act and slack your analysis, this curious callousness puts you in paralysis.”
You think you know the whole throes of your dome with your low proneness to groan? Man, It's just hormones.

So you know sectors or all about your neuro-receptors,
But what good does that do you when they're drained of their nectar? 
Your neck hurt from, like, tension. A mere mention of sugar and you're out, clout lost with the fit posse
Pause, break your habits, begin anew, you shoulda outgrew this phase days ago,  it's overdue, 
packed fat on fast from blasts of food, straight to the ass, better diet soon and don't make it no crash, dude

looks like overgrown hormones have overthrown all your best plans, 
glands your own worst enemy, so
throw back the hennessy and get smacked, in attack stance,
hands glance pointlessly off the side of a van, 
turn down testosterone for a sec, let talks be known, body check wrecking 
more than body but mind and sight, no truth in the way he spent his night,
toiling away at ketamine and crying like he just might get nekkid,
suspected it was all connected, neck hurt reflected

broke out of one bad habit just to drag it to the next
which will be the day he plays hard with honest text? 
Check your privilege at the door, your type's not welcome here
clear off complainer, whiner, facade austere, 
dearest me oh my, how you get so slight? 
can't if I try, my appetite fried up like bad thai
repeat nightmare keeps sleek 
when high, otherwise I'm killing kidneys, out by noon-time

blood sugar's rising, heart rate declines, that pain in your chest is more than just a sign
you find peace with a piece of cake but cake makes haste to 
aesthetics that you hate, ready to slate this dinner date debate?
Spittle gathering at the ends of his lips, fidgeting endlessly about what to tip
Slip the man a mickey, maybe then he'll seem less sickly
slipped and came quickly, delivered on to pursed lips, drips, like a gift
 
Didn't wrap this one though as Loopoet once wrote,
Scheming themes lack narrative, stacking words like jokes,
Read between these lines, find a message lacking hope, 
Whether that's your thing or not it's all AE knows
Running out of time, both for rhyme and high health, pack in
wealth in all of the other fields of your life, whether music, blueprints, or crushing strife
level hormones out, no doubt you'll climb higher, prime part time tombs and hear the choir ring out

Overgrown Hormones (prod. Alta Elisi)

produced by Alta Elisi

[Alta Elisi]

Pow!

Punch the man for each bland train of thought
Crunching heat with swords and ready to block shots
To the wallet welling esteem, beaming on the up and out
But inside spirits spelling “not me!” Clear out, shouts.

Take this piss poor when such sore words are true
But why? When these verbs are FROM you, TO you.

Mischief riffed calms qualms and often, but 
Shore back on this act or stack naps in early coffins

Self destruct
Fucking everything you love up

Body's not ill, but hyped the skill of pill poppin'
Medulla oblongata oughta school a fool and slaughter
For the sin of skin and spin and wasting all his wicked wins

Don't you think you woulda had it with all the overdramatic panicked static?
Calling quits, your voice: shit? You need to aim larger
Barter with bigger sharks and sling till they all know that what you're singing is higher art, stuttering stunted stars,
E, read em the charge.

[lowkeykids]

Read'em the charge, huh? 
I'll rap at em with heart,
reached a verdict, 
but that's a start,
I wrap up gifts of rhyme
forget the greeting cards
kick a verse, nah, spit a curse
call 'em cocaine lines
this twisted tale of crimes
committed using heartbeats
to count out time
cooked up coke into crack
heartbeats crystalize on the climb
so quick to fall
so slowly dyin'
WAKE UP 
to a slow burning flash
LOOK UP
a burning moonshine
a hangover
like each steps on a  land mine,
I said WAKE UP
to the slang sunshine
that crash and bang
a pain so sharp, so fine
like a cut of diamonds
reflected in those blank-stare blinded eyes
"eternal sunshine of the spotless mind"

dying of untold & off-beat lies
off-kilter pop flies
(by the way, just an aside
I hope pop dies
i hope the pope dies)
keeping them:
deaf
dumb
& blind
now dead, and full of flies
formerly full of dread
followed by failed attempts to compromise 
stuttered, flustered 
"God, Oh My's" 
formerly full of bluster
but bully blunders
lead them forever to a swift demise
at the first sound of thunder
bumbling buddies drop dimes
quiet as kept
justice was quick
right on and right in time 
for midnight
suddenly morning
the church bell chimes
and by then I'm mid-flight
right on and writing my wrongs
I mean I'm writing my rhymes.
wrapped up gifts again,
more cocaine lines...

Self Destruct (prod. Alta Elisi)

Peregrination [Instrumental] (prod. Alta Elisi)

Suite for the Environment [Instrumental] (prod. Alta Elisi)

Vocal Sample from "Being John Malkovich."

Undesireable Beach [Instrumental] (prod. Alta Elisi)

Saticoy Skydive [Instrumental] (prod. Alta Elisi)

Labjazz [Instrumental] (prod. Alta Elisi)

(Super distorted)vocal samples from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

The Implication [Instrumental] (prod. Alta Elisi)

produced by lowkeykids 
mixing and additional instrumentation by Alta Elisi

[lowkeykids]

we're rich kids on LSD,
you're wanna be G's
no GEDs
we declare victory before you fools even speak
now understand me
we fuckin' crazyyyy
so be a dick to me and die in your sleep

i'm not gonna kill you, just please
go die counting sheep
can't count? let me:
1, 2, 3
now die, don't ask me for mercy
i don't want to hear please
or your music either, like you
that shit's weak
i'm so tired of your fake talk gun talk
aren't we all? let's all agree

these egregious acts take no skill, no speed
but in a flash I got these suburban d's on their knees
suckin' on d's for quite a cheap fee
ha ha ha
these fake MCs
on the mic, they scream
they sold like a ton of trees
when in reality
they beggin real G's to sell keys,
& when the gun come out
all they do is freeze

give up the goods, & leave you in the breeze 

sad story: jeez louise,
now the NYPD
gives you the third degree
and you cry and you plead
you’ll break & start snitchin’ on the creep
but soon you’ll learn the lesson
you get cut and then you bleed,

please believe!
it’s not a lecture it’s the truth 
this promise i keep
i won’t stop eating rappers up
cut ‘em on my teeth
i taste no heart, hear no heartbeat
spit you back in pieces
right on the mic
this spitta here, he was born ready for a fight
so i can do this all day
& all thru the night

so any more rappers soft as men in tights?
yet talkin’ bout sellin’ crack under streetlights
it’s pathetic some of you fools reach such heights
so rich & claimin’ blood like that’s alright
you fuckin’ crazy? i mean are you all. right?
you bustin’ yr gun? or suckin’ on mine?
i’ll blast in your mouth,that’s a touchdown spike
so i wrap it up for you rappers out of spite

don’t think i still won’t kill you cuz i just might
at least kill your career
now i smell yr fear
let me taste those tears…
i swear to god
the last thing you hear 
is rhymin in yr motherfuckin’ ear
(yeah son)
fuck.

Black Pulp (prod. lowkeykids)

MWS is a collaborative hip hop duo. our style is a melodic, rich, full experimental hip hop sound with flows inspired by old-school east coast lyricism.

Move West Speak