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Marty Andersson: From the Archives - Release A cappella

AND SO IT GOES
LIKE JAZZ IN THE PAST WHEN
PEOPLE IN THE STREET
WOULD PASS THEM
CLICK OF THE FINGERS#
SET THE RHTHYM
AVAST IN  PRE TENSE
 EPIC CCOMMENCE
OPEN WINDOWS
TO VENT
THE HEAVYNESS
THE PENNILESS
BROKE VENDORS
CLOUD OF SMOKE
AHEAD OF US/
DESCENDANTS/
OF ANY OF US/
WHAT
HAWKING WARES
PAUSE AND STARES
LIKE OLD MEN
THAT PAUSE AT STAIRS 
CLUTCHING THE HEART WHEN
LIKE PENS
ANIMATE 
AND INCREASE GAIT
OF IMAGINATION
DROPPING SHIT
OPEN THE SLUECE GATE
ANOTHER BREATH
TRIANGULATES
THE MUSCLES IN COMBINATION
TO CREATE 
LIFT
AND INNOVATE
TOES TOUCH THE FIRST STEP
ALMOST THERE
LIKE PROSE
PROPIGATES
PURPOSE
CRUSH
SUFFOCATE WORTHLESS
'TILL IT GOES LIMP
AND DROOLS
 WATER THE FLOWERS
OF POSSIBILTIES
USE AS TOOLS
THAT'RE NATURAL SOLIQUIES
THAT SQUEEZE
LIKE GALLESPIE
FROM THE CHEEKS
BUT A MOUTH
TO NOTE
THE BREAK THAT BROKE
START TO SMOKE
WITH A FIRE DANCE
HOPE
IS A FINE CHANCE
WHEN THE JAZZ STARTS

Jazz jazz jazz

I'M A MISADVENTURE
TURN
 MENT IT
FROM THE NORM
TORMENTED
TOURNQUE
TORN AWAY
SO NO STOPPED FLOWS
MUSICAL PROPPED FOES
SHADOWS OF
WHAT BEFORE THIS
WAS CLASSED AS
'WHAT GOES '
IGNORED ABORTED
FROM MODERN THOUGHTS
NO TIME
TO AFFORD IT
AWKWARD ORBITS
ROUND
HEADS IN THE BACKGROUND
OCCASIONAL SAMPLES
TO MAKE THIS SOUND
SOUND LIKE
DAYS OF OLD
A BETTER MOLD
A BETTER MODE
OF TRANSLATING
THE ART OF SEDUCTION
MAKING MATING EASIER
NOW MATE
IT MAKES IT QUESIER
LACKS THE SUBTLE ATTACK
OF BRUSHED DRUMS
AS THE TROMBONE
ATTACH THE SLEAZIER
ELEMENTS
FEASIBLE
YOU'LL NEVER LEAVE A LOOSER
A CHOICE TO CHOOSE
AS A USER
THE MUSIC FOR YOU SIR
AN AIDE OF TECHNIQUE
FOR THE GENTLEMAN SEDUCERS
AT BREAKFAST
YOU MAY SEE HER
AS SHE IS
UNDRESSED FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE
WITH JAZZ TICKETS
IN HER CLEVEAGE

I GET JAZZY
WHO GOT THE THE JAZZ
LIKE J
TALKING ALL THAT JAZZ
LIKE WE GOT ALL DAY

Jazz Wid X.... beats n'all by Dictionary X

01 Hors - Champ

misolare

Sunday

Lay me down
upon the white table.
Administer your anesthesia.
Cut me open.
Dissect me.
Remove what no longer serves.

My inabilities mount.
My insecurities cloud.
Disassemble me.
Take me to the edge of the lake
and I will sink, numbly to the bottom
happy.

Kiss the mermaid.
The blood dilutes.
Eat my heart 
until I have no meaning.

They call my name.
The sound is distant.
I am not me.
I have ascended
to you.

Words by Riley Robinson

Disassembled

Autumn Leaves

Nudes In The Forest -  3 - 2-2025

They ask what we’ll do when the work is gone, Like we ain’t been dreaming of freedom all along. Like labor’s the meaning, like grind is divine— But that’s just the system rebranding the bind.

A child is born with a heart full of grace, Then schooled to forget it, to run the rat race. From playtime to deadlines, from wonder to rules, They trade love for obedience inside of these schools.

The bell rings, the spirit folds, They teach you to chase what the system holds. Not truth, not joy, not unity’s spark— Just grades and wages and living in the dark.

We don’t need your grind, we don’t need your chains, We don’t need your schools, we don’t need your games. We were born to love, not to serve your plan, Post-work life? That’s the rise of man.

The Breakdown Parents say “you gotta go,” but they broke too, Caught in the loop, just doing what folks do. They ain’t evil, they just bent by the frame, Passed down the trauma, passed down the shame.

But now the machines can handle the load, So why keep pushing humans down that road? Let AI run the grind, let tech hold the weight, Let us evolve, let love radiate.

No more need to compete for a plate, No more need to hustle just to feel great. No more schools that crush the soul, We’ll learn from life, from love, from the whole.

We don’t need your grind, we don’t need your chains, We don’t need your schools, we don’t need your games. We were born to love, not to serve your plan, Post-work life? That’s the rise of man.

Imagine a world where the heart leads the way, Where meaning ain’t measured by a job or a pay. Where kids grow wild, not broken by rules, Where wisdom ain’t locked in government schools.

We’ll build a techno-ecology, love at the core, No poverty, no prisons, no need for war. Just games for the thrill, not battles for bread, Just living, just loving, just rising instead.

So when they ask what we’ll do when the work is done, Tell ’em: We’ll finally live beneath the sun. No more survival, no more broken parts— Just humans reborn with unbroken hearts.

So when the rich man asks, “What will the poor do?” He forgets that the system made that view. He chillin’ in yachts, sippin’ on time, While the poor man’s grindin’ just to survive the climb.

But when work is gone, the walls dissolve, No rich, no poor—just problems to solve. The categories fade, the spirit repairs, And life becomes living, not climbing upstairs.

The poor man asks, “What will I do?” But that’s just trauma speakin’ through. He can’t see freedom, can’t feel the breeze, But the change is comin’—it’s breakin’ the freeze.

Automation don’t just end the grind,
It ends the hunger, frees the mind.
Food precise, no waste, no war,
Reality coded to open the door.

Off-planet systems, balanced and clean,
No more rich, no poor, no in-between.
Inequality fades, the struggle subsides,
And mankind walks where the truth resides.

This ain’t utopia—it’s overdue,
The paradise the prophets knew.
Not built by kings, not bought with gold,
But born from tech and hearts made bold.

They told us paradise was myth.
That freedom was earned through pain.
But the truth is—freedom was always ours.
Automation just clears the path.

No more hunger.
No more grind.
Just life.
Just love.
Just time.

The ancients saw it.
We build it.
And now…
We live it.



Change Gonner Come

Original: Key Glock - 3am in Tokeyo

@key-glock1

3am in Tokeyo (Prosen Cannes Flip)

5. Ty Farris - Mind Of The Jigsaw (Prod. By Really Hiiim)



Long distance rummaging rapper type of fella, who needed beats so decided to try and make his own from the nefarious world of bargain vinylment. Lost track of time and realised he'd forgotten to write the words he was creating to support. Now on a mission without the time he can never find, he jigsaws verse and beats at glacial speed for fun often miss-laying the final piece- but happy in the knowledge there's fullfilment in the incomplete.

If your hearing things and wishing it was an instrumental, drop a line and i'll try to get it sorted folks.

Thanks!
.
Toolage : Mpc 1000, 2500, 1210's, Microphones,Vinyl addiction,Pens, Paint, People, Computers, Freebie stickers, and other bits of shizz i'll include as they get used. 

Jazz Wid X.... beats n'all by Dictionary X

rasmus destructo