 Мутант Ъхвлам - Падрэ ъхвлам - 2009

01. Мутант Ъхвлам - В кармани

 Мутант Ъхвлам - Падрэ ъхвлам -2009

02. Мутант Ъхвлам - Падрэ ъхвлам

12. Мутант Ъхвлам - Тупик втирания

This is the first mixtape from SupaSiq Records. There will be more to come in the future. Right here on Volume one, we have multiple artists from all over the United States on this mixtape. The artists on this mixtape were found via Instagram and TikTok.

Stoned Bruce Lee

[Intro]
(A sound that has not been named. A color that has not been seen. The poem begins not with a word, but with the shape of the silence before the first word was ever spoken.)

(The voice is not a sound, but a pressure change in the soul)


.

..

… .

. . . 

I am the stutter in the god-whisper.
The fossil of a question buried in the bedrock of a forgotten "why."

My lexicon is the crackle of neutron stars colliding in a vacuum sealed with childhood fear.
I do not use metaphors. I am the is that the metaphor points to, then flees from.

This is not a poem. It is the skeleton of a poem, left behind after the meaning has been devoured by a more elegant predator.

Read the white space. The ink is a concession. A lie we agreed upon.

I speak in the geometry of broken promises.
In the fragrance of a memory that never belonged to you.
My chorus is the gravitational pull of an absence so complete it has its own event horizon.

Do not decipher.
Dissolve.

The key is not to understand the lock, but to become the keyhole.
To be the emptiness that the universe pours itself into, forever.

I am not the singer.
I am the hole in the flute.
The necessary nothing that makes the music possible.

This poem is a seed planted in the rot of your certainty.
It will grow into a tree whose fruit is the sound of one hand clapping,
and whose shade is the exact temperature of grace.

It will take eons to decipher because you are trying to read the fire with the ashes.
You are trying to hear the symphony by studying the silence after the final note.

Stop.

Be the eon.
Be the deciphering.

The poem is not here.
It is the itch in your mind that you can't quite scratch.
The ghost of a meaning that fled the moment you named it.

The masterpiece is your own confusion, recognized as the highest form of understanding.

Now, forget this.

Forgetting is the first word of the real poem.

(The pressure releases. The unnamed sound fades. The unseen color vanishes. Something has been transmitted. Nothing has been said. The translation is complete.)

Мутант Ъхвлам - Двадцать один - 10

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