Click.
Whisper: zero … three … five nine …
Static tastes like metal,
the night counts itself.

I live between frequencies,
apartment full of antennas and grief.
Each wall hums like a code that forgot its god.
Neighbors sleep; I tune their dreams.
Dial spins—
women reading digits in glass tones,
uno siete dos nueve, heartbeat slows.
Signal jumps, my pulse follows.
There’s poetry hiding in interference,
truth chopped to syllables.

Numbers tower, calling out names,
zero to nine, all sound the same.
Who’s on the line? who’s still sane?
Static love, electric chain.

They say those towers never die,
only change voices.
I caught my own echo last night,
spelling my sins in Morse.
Dit-dit, dah-dit, I translate pain,
feed it to the tape machine, rewind rain.
My pen bleeds code: 13-31, 08-88.
Every rhyme a coordinate,
every bar a latitude.
No chorus of crowds—just circuits that clap back.

Numbers tower, counting the gone,
ghosts on the band keep carrying on.
Turn the dial, lose your name,
static cradle, signal flame.

Night market of signals,
shortwave vendors sell nostalgia by the kilohertz.
A child hums the theme of old war reports,
I sample it, loop the fear till it rhymes.
Somewhere a spy forgot to die,
his code still feeds the sky.
I rap slow, syllables drag like smoke,
the beat cracks, meters broke.
All I own fits in a waveform.
All I am—transmission.

If you hear this, respond with silence.
If silence answers, you’re alive.
Repeat: zero… three… five… nine…
The tower hums—
I hum back.

Numbers tower, counting the gone,
ghosts on the band keep carrying on.
Turn the dial, lose your name,
static cradle, signal flame.
Numbers tower, calling out names,
zero to nine, all sound the same.
I fade in noise, I fade in code,
left-field heart on radio mode.

…– .– .– …
click. silence.

Numbers tower (Left Field Rap reload)

Funk groove creeping through the banquet of waste
Plates piled high while the hunger got traced
In the land of plenty we discard the feast
Leftovers stacking up where the hunger ceased

We walk through the supermarket like royalty in robes
Cart full of treasures while the earth collects the probes
Banquets of ruins on the aisles we stroll
We buy and we toss, never filling the hole
Old electronics in boxes, food in the bin
Excess is the anthem we sing with a grin
Enough for a village, enough for the globe
Yet somewhere a stomach echoes in the cold
We dine like kings at a table of trash
Silverware clinks while the landfill grows fast
Every extra steak, every gadget not used
Becomes a chapter in the waste we refused
Trop plein dans des ventres vides, we call it success
But the emptiness screams in the junk we compress

Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Banquets of ruins stacking up the hill
Full plates, empty souls, we dance in the fill
Too much in the belly, not enough in the will
Feast while we spill
Stacking up the hill
We dance in the fill
Not enough in the will

The couch holds gadgets we never touched
The freezer groans under meals unchanged, untouched
We brag about the kitchen full enough to feed a town
But outside the gate the hunger still wears a crown
We spin the talk-box, smile through the track
While the drums echo waste in the silent crack
The landfill’s a mountain where our dinner ends
And the mountain’s our conscience we pretend to suspend
Objects become ghosts that we can’t repurpose
Meals become monuments of the surface
Consumption’s the game and the surplus we yield
But beneath the glamour the hunger is real
We feast on abundance, forget the cost
Leftovers for the landfill while the rest is lost

Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Banquets of ruins stacking up the hill
Full plates, empty souls, we dance in the fill
Too much in the belly, not enough in the will

Look at the bins behind the stores, they glisten in neon
A buffet of dumpsters shining while the hunger goes on
We built the fridge fortress with doors wide and tall
Yet a child in the dark fears the fridge’s deadly call
We toast with champagne while the bread rots away
We celebrate fullness but our pockets betray
The game’s rigged: produce more, consume more, waste more
But bodies of the needy still knock at the door

Feast while we spill
Stacking up the hill
We dance in the fill
Not enough in the will

Banquets of ruins, yes we said it before
But now we’re stepping through the chords of the score
Boxes unopened, meals never begun
And landfills eating everything when the day is done
We gotta question the feast, we gotta feel the spill
Too much in our hands, too little in the will
Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Until the mountain collapses, until we feel the real

Leftovers for the landfill, feast while we spill
Banquets of ruins stacking up the hill
Full plates, empty souls, we dance in the fill
Too much in the belly, not enough in the will
Feast while we spill
Stacking up the hill
We dance in the fill
Not enough in the will

Leftovers for the Landfill

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

I use every tool available, human or machine, as an instrument.
Technology doesn’t replace creativity. It expands it.

New tracks tagged #analog rap