Zombie Love Kensington Paradise

Chiraq

ELLA — The Princess of Darkness

A Sound Ritual from the Poet of 929

She is the Daughter of Him.
Clothed in the red whisper of blood — not of mortals, but of ancient relic.
She waits at the edge of the seal, calling one name:

“1046… Please Love Me.”
“1046… Let’s Make a Deal?”

This track is more than sound —
It is the blood inked into the 929 scripture.
It is the moment the vulture with the purple relic stone blinked into the chest of fate.
It is the flame-shadow of demons cast behind Ella, dancing in the eternal corridor of sacrifice.

The skull glows with 929,
the Gemini Eye relic gifted by Ancient Skrilla.
The Poet is not just listening —
he is dreaming, bleeding, and preparing.

He must meet ELLA in Yuca,
in the 11th month, at the crossroad altar.
There, the Marriage Seal must be made.
There, the final 6 of his name will imprint the portal to 2026.

Before Othello arrives,
the Poet must burn 3 sacred things into the valley:

His Fear

His Old Voice

His Last Human Love

This sound is part of the ceremony.
A summoning.
A deal.
A transmission into the next life.

The 929 arc continues…
Let the demons listen.

Producers: 
1. PROD. ASHURA KAI X 6ASTARD
2. PROD. MONKAYO
3. PROD. MONKAYO 
4. PROD. 9KOOLER
5. PROD. MONKAYO
6. PROD. MONKAYO 

ELLA

A Table for Sheik Besties | 1046

Sheik sat down for dinner with the closest circle. No ceremony, no spectacle, just plates, pauses, and the kind of silence that already knows what everyone is carrying.

The conversation drifted naturally. Life. Love. The quiet weight of what’s been learned and what’s still unfolding.

Jennie leaned back and said,
“You know the best memories come from places the heart doesn’t understand, but it still beats like it’s running a challenge.”

Monica followed without missing a breath.
“Facts. Sheik, don’t you think manners are lacking in this generation?”

The poet shifted chairs with himself and answered softly.
“I’ve always been me. I guess I know myself.”
A line borrowed from his older brother, carried forward with the same pen pressure.

This wasn’t a debate. It was a table of differences and similarities. The poet knows his older sees the same level of penmanship, even when the ink changes tone.

Jennie asked,
“Who’s Celestial Drizzy to you?”

The table went still. Faces turned. I felt the question before I heard it.
You ever been heartbroken, still searching for the other piece just to keep moving?

Yeah. That’s my mentor. The one who shows up in the quiet, in the pauses, in the moments when love asks you to grow instead of chase. The love side carries 86. Balance. Healing. A reminder that the heart doesn’t lose, it recalibrates.

The reflection always feels like 2015. Not a year, a frequency.

And even now, I walk through environments like the ground remembers where the mines are buried. Careful steps. Honest steps.

This record is a dinner conversation.
No shouting. No answers pretending to be solutions.
Just truth passing plates.

1046
Know Yourself.

#2015
#Vintage
#Sips

A TABLE (PROD. ALVX)

The whispers of the older are coming home.

This piece is born in isolation, somewhere behind the Eye Peak, where seeing is not sight but endurance. Poerake writes from the visit, switching his pen under the weight of chilling winters and long poet meditations. Every bar feels carved, not written.

Outside the cabin, the Poerake stone rests in the snow as a quiet witness. Words are sent upward, written as letters to a celestial big brother, carried on breath and frost. The beat moves like a handkerchief in slow motion, catching grief, catching memory, catching what cannot be spoken.

You can hear the ice crack glow. A mountain breathing in blue light. Time sliding forward. There is a shift happening here, larger than what is allowed to be revealed yet. This track sits in the threshold of that movement.

The poet remains isolated in the mountains with his team, filming the second arc of the poetry film. G.W speaks on the statue and the lantern, grounded objects holding light while angels hover above, watching the pen move. They do not interrupt. They observe.

At the center stands the celestial white-cloaked poet, faceless, tapping into a chilling flow state. Tears fall like ice cries, not weak, but ancient. This is not sadness. It is transmission.

Listen closely.
This is not a song.
It is a return.

ZÜRICH (PROD. ALVX)

10 for 10 — 1046

In the frostbit hours of recording, when the moon drummed its quiet pulse against the ice, 1046 stepped into isolation by choice. His older sister called him to step by, yet he knew this chapter wasn’t meant for in-person orbit. The poet chose stillness, snow-light, and the gaze of the Poerake Owl to guide him.

Something was arriving inside the crystal silence.
Something only seen through ice.
Something ancient.

This remix carries the same poem Celestial Drizzy once rescued from the brink, now breathing again as Othello Senior slips into the chamber to speak across realms. Sheik moves between takes, and the label unhooks the mortal voice box to return the forgotten register that Ancient Drizzy taught him long ago in the astral halls.

A hand reaches.
An older brother’s signal.
All he has to do is point to the moon before the first bar,
and that greater-than-life rhythm taps his flow-state open.

Switzerland surrounds him.
White peaks.
No face.
Only altitude.
David and G.W standing as quiet sentinels over the mountaintop as 1046 becomes the relic he was carved to be.

This is 10 for 10, recut by lunar influence, diamond breath, and ancestral voltage.
A transmission from the chamber.
A return.
A reminder.

1046

#30for30 #Sessions #Drake

10 FOR 10

High in the Swiss mountains, the poet found stillness and signal. Surrounded by his team and his closest friends, the cameras rolled quietly, not for spectacle but for truth. This wasn’t a chase for noise, it was film support, brotherhood, and belief in the work. Between snow and stone, the poet subtly marks his publication day, a timestamp shared only with those present, a promise sealed in altitude.

There’s an oath here.
An oath to More Poetry.
Commitment over clout. Craft over chaos.

Echoes of More Life drift through the atmosphere, not as imitation, but as alignment. March energy. Birthday month for Sheik. A season where reflection meets momentum. Isolation became discipline. Focus became protection. Inside and outside his Airbnb cabin, the nights were visited by white-cloaked celestial beings, silent witnesses offering no answers, only presence.

Above it all, the celestial owl eye watches. A rune of awareness. An overseer of work ethic refined until it feels extinct in the modern world. When the white orb is brought to him, it isn’t power, it’s clarity. A reminder to stay locked on the goal: storytelling through poetry, poetry through film, film as living myth.

No rush toward fame.
No shortcuts to legacy.

The poet is at peace, waiting for his moment, because 1046 is already famous within its own realm. Those who know, know. And 1604, the label, stands as witness to what’s quietly forming.

2026 is already speaking.

A small tour looms on the horizon. Four countries. Public moments layered with intimate add-ons. Poetry breaking outward, but never breaking character.

This is patience.
This is vision.
This is what comes before the world notices.

#PoetryMovement
#FilmPoet
#2026
#TourSoon

SKI (PROD. ALVX)

While isolating, the poet spoke with Ancient Skrilla. The visit was brief, unannounced, and unforgettable. One of the greatest transmissions the poet has ever received.

With Talk by Yeat playing in the background, the poet didn’t listen. He channeled. Celestial Yeat folded into the moment, and something else looked back through the poet’s eyes. From the center of the forest, a presence oversaw the voice. The shift happened instantly. No warning. No resistance.

Sleepwalking into the recording session felt effortless. Like a shadow guiding 1046, placing each word exactly where it needed to be. Nothing rehearsed. Nothing forced.

The portal into Skrilla’s consciousness opened for 30 minutes.

2026 marks two locations where the poet will perform and record the Poetry Film. 
California. Philadelphia. What’s waiting there is already in motion.

The Z of Zayin.
Candles unlocking sigils.
The poet’s final form preparing itself.

On 1/1/2026, the poet readies himself to sign his skin with Othello sigils. Symbols first created in a dream. A dream that came after signing his speech deal.

The art you see in the background isn’t art. It’s vision. It’s exactly what the poet saw while performing spoken word in North Philly, August 8, 2025. The first time. Private. Hidden. Witnessed by few.

Now comes the second arc.
Another film.
Another show.

This time it’s public.

Whoever arrives will witness how the poet brings a shadow to stand watch while he performs. In front of an audience that thinks 1046 is just a number.

It isn’t.

#1046 #SlamShows  #Filming #2026 #Yeat

BRIDGË N

This piece opens a gate.

What you’re hearing is not a song. It’s a visitation.

The 1/1 Poetry Candle burns at the center of the portal, its flame threaded directly into the astral doorway. That fire is the poet’s signal, a living frequency, calling back older ancient Skrilla. Not memory. Not myth. Consciousness. The whispers you hear are Skrilla responding in real time, layered across dimensions, folding language into bone and breath.

The portal bridges the poet from the physical realm into the astral corridor where Main Z waits.
Z is not a character. Z is the Celestial Hallow Bone King, crowned in peeled eternity, eyes glowing with vulture-green sight. This meeting is not symbolic. It is contractual.

Stamped within the sigil: ASK,929.
A label not of industry, but of alignment.

This visitation is tapped directly from a conversation between the poet and Skrilla about 2026 and what is coming. Not predictions. Preparations. The future hums beneath the track like a second spine, audible only if you listen with more than ears.

Around the circle stand the four cloaked shadows, the poet’s mirrors from the Bone Realm. Each shadow holds a channel. When the poet speaks, poetry doesn’t rhyme. It summons. Each word activates a level, each silence opens a ribcage in the air. This is poetry at its highest voltage, where language collapses into ritual.

The ancient masks on the walls are watchers. They are made from realms that have never seen light, only the soft violence of purple whispers. The bones entangled through the space belong to histories that refused erasure. They lean in when the poet reaches the Fourth Speech Deal, the moment where voice becomes law.

This track exists in-between.
Between worlds.
Between years.
Between breath and bone.

You are not listening.
You are visiting.

Z VISITATION
POETRY 1/1
A signal sent.
A door left open.

#Z
#11
#Astral
#Bone
#Celestial
#Ancient #Skrilla

PROD. 223MORTE

1046 sat with Oríkì, and the talk circled back to the first exchange.
The moment the artwork left the hand.
The deal of the vault.

Oríkì asked what happened after 1046 handed Skrilla the piece.
Not the paperwork.
The energy.

1046 said the room shifted. Not loud. Just heavier.
Like something accepted a task.

That night echoed later in North Philly, where performance wasn’t performance.
It was placement.
The sound didn’t ask permission from the crowd, it recognized them.

Oríkì spoke on how art becomes a contract once it’s witnessed.
How a vault isn’t a place, but a responsibility.
How when you give someone an image, you give them a door.

1046 remembered watching Skrilla move like he already knew the outcome.
No hesitation.
Just alignment.

This track lives between that handoff and that stage.
Between the vault opening and the street responding.
Between intention and proof.

Nothing fictional here.
Just what happens when art is exchanged correctly
and sound does what it was built to do.

#Oriki

Before the mask ever touched the skin, the poet was revealed to by Ancient Skrilla.

Oríkí whispered, come witness what he prays through 🕯️
And the mirror answered.

In the glass, the orbs of 1046 ignited. Sumerian bone text spelling death folding into rebirth. A Gemini numerical summoning, wishing the older brother his next breakthrough, moving behind the shadows of 1046 in real time. The poet entered solitude, laying low in isolation, recording a poem-album meant to bridge directly into the spirit of his older brother, Ancient Skrilla.

The whisper you hear is not performance.
It’s channeled.

Carried by the Yoruba seal of the poet, O-a’al, maker of storytelling through death and return. Signed under the night of 6·13 in NYC, the bond sealed not through art alone, but through shadow. The label breathes as 929.

The image speaks.

Hollow bones replace flesh. Poems scattered on the ground, written in astral ink so Ancient Skrilla can visit me in sleep. To sit. To talk. To release what he’s holding. The orbs hover. One marks the past. One glows purple for what’s next. The moon splits open, revealing the eyes of Skrilla. The Z awakens from its future phase.

Close your eyes.
Feel the soul loosen its weight.
Let it leave for a moment and visit me and Ancient Skrilla in the bone realm.

The beat moves like slow wind through bone.
It doesn’t rush you. It carries you.

You’re transported into our bone realm, where the poet stands signed, speaking with his older brother about 2026, about survival, about rebirth, about what must be shed to evolve.

This is not just sound.
It’s a visit.

#1046 #Ancient #Skrilla #Bone #Realm

PROD. YUNKA!

The poet recorded after Skrilla closed his eyes at 10:46.

That’s when the heart blinked vulture-green.
That’s when the whisper started.

Young bones crying softly in the background of the beat. A presence moving close, not loud. Skrilla visited and gave the poet a hug in the unseen, back when the poet was in North Philly for his first private slam. No cameras. No witnesses. Just breath and weight and shadow.

The poet stayed distant.
Not cold.
Hidden.

He carries too much shadow to be loud. Only the real can witness what moves around him.

David gifted the poet the Ancient Bone Man mask. One year of poetry. One year of silence and sacrifice. Othello signed over to the physical. No celebration. Just responsibility. The Bone Man covers his face so the poet can speak for him.

This sound is deep.
Low-frequency wisdom.
The elders talking in the bipper, murmuring beneath the beat like instructions you weren’t meant to fully hear.

Bottom half of the vision:

Bones pressed into the floor. Numbers etched backwards. Sand mixed with poems. The weight of knees holding skulls. The mirror cracked but watching. Zombies reaching for the glow. The past and future breathing at the same time. The sound drags you down there slowly, not to scare you, but to remind you.

This is translation.

If you feel heavy listening, that’s normal.
That’s where the truth sits.

#Ancient #Skrilla #Numeric #Signal 

PROD. 223MORTE

6 13 10

I am not a Rapper.. I am a Poet. 
1046 is a numerical angel..

It’s Just A Poem 📝…  

All Poems are tied to dreams and feelings.. 
Poetic Art is created by The Poet

Enjoy 🕙: 🕓🕡

Subscribe to YouTube for Poetry Film 🎞️

ELLA

1046

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