Analog​(​ue) Tape Dispenser SKECH185 : New Age Middle Finger

by SKECH185

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released March 1, 2011



all rights reserved
Track Name: Content
Wheres the love? Lost in the Dark? Where's your compassion? Trapped in a box!!!
The worlds falling and I feel fine.The worlds falling and I feel fine.
Wheres the love? Lost in the Dark? Where's your compassion? Trapped in a box!!!
The worlds falling and I feel fine
Its beginning to look a lot like Sex, Drugs, and Violence. Sweat, Blood, and Triumph. Death, Love and Trying

I'll never join your Rotary (club). Cold holding (fate). (Watching) Butterfly Effect. Towers cry/
Due to the lost of others so Big Brother Smothers Mothers "Why's?"/
From lovers to wives, gun shots to flowers/
Handshakes the building, feeling/filling Cavity searching for the Passion of the Crisis (Christ is) when struggle's man made/
After seeing James king himself with The Bible... the Pagans never saw the King in James yet it never seemed the same (again)/
Birds eye view at The Beast seamless frame. Even the "Amens" eat your face/
Lesson 1: piss puddle reflections will say "I love you" and that's it/
And that's if, left to right wing, you fly over and eat what the chasm spits/
Blame the lack of masochism, (the) beaten/beating paths too packed with "isms"/
But Catechism is Cataclysm . Waifers. Lamb's blood taster. Black Man Major (x4)/
If the Silhouette doesn't salute your battered systems cistic nature/
Then my laugh will inflict cynic serum, sadistic, piss scented razors/
Meaning: you fucking right I hope someone gets offended!!!/
It'll make it easier for the armed wolf to find which defenseless sheeps witless/
And If want me to heal the world's ailes I'll say "No. You can sell more records criticizing population control/

And it's beginning to look a lot Sex, Drugs, and Violence. Sweat, Blood, and Triumph. Death, Love and Trying
It's beginning to look a lot like Sex, Drugs, and Violence. Sweat, Blood, and Triumph. Death, Love and Trying
Sex, Drugs, and Violence. Sweat, Blood, and Triumph. Death, Love and Trying
And I feel fine

What's to be said to a "Know it all" who wears a wall where they waltz to the All Knowing?/
Grey background, palms golden, branded Midas writer. Panick!/
In a flight of fancy, fire backwards desire inspired chapters. Get it?/
I fill the pyres absence. This is not a test!/
Its a hired accent for the half that won't listen... fine/
Rewind this and hear a line in the ground drawn in front of your beliefs/
I see the vexation in your frown and the snake paths under your teeth/
It'll only take a moment but so does saying "No!"/
But now the heat is on and everyone is done with everyone's description/
So: watch ants move, as their hands move in shake shape to make land groves brain shaped/
Such a cynical scene, the same stings and gangrenes the straight face/
For the sake of self, Imma cock my antennae and save my 2 feet and few feet/
Might drown in rain puddle but fuck it! At least it's a one man show/
And what's more than than that? The stage seems like the world/
And why not? A strong face (can) move leagues/
Check your shirt collection! A failures epitaph: " If only due time knew me"/
A sick song looped into sixth sense making dreams just and no more than just that/
So you can't tell me walking a straighten path isn't fading to black/
Track Name: The New Age Middle Finger
(I'm) From the city of fat fucks where bad luck overcast with golden showers/
Mashed up with older cowards who smashed up all hope of our generation showing respect reflecting they don't think that w'ere shit/
We have proof that they're not... go figure the picture/
They still call us "Coon" in the mute language of purse clutching and gawking/
So we hum this toon 'til the feathers ruffled humbles the watchers. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?/
The spectrum reads more like an asshole than "that home of sinners"/
(Rascism) Its Same thing just different Thanksgiven dinner/
Between the lakes and plains; a headtrip more boots than suits by x-ray/
Where the difference between fucking and kissing is what you recall the next day/
Wake with smell of "What the hell?" under a Stockyard sun/
While an out of towner pounds a model in a house you help build but never saw done/
Should have learn the proper way to shake a hand. (How to) Play the game of the faking man/
Where we hate the fact that we're not some except for this laughing/
But Dog, almost every facet of this world is forced, flacid and plastic/
My boy held his baby cousin in tears think about his (own) father/
Who heart pumps dead beats... in honor of that label/
Who took the hands free route, rocked the cradle and bowed out/
With scribbled note on the table and a dust cloud/
What now? In one town run down by the sundial. The sun smiles to spot light overrun frowns/
Run over and over on like older home owner and soldiers for 20 sum miles/
Sometimes the flakes radiate to make beauty in winter scenes/
Sometimes they sting the already crushed to add insult to injury/

But the city just keeps going

I don't give a fuck who you are, so fuck who you are/
I don't give a fuck who you are, so fuck who you are/
If I did I would've ask (x4)


Biggie and Pac's death didn't teach me shit I knew bullets killed people/
Biggie and Pac's death didn't teach me shit I knew bullets killed people/
Before Puffy's fortune and mothers selling clothes in the name of corpses/
I watched the idiot box go South Central from Small Wonder/
Big Brother went from fucking Preachers to Preacher fucking teethers and terrorist hunters/
And it don't stop there: in the winter I spit on train windows quickly hoping skull and crosses (crossbones) form for the next viewer seated seeing the city/
Because the only one that are free are the homeless and pigeons/
The rest intently listen to pipe dreams and sadistic statistic digits/
And it might seem we crippled the Christians when Christian crippled in divisions/
'Cuz almost every Black that says "Amen" was branded that religion/
(Conviction?) That pungent something lingers, forms hands and divides us between "Jerry's kids" and Jerry Springer/
Like: Somewhere in this city a dick is being sucked because sperm translates to cheeseburgers for a 19 year olds/
Twice her womb she has seen murder... now she cares for her young/
You would stone her but no time between the clocks that we punch/
Pillars of black, funeral, mom not doing well:half because her son died (and) half because she knows he's in Hell/
He left crack in the streets doing his thing. Sad when his brain splattered the blood formed angel wings/
And I got one on my shoulder shooting up Boy peddled by the monkey on my back/
The demon on my left's jerking off to my missed ops (oppurtunities) of ass/
Rattling off excuses in the candence of my raps/
Throwing bottles at my neck and Lord knows I'm jealous of his laugh/

Repeat chorus
Track Name: The Truth
I'll fuck every female I friend I have if given a chance/
(Watch their) Jaws drop like I left my hard dick next to a "Safety Hug" stance/
The world is flat. In a social ladder shape. On a turtles back/
We clap for heroes but villains have better songs/
Got a Cannibal Flower renting my voice box/
Interlocked with Pandora spit swap, married to speaking sin, coughing/
Defending my square weakened by the week end/
Talking like "One day, the seals will club the hunters for evens"/
We'll never hear it like the bodiless forest with a tree screaming/
So instead; grab your popcorn for (an) ice grill that mirrors rock forms/
Wall flower with a razor tongue. (A) blind date disappointment/
After I "Go Tell It Over The Mountain" that black people depress me/
John Henry on my back, Black Star in my eye yet they test me?/
What a surprise... I'm still a Nigger!!! getting more orphaned my the word/
And if I listen to Ewe watch me get more trampled by the heard/
Honestly? I'm collecting sticks and stones to build a Slick Rick-ish throne/
So know you only see half the pictures picked as bricks to eclipse this quick fix of this "Don't act like my doesn't flag rest on a Silent Hill of pain. To window the Statue of Liberty was once Black concealed in chains"/
That's my bust back. Be ashamed. "What's That?" Feel scared to laugh/
Spotlight on Holocaust Museum growth while Native American's get a paragraph/
Nice Guys prepare for last!!! Why try? Don't dare to ask/
And you don't love her if you never wanted to punch her/
But the heart impared to act. Freeze fist kisslocked, esnares the past and dares to laugh/
Stealing the thunder from the wonder replacing with thoughts of (your) Mother/

Fuck if he's real I need some shit that I can ride to.
Fuck if he's real I need some shit that I can ride to.
You're all being lied to. You're all being lied to.
Fuck if he's real I need some shit that I can ride to

Fuck if he's real I need some shit that I can ride to.
Fuck if he's real I need some shit that I can ride to.
You're all being lied to. You're all being lied to.
Fuck if he's real I need some shit that I can ride to

The Human Race sucks!!! The best thing I've done with the thumb is beat my dick/
The worst is held a moment until it spoke adverse english about the bitch/
But I'm still here, slicing achilles, in a cipher with Hollywood squares who equate making news with making moves/
"Free Spirit" means whore. Who gives a fuck if _____'s dead? Just because a girl'll suck dick doesn't mean she'll suck yours/
Real men don't wear pink... we laugh at the bastards that do. Only half of our tragedies're true and that half on happened to you/
Say that's not mirror and I'll shake your hand proving I met the worlds biggest liar/
Whose pants are on fire like half these kids in High School/
I know, color me stupid for believing statistics but they prove that stupid is multi-colored/
And that's more realistic than between index and thumb is okay instead of nothing/
Parents are growing up with their kids and we don't learn that until we become them/
Talent doesn't always mean money if your family tree doesn't look lovely/
Beauty is skin deep, ugly makes the dick soft. I love it when Cops get shot/
We tell more truth clothed than naked but won't accept it/
The slings and arrows push me into Anti-Hero position in the worst way/
Because life's a bitch and I'll suck her pussy for another birthday/

Repeat chorus x2
Track Name: Christmas ft. Gilead7
A Swedish Jew German clusterfuckery of Coca Cola colors covers the gamut/
Candidate for Kmettan mythos twisted Caucasian as Cannon/
Jesus had an eagles head. Walking across dark water, Egyptian forest, now found foster to child to an Olsteen smile and Baptist chorus/
Of course it's logical: He fucked his own mother in third person thus creating his own self/son birthed in a place Bread Basket/
If stars could blush. ( I ) Could only imagine the light shined throughout that stainglass house/
Confusing the seeds throughout the growth, looking so decadent from the outs/
Knotted and climbing in a land where every vagina's an archway to two extremes of the same myth/
18 year gap with a splash of Augustine script. My headache matches my Hell!!!/
Frail faith slave fragment patch worked to non African. Bleached African. Impossible, they have no history!!!/
It takes a village of Romans to make a Christians hair straighten/
Its like trail blazing in the Garden of Eden, eating the quinces, wincing at the breezes forgetting clothes haven't been invented/
and Mary was only 13/

Now what we have here is a failure to communicate. When we talk about the biblical text, we tend take myth and interpret it as fact. Jesus being born of a virgin in the original genre, in context, would be taken as myth. Rudolph Bultmann's technique of form criticism helps to understand. The God/Man story is nothing new to Jesus. It's seen in Osiris, Apolonius... way, way, back in history.

I want to face fuck a chick for Christmas... I mean the sky's falling and my umbrellas a cynic's tongue so I'm fucked!!!/
Victim to my own pondering nature. Painting questions with the grays of the (Twin)Towers' smoke/
Amidst the habitually frail. At all pistons fixed to my mission of attaining a mystic muddy princess baring classic bloody kisses/
Stitching my mistakes into her sentence while I defend them/
Against this scripture blinded Knights guiding a socially-muted mass movement. Ant army whispering broadcast as they march in fidgety fury/
Scared of Gays... flying planes into buildings... with no dead Mexicans/
Giving dap to their Black supervisors next to them dodging bullets from gunmen reflecting them like "We Shall Over Come"/
As "Take" annexes "Give" watching the Atomic Family's daughter get fucked over drums/
Flexing Kwanzaa/Minora. Flexing (a) disconnection with the sum of the sons whose skin shows the the sum the sun/
But I guess this is apple pie so excuse if my simple wishes are more ambitious than sweaters and gift cards/
Seeing these folks make up the bulk.Its a vicious Saturn sadness. Twisted madness rampant. Wal Mark murders as wallpaper around this manger/
And it sickens me that love is message but present is so confusion. A lesson for deaf ears/
I sort of miss the Christ treelight music/
Ironic, one day I'll pretend to give Santa Claus paper thus defending this fiction for genuine excitement later/
So lets call it "Growing Up" when "Growing Old" seems to have less favor/

And the story is just a story of a story of a story
And love is the message but the message seemed skewed
And the history is there but there are two kings in it
One is forgotten. The other is a false image
And theres always been a Virgin and there's always been a Son
And the Son has always been savior but the land was never Rome
He once had an Eagles head and called horizon home
This the story of a story of a story of a story

Now what Imma give to you is small measure of:
Love = Mother
Strength = Father
Compassion = Spirit
Wisdom = Son

Now what Imma give to you is a testament of truth seeked through the fog for muse deemed "Too Far"

Now what Imma give to you is small measure of:
Love = Mother
Strength = Father
Compassion = Spirit
Wisdom = Son

Now what Imma give to you is tryptich of mythsfit for a misfit tapping at The Passion


The great Theologian Paul Tillich talked about the value of myth and the life transformative value of myth. He said "When a myth is taking literally, you miss the whole essence of the myth." The Gospels are not historical accounts, their documents of faith. Those documents of faith equal myth to a great degree. Why don't we live lives where we are not hung up on those myths but we live such powerful lives future generations make myths of our fact?
Track Name: Breathing Room
I came out wearing the Emperors new clothes, predestined cog, smoke stacks and people grease flavored paper for lunch/
Amens on the corner, the occasional fog. Uncle Tom comments more common than kids wishing on comets/
Then my nuts dropped. Memorized the social lies/
Shut eyes to those hanging themselves with Stevies "Ribbon in The Sky"/
First, they took offense to the picket fence guarding greener grass/
Then, they bitched because its easier than getting dirty trying to plant/
Just wait for Atlas' shrugs and bad guys to finish last/
Lightening to strike twice on the jaw that bit the feeding hand/
Until then I'm building a house that'll get the third pig talking/
Because it won't collapse until I stop believing its solid/
And so, perhaps, the ladder to success are stairs unless you're afraid of heights/
Or the latter to success are stares at what a real icon is/
Its the firefly in the bottle effect: not Black enough for some and too Black for the rest/

Now let me breathe

If I'm odd what about Sun-Ra?
What about Basquiat?
What about Coltrane?
What about Miles?

I'm a "Nigga" to "Niggers" and I"m a "Nigger" to you/
I'm a "Nigga" to non blacks who think saying "Nigga" is cool/
When I graduate I'm just another "Nigger" that went to school and when I die I'm just one "Nigger(Nigga)" you never knew/
So let me sit and work on my masterpiece/
Then realize that my masterpiece is just a piece of shit/
Then start it again because it felt like I started to win over the crowd with a piece that proves nobody that can master me/
And so it goes... who wants to be lord of this trash heap?/
With a throne made of yesterday's bottles, broken poems, pointed fingers. In choking tones defending, in everyway all the words that romanced me/
I say there's no point in trying to be everyone elses heroes but there's no point in not trying/
I walk the world everyday with an unknown part of missing, part of me distant, quoting "The Little Engine That Could" using the glare from the sweat on my forehead to guide through the foggiest visions/
At times I just want head and a neck rub then I could flatline!!!/
Fed up with being forcefed the fiction that someone really cares/
Everytime a tree falls a sound does happen/
You only acknowledge it if it was meant for the roof of your cabin/
I got so Imma walk for every Black Man that walked to work/
And hurt by those around him who tried to drown in venom for what he fought to learn/
And rebounded when he found his place of business was hard to earn/
Then resounded when it amounted to what he thought he deserved/

So let me breathe
Track Name: Not So Garden
We don't really matter! when we will is a while off/
We're dust collected to legs bred to fuck and eat mild sauce/
Corrupted in our heads. Fed to the public whose now lost/
Wipe the brow off from the sweat that formed from such an elegant beast we created, crated and tossed/
Left for the thorough we blame for decay to sustain while claiming its gone/
But the song never changes/
The faces grew mustaches and accents/
And take action again the fistful who won't sing along/
And I refuse to hum this evil! Seen (my) heroes widdle down to "Town Fools"/
Drowned in dumbed drool after I found I won't talk to stupid people/
So where does that leave me? Don't lynch the subversive!!!/
Or mention a wordsmith with a penchant for pinning a person/
Like the weight of the words should be third grade and thats real?/
I've studied the cracks of her lips like paintings and noticed the only thing fading is critics saying that its fading and that's ill/
The standard staple for hating. Murals drawn across the "gracious" hands shaking the hands of the greatest/
Now tell me how does that feel?/

I used to be a Radiohead now Radio's dead. MTV found him belly up on the bed
Gun's made of television. Used to try to tell him "listen"
Clear Channel leaks out of Radio's head
I used to be a Radiohead now Radio's dead. BET found him belly up on the bed
Gun's made of television. Used to try to tell him "listen"
Clear Channel leaks out of Radio's head

Stare at this tortured child bejeweled. Drums tuned drone. Soon the dance starts/
Clowns depart adult shell at canned laughter after the arts drove fleeting/
Hands dirty from selecting elected "Ancient" by an Off and On Season/
On the otherside of the looking glass the ghost in the shells bleeding/
I've seen steam leaving the eyes of an honest man. His hand continued devoid reason/
Emasculated masses mastered the art of half heart so second nature I sometime fear speaking/
Seeing such is the passage of time.../
It's said, amongst the assorted static, I'm saddened wondering whether time keeps curtains open for fame?/
Or fading to black is fashion?/
They were just here!!! Yet the foot prints barely lasted like a good year rarely happens/
Shadows of a bygone era of "Almost Heroes" in flashes/
Binary killed the Urban Legend and left them faceless/
Some say its the seedless gluttonous consumption divorced from travel/
A privelage antithetical to this cultures collage of hunger... perhaps this is just babble/
"If you stand on your own, people will sit and watch" I often say as often amongst this worker ant youth/
I wish would break shell/
I understand now, the grass is greener it just decays well/

I used to be a Radiohead now Radio's dead. MTV found him belly up on the bed
Gun's made of television. Used to try to tell him "listen"
Clear Channel leaks out of Radio's head
I used to be a Radiohead now Radio's dead. BET found him belly up on the bed
Gun's made of television. Used to try to tell him "listen"
Clear Channel leaks out of Radio's head

Shout outs
Track Name: Inventory
I've got the tongue of a liquid metal hydra striking the mind of rhymer/
Reclined in designing violent times/
The Man of the Year rocked a Kabal mask at Thanksgiving dinner and leaked mustard gas on every pilgrim/
I ain't got to be "Out of There" I live with "Don't try to fuck with me"/
So lets shoot the shit like Duck Hunting with plungers/
Or I plunge the hunger of you fuckers into a dungeon/
Rather you'll be in a basement with a crack head screaming naked adjacent to Jason pacing waiving a faceless mading scraping stains from being stain in ravens blood plug thug behaving embracing his hatred while facing you screaming and naked speaking in demon languages about his hatred/
You cocksucking yellow bellied catfish/
I'll drop a verse, make waves and turn the moons envy to crack addict/
Crosstown beef is like cross town traffick and I'm Juggernaut dusting you fuckers off like mad dandrift/
Its 185 spitter king back smacker, cracker back cracker/
That's 40 Acre's and mule dick for the whitest cunt that'll ride backwards/
I call it Chucking D. Public Enemy for a mixed kids identity/
I dream of Genie getting fucked by what seems like ten of me/
In Tenessee kicking Speach in mouth... he forgot about lynching/
Mobsters calls us Niggers. Rappers still want to be henchmen/

Slow down son you're killing them x4

I got a pair of boots to address the zombies I stretch from human/
Muted the flesh, bruising the ornery. Upon the movement of breath I ponder the ruins/
Yet pulling my head out of the dust ,Joe Budden style, I found hundreds gunning proud but too fiction to get on me/
Harm me?/
Warn these fuckers guns and gutter may have won the summer but I'm more Conan than hoe ass with arms of lumber/
Termite covered shaking your mother screaming "What're you telling him?. I'll head butt him until we exchange and he knows where his Christmas presents went"/
Slice your brain with a party razor, give you retarded behavior (and) crash your school bus into a swamp with gators and watch it dissolve into nature/
Got a better chance of finding a Jesus fetus with bleeding demon watching Even Stevens than me recieving beatings from any weakling heathen breathing/
My stab wounds leak locust so me you keeping it real means you need Moses/
Don't bet on shit/
Young McIntyre's been drooling dragon fire since pacifiers/
With a pacifist nature the looks like a million man march full of anarchist half retired/
Salute when you have to/
My rhyme scheme's black white, my madness is brilliant and natural/
Track Name: Surgeon General Warning
The sky's falling now! The balls about to drop!
Every dog has his day. Whens yours?
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
The sky's falling now! The balls about to drop!
Every dog has his day. Whens yours?
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!

Break bread times hammer and sickle, devide it benevolent/
Make music for the so children don't uprise in silence/
That's a Lizard standard even respected by the grimiest of phantoms in tandum with saluting a street laws understanding/
But the reals often whispered. shaking the cist in the system. Clenching/
Left as a prison carcing read by a lost Marcus Garvey/
So it's hardly not a hardship to pardon the lynch mob started but because breaking the status quo is retarded/
Thus religion is born/
What you know about (the) indvidual scorn (of) bearing the scarlet letter of competitor human living off needed hubris?/
To feul off of the stupid is useless/
Their confusing muses proving not all flight is devine.In fact, most bares simpleton bruises/
Former clipped wing grounded raptor that (were once) ascended to pastors/
Because once the sentence surpass them we treat the cynics like Pagans/
Laymen believe the besmirched speaches are just reaching not knowing the explanation would came with just asking/
It just so happens that.../

The sky's falling now! The balls about to drop!
Every dog has his day. Whens yours?
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
The sky's falling now! The balls about to drop!
Every dog has his day. Whens yours?
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!

At a distance, even the greatest man is just an ant/
But (even) the Big Bang started with the slight spark parked in the dark vast/
Now watch my heart harden: the smirk searched the crowd for a willing hand though the intent fingers seemed like preaching to the converted/
So... help knock down this door and adjust tomorrow's wording/
From sister strippers to Suicide girls when the wind blows I follow my main vane/
Weathered the storm and built an Arch of couplets of lifes "Fuck Its"/
But once the buckets punted I want this world to see the boy in me believes the man split the sea to church music/
The man knows he did it to explain the fishes that swam throughout/
Reality sets in and "who cares?" becomes the dumbest statement ever spit/
Because if no one cared that word combination wouldn't exist/
Whisper to that! feel superior to that in your snake language!/
Know the genius that didn't think to duck can't claim shit/
Anythig you say can and will be used against as long as it breaks flesh/
Rub my metal goatee to ignite villages that enrage SKECH/

The sky's falling now! The balls about to drop!
Every dog has his day. Whens yours?
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
The sky's falling now! The balls about to drop!
Every dog has his day. Whens yours?
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!
In the event that some shit goes down watch your head!

Y'all bastards gon' do right by me or, right by me, find yourself needing nine I.V.'s... multiplied by 3/
And a different type of I.D./
I'd piss on my wife, so imagine if I don't like what I see/
You don't even got to like my shit ,but honest, you faggots can't even write my shit/
You're polished in famous niggers dicksweat/
Bitch pants on a black man spitting "sick" raps to idiots? That don't equal big threats/
I'm the artsy dude from the crew that probably fucked your girl/
That's why she hugging! Talking to them niggas like they cousin/
Please, don't respect that I battle. Expect I'm an asshole. Accept your cattle/
If you're tough we (did) you flex so Snapple?/
I got a crew that'll protect my shadow. Talk shit. Punch you and leave your brain with a Connect Four rattle/
I'm so cool... I flow smooth, angry, past abstract/
New English words are waiting to thank me. What don't I laugh at?
Track Name: EarthWorm Him (Theme Song)
Them crowds don't form when you stray from the norm/
And I'm on some other shit with arms, Baraka blades... and corn/
Occasionally the goonies will surface from the selves to give you dap as I adapt to the truth "Even wood floors will stop creaking to rep for those who'll never see it"/
Lets get down to brass tacks: most of us will never reach our dreams. It'll be under our bed, next our graduation shoes, losing steam/
So I wear this mask, luchador, mecha, true to from SKECHer/
Working the angle with an angel on my shoulder that taught me to strangle the earths corners/
Lurch grip death merchant perched to service the mourners of "Real Hip Hop"/
Heres a warning: if your Field of Dreams has locust don't bother/
That's because the sons are focused on not baring the sins of their fathers/
Remember everyone wants to be the sheepard tomorrow because even the hiding wolf has to follow/
So let the naysayers hack and cough, the scenester lipsmack and yawn while I develope the strength to stab critics to death with a basketball/
To heckles futile like Magneto in a plastic cell, in vacuum hell pumping heavy metal to make laughter dispell/
Spell that with an iron E (irony = i.e.). You can giggle now/
Can I kick it? Stop lying to me!/
I don't sleep I keep the moon not hawking/
Plotting with other Darkstalkers to siezel the moment in installment/
Parchment piety, separation anxiety shrink wrapped/
The Pseidon of saliva science/
Scene slipping... now think back/
Was there ever a time when the underdog shared your shadow but battled to keep the viewer from changing the channel?/
Motherfucker I speak that/

I'm SKECH. I'm a worm in the dirt so I'm King?
For what it's worth, my verse kills the early bird
Because I'm one man spitting
One word.One life.One dream. Listen!
One goal. One verse.One person spitting!
One Life. One mission. One time listen!

I'm just a cracked statue with a perfect mold I'll never fit/
Knowing that Heaven is the moment when every thing makes sense… I sit imprisoned in my intention/
Trying to suspend this second as Death caresses the calendar with porcelain hands narrowing down my what ifs/
And I'm just… a color on the wing of a dragon fly/
I'm just… a branch of a family tree that looks more like a cotton plant:
* Flat
* Rigid
* Mums the word children
* Parents who half listen
* Former stifled hell raisers
* Born again Christians
* Crack binges
* A cracked system with a success tournament more like a tourniquet
* Don't ask, if its religious, march like Nazi's till told what your concern is with

I realized the powers that be kill where the real lies (lays)/
Blinds the best of us with the rest of 'til we don't believe our real eyes/
Set us up with a place in the sun that we defend with our real lies/
And I refuse, so I only start oratories with real "I's"/
That's the illest speech grown from concrete felt by a million feet/
From time to time my boy calls to remind me of how buildings weeps/
Cites cracks as tears and how tiers stand strong when the steel is weak/
I say "word" hold my head and hope this elevator music don't get to me/
I'm Skech185 motherfucker, Shanta's little brother/
The on that left 7 ate and made 9th wonder/
That "back-in-the-day" kid that got booed and sent home for days/
But he's back, and slicing opponents to death with their shoulder blades/
The self-made lunatic Nubian fighting for mark making/
Museless musician confusing the children with stark, sharp, shark statements/
Track Name: Tree In Frame ft. Lana Simpson
Lana Simpson:

She said she would protect you
from your nightmares,
but it takes present
arms to rock away
the demons
clawing from under your bed.
And they've come back.
Back to replace every body
of a teddy bear.
Every vice between finger.
You still remember
how her hair feels.
Nose buried in the back of head.
You still remember the smell
of sleep filling the room.
You've forgotten
how it feels to sleep
[without her.]
It's all a set.
Just a pillow lain on bed
under head;
body on mattress,
under cover -
mirroring the warmth
you fear
you'll never find again.


I'm harvesting silver linings with the same hands that strangled “Hangman” dating/
Tattooed in the a thousand deaths in silence and yes this is your painting/
(I)Learned to smile years after it could've blocked a gray cloud daze/
Amazed at how the sun hits the corner of my eye... and dies every time I turn to side/
Unflinching as lightening strikes/
But proved to be a fat lady with a scale in her hand/
That forgot to pay me attention, blind to the man made mountain on which I stand/
Pregnant with bad dealings, so my 40 acres is walking away/
Parallel to walking that became that very hell the walking arranged/
Bell rings. Hearts barking to stray but feet are too dumb/
To acknowledge what the barking is saying/
So I'm slain public on this carousel/
Can I borrow of tea? 'cuz mine fucks with me through glass and pants/
I'm ready to start a revolution, got a rock and a window, but too stenographer to smash the glance/
And if I had a penny for every... I'd bury the every within me/
Cough up enough for double cheese burgers and murder every vag thats friendly/
Happiness offends me... in its absinthe-acid-crack-hit madness that matches everything I say just to partially kill me/
But leaves a vapor trail that makes my dick hard but that's Disney in the city. In the shitty inner city in a sense he doesn't crack/
Don't look at me like I think the world/
It became a badge of honor to chase fleeting breaths/
Foolish as it is, I was in lockstep with the vapor/
As if to catch it would make a solid string attached to whats left/
But it doesn't so I cater to an all consuming photograph/

Blind eye turned to the shadow behind the aura. Animate collage/
She's scrap book beautiful but her worlds rotoscope at most I hold/
A script where; Our hero dies in her arms and the almost is perfect/
And “Perfect” is the almost doesn't matter and that manner shapes its host/
One day I'll find the Secret of Silence, master the handling of palms... fingertips/
Producing vibratos to calm theories of muted ghost lingering/
See part of me hopes the truth is hidden within the gaps in her teeth/
Leaked through sighs as whispers to bridge this distance or further justify this sentence/
Oh, what have I invented now? Eyes roll. Horizon darkens/
And maybe we're mere marionettes to stars plotting. The hand slips away/
“Such a shy object.” Cameras pan. Chromatics shift to gray/
Pyrrhic victory, in its joyous smile. “F Words” flower/
Who knew a question mark could fix the day?/
Or maybe our heroes song is wrong, then again we don't see the world spinning/
Perhaps by the time its on we're gone/
Depend on whose pen sits in a sentence can be a prison/
Flipped coin to a how a breath could be an eternity he lives in/
Flippant at any evidence of an insincere instance/
Victim of self imposed living through guess work/
Knowing the answer and it often fits so coffin to the heart strings SKECH “works”/
All thats left is a face to scared to state the obvious or settled in something with less worth/
To our anti hero: replaying a series of unfortunate events that mimic love/
Whose only smelled its scent upon thoughtless phrases
Said sparingly/ randomly/ I hope you have a happy life... Fuck you/

Lana Simpson:

I've noticed that you never sleep.
Hands pressed
in the same place her fingers
used to meet yours.
You still rest
with your phone
clasped in palm -
guarding the message
you wish would come.
The message that's still saved.
into memory.
Indented deeper
than your restless body.
Laying languid
in the darkness -
wondering how
time could fill so much space.
And then you turn over
on your side
so that your heart is less
to the elements;
to the ceiling
that could come crashing down
at any moment,
and you probably wouldn't feel a thing,
but the ooze of memories
seeping from your arteries.
You tried so hard
to keep the air out
of your veins;
but to no avail.
Track Name: Hang Me
Geers turn. Man bites at the necklace 'cuz stomach burn with they turn/
Alterpiece of caution tape altered these concerns to gossiping windows/
Numb. Father gone. Not a widow. Hollow hall where found it and faulters around the time he lost his face/
The revolution will not be televised the cameraman'll be throwing rocks/
The machines'll be prompt with iris propped up at the hellish sky/
Round table discussion: sling an Alan Moore V across (and) the words'll have more percussion and safe politics won't be fucked with/
Jaws agape. Wall crawling because I were the clothes of the enemy of the public/
Not sorry when my nack for fashion happens to fit your budget/
The state of static when it comes to advancing is disgusting/
The fact that my pants are sagging drives the elders into madness... and I love it/
Because it takes a village to raise troubled children/
The hill's have eyes but the mouths are so numb from the venom/
They peel back the paint from buildings transparent revealing potholes in bad parents/
With stencils from murdered moments when generation Y was last caring/

The elders I'm supposed to respect are trying to hang me
The country thats supposed to protect is trying to hang me
The cops got their hands around my neck trying to hang me
This life is trying to hang me
This mic is trying to hang me
The country I'm supposed to protect is trying to hang me
The elders I'm supposed to respect are trying to hang me
The cops got their hands around my neck trying to hang me
This life is trying to hang me
This life is trying to hang me

Life's an opaque Blues monochrome mockery slotted between "possibly," hushed parents and a zombie of kid/
Illuminated with drool playing the soundtrack of a muted baby who remembers belly rubs/
The pain a mother can't equate or explain but can spell in hugs/
The cat who used to sell her drugs/
The trains in the vein where north and south fell in love/
A pity above faceless citizens race in hollow boxes/
Talkless 'til sky's falling then we/they find Heaven and Hell in pubs/
The permanence of the former? is a clogged chimney away from a Santa Clause stating that its standard/
You get what you want when YOU get what you want. Check your pockets/
If by night your shack doesn't bare a flag check your options/
'Cuz the American Dream is based in property so best of luck when the roll of the dice bares snake eyes at best/
To disguise how Icarus flight really failed: because society not grooming him properly/
Leaving him to float in an office space rat void of annoying conformity/
With wife, kid and picket fence to fill the void of annoying normalcy/
With dreams coughing in a coffin getting stomped in by boring sheep/

There's a snake in the water. It doesn't need to breath the air but you need to drink the water so I think you should care/
Watch it slither across bricks whisper "Block size caskets"/
Between promises/
Smiling, crying not knowing what to be/
Happy for the bullet to never hit a child playing or sad for the car the child plays in while apartement lays vacant/
Decades old neighborhood naked/
Tears tasting like salt on a door mat "Welcome" chipped away/
For that liquors poured proudly in a new glass cloudy/
Demo dust sands the face different pounding the "Bronze" out of Douglas/
Trusting how "progress" is sounding/
Lusting for the money hounding Classifieds and half the time the snake seems right/
From atop, the serpent's a Hydra. Hydraulic powered coward. Devours the voice. Keeps the facade in plainsight/
Preserves the curbs and corners. Curbs the words of mourner. Slurs the purpose of warnings/
So whats heard from the non conformist to sound like "Hang Me"/