War from MetaMorphMouthMusic by OCULUS

Damn that we're lost in the pits and belly and moon, like Shelley, non-compe derision with heads way off in Delhi. The battle of the boom, get ready, come vibe soon, with heads splashing protest, generation monsoon, I left them here, no sleep my dear, in essence I postulate there be no time for fear but wait, on the subject of the many systems that view you, pontificating, selective to the last so they can screw you, who do? That's right, the nameless, faceless, presence of a power, no qualms, just feel so right to do you between palms, paranoia, who do? Wake up, we're in the belly of some vile corporate voodoo. "But I don't give a damn, what you mean control?" No. Ignorance in the form of an ever present denial of soul. It ain't under the foot, nor under the thumb, the pain and endless crying of generations is simply wrong. Equanimity, dissolving the style of insipid debilitation, yo! Action stations! you better stop and think before you start enjoying degradation. While many shoes shuffle, shifting views, formal tie and suit attire is supposed to excuse the conflagration of a society built by ideas of democratisation. Seems to me the idea of a way laid imagination. For the here and now where shall we go today? The oil slick of desire pushed many a man to pray. No quantum leaflets. You ask too much of most. So observe as brilliant minds get lost, stoned then dimly munched on toast. From coast to coast, pick up a leaflet, step your flex in check , contemplation is raw but only when you're a speck on the window of contemplation of all. My god! How enormously small! On trial with creation I never had no time for congregation, much prefer observational thought with respect to imagining one nation, not all that curricular history hypnotisation that we're taught they went and bought and caught while you sought before who? Like storytelling in reverse, I dispel the cursory explanation of this universe. Past prompt, pool pure precision and the mission: Embryonic self-submission to my own kind of experimentalism, oh by god the bane of federalism and all that Gucci, tie and jism that I saw long before back in 1987, spitting on the blots of war, a military game of chess in which no one can keep score, bless you for rather I have further spinned into the valley of an alley of a societal nightmare in my head, after all, there is no chorus for a war that leaves life dead in the end.

• Experimental
• Future Beats
• Mouthmusic
• radical
• rap
• spoken word
• London