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chai tea feat. DJ Anthony Smoov (prod. Solver)

from (a) brief offering by Osiris Booque and Mud of the Ubiquitous Love Tribe

/

about

Sometimes, it is less the case that caves sit in shadow and dusk than it is that the sun sprays upon which their navels rest do not happily bear comparison of any breed. So it is that the wyrmling of belief is born and listening becomes an act of self dialectics. In other realms, which twist and writhe like snake backs, the ogre of mortality retreats clumsily into a perpetual moonrise…
Running the midget gauntlet; all clad in poorly fitted business suits. Secretaries, invariably to the left, tap their pens: click-clack. A short red skirt. Click-clack.
Follow the stream down past the railroad and you'll find the Garden of Eden. Either that or the frolicking of the blind, who can't see.
Please, drink this. We're always looking, always watching to see what you're doing wrong. If we thought you were doing right we'd be off in the shade touching ourselves. Click-Clack.
You were saying? Certainly nothing about a red skirt. But a squalid happening, indeed, with faith tucked in little sugar jars to pair with Earl Grey and a spliff and let's get ourselves some more blankets, right? Then we can bide the time until standing is like sitting when sitting is like flying, but altogether less exciting than I imagine flying would be. And the door squeaks like miniatures of bleeding sheep or Boo from Mario Tennis, while outside the wind blows chills in tight circles until windows grow milky with wetness.
We sap the fell ambrosia and, of course it's going to end in shit - of course! But that's missing the point, right?

lyrics

(DJ Anthony Smoov)

Next to the
coastal waters of Santa Monica Bay:
A toast to daughters to fathers' dismay,
awful display; proper to say, what i profer today, almost prophetic when it's authored this way... nah
Get addicts off scratching like lozenge, happens to often to say i'm bluffing or coincidence at play.
I say it permeates through those been germinated and before a natural snuffing of the candle by the hand of wind and heart of what we spin within.
Me and my spinach kin, not finnickin, but never had to spend the winter in.
A limit in this life is preconception; Keep them guessing.
Tree's a blessing, sess we hold it high and hold each other down,
so sister hold me, i'll hold you down for another go around;
hoes allowed.
It's ring around the roasted pig on spit of Gold and Rosy Cross,
smoky, lost, open, crossed, token sauced off a couple beers and shot of Henny.
Plenty of the love abounds.
Omnipresence, brotha. Out

credits

from (a) brief offering, released November 28, 2013

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

nahhphet Los Angeles, California

Puppeteer of nonsense words and phrases. Journeyman wind magician & marginally upright honkey. Matriarch and thoughtsmith-errant of the Ubiquitous Love Tribe. Educator, storyteller, collagist, producer...

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