Rev. Dr. Cyril Guerette
← All lyrics

Ill Seer · Phosphatidylserine (2005) · Track 8

F8

Listen:
Each sentence is an entrance which reaches the ceiling, kneeling I'm feeling to teach is appealing. Congealing with a concealing Spirit i revere it and clear it a path. Math is supraphysical, We're looped individuals Indivisible. but there's still residual traces of spaces between nuclear particles. Ill, u can't sear the genuine article. I part the bull in you, culling u out, mulling about in a tranced state, i dance with fate, for chance is my mate, and i can't wait to plant my feet in a state replete with a rate of great acceleration. With cellular motivation i call to Life! to Biology, "Sit up, acknowledge me! Quit the bit about entropy, my isotopes are sloping sloppily." Dropping the intense dense muse found in each element of matter, my helmet of scattered truths produce useful fullness, and i pull this huge weight, i muse on fate, abuse it until the universe shouts that it hates me. I pout and curse until it berates me into submission, rubs my face in it's mission. The pub's the place where i waste my vision. all blurry, a surly Cyril curls into his corner, and yells "Oh, Poor Her." Nature ... the fate ur assigning to me, is asinine ... i flee, but to where? She still stares me down. I kill care but it frowns and reincarnates. Can I bar fate from it's call, the marred earth will fall if i still stall, but i ball about bills, and mill about malls, oh when will the walls fall like Jericho ... i bust a rhyme about my scenario, and wearily flow to a trickle, peep fate's fickle sickle demonstrate death. Each breath is a bait, tainted by selfishness, wealth, and stress. The harder you barter to enjoy it the more in the core one of course destroys it. Dealt a hard hand by Fate, She demands to pull my cards. Feeling stressed, I fold under pressure Confess to my dealer in an irate state I hate Fate. (X2) Sitting in my wooden cabin knitting thinking I shouldn't have read what's written, smitten by the anxiety cuz there's no propriety or props when you're stalked maniacally. I've walked 100 miles seen locked frowns and smiles but the vile juvenile gargoyles spoil my toil, I recoil from these serpents what's the purpose of time spent, now I'm chased by disgraced agents, and displaced from the latest taste in fashion, crashing but still lashing out like touted tyres, attired in a spiral of denial, Penile penmanship may end my ship's travels, unless I unravel the secret to their discontentment, I regret their prevailing resentment, can I prevent them from railing against the tenant of tenacious tendencies? I'm gracious for my mendicancy, but can we mend or can't we? You try to bring enlightenment but so many things keep on fighting it, Dealt a hard hand by Fate, She demands to pull my cards. Feeling stressed, I fold under pressure Confess to my dealer I'd appreciate a date with Fate. Dealt a hard hand by Fate, She demands to pull my cards. Feeling stressed, I fold under pressure Confess to my dealer Yes, I wait on Fate. i hurdle through 380 degree circles, a circus of purpose and promises that astonishes wit honest ish, honing honey homilies, sugary anomalies, lifting feet off the street like ollies, strolling with freestyle trolleys thru small lyrical malls and alleys, selecting perfecting tallies and tabulations of rhyme formulations without need of congratulations, heed but reject emulation cuz there's a neglect in this prefect of original salutations and greetings, for a fleeting moment we're meeting in a cybersphere, but i'm a diver here, delving into these revelling shenanigans, until i learn what it takes to be a man again, and i plan to stand amongst my seed with enuff to supply their need, but reply that they indeed should chase their own dreams, in case what i've sown deems me incapacitated, in a dilapidated status until i'm rehabilitated to what God would have us ... Dealt a hard hand by Fate, She demands to pull my cards. Feeling stressed, I scold under pressure Debate with my dealer Fate - can't you relate? Dealt a hard hand by Fate, She demands to pull my cards. Feeling stressed, I fold under pressure Confess to my dealer and state: I'm blessed by Fate (I'm blessed by Fate). from Hoodee – First Contact 12” EP, (Aerosolik Records, 2003).

Words by Cyril Guerette (Ill Seer). Produced by Hoodee. Originally recorded for Hoodee’s “First Contact” vinyl EP.

Listen to Phosphatidylserine on Bandcamp

Music