by cunabear

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Jason Allen
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Jason Allen Dude this album is so trippy and so different. I love it I hope it blows up everyone needs to hear this Favorite track: 8's & Aces.
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  • Yellow-Obsidian - Limited Edition Cassette
    Cassette + Digital Album

    Hand-Dubbed by Spoke Ashem.
    Presented by BearTooth Collective.
    Performed by Cunabear.

    Tapes come packaged with:
    - A seashell from Tybee Island
    - A random Magic The Gathering Card
    - An original illustration (pencil/ink on paper) by Cunabear

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For a brief period of time, in the empty vast plain of space echoed a message titled "Freedom via Self-Expression" - Ex Machina For 40 years a dormant power known only as "positive vibrations" tingled the most easily aroused aspects of my creative imagination We sent the holiest of heroes to be born in the most harsh of conditions under the suspicion that their comeuppance would eventually achieve ultimate fruition I was born in the most comfortable of conditions to see if the Hoover Dam could truly hold back the raging rapids of anxiety that are consistently pulling out rugs from under me Welcome To initiation We denounce any and all premeditated inclinations Slowly crawling towards the altar with outstretched palms We work our jobs and when passion police calls we play musical chairs to avoid paying repentance through a head held in a swirling drain of an overflowing bathroom stall They pick apart the weak and foolish Schoolyard-Style Admittance to the cool kids club requires you rap like static and wear anything but argyle at all times Argue while they take names And save the ass kicking slave trade for the next mediocre album drop date We stand too high on pedestals We only desire to test the Thestrals without a previous death I'd kill to break bread with anyone who isn't chasing the dying waves of bad fads Pour the gasoline on your past, lads And flick the flame from fingertips Then roll through the slums with a hundred angels dressed like bums who know skills pay bills and hold a favoritism towards fingerflips If you hold onto these tree branches You'll fall for 3 days before your gravestone cracks And your lost to the black hole of curiosities and oddities Cold and molded Once was golden Now your wholesome home is frozen Gotta build a new genre just to hold all the heads I've rolled with Monsters and fiends Devils with wings Money fueled dreams aren't ever as they seem
(Stagnant. Like water in a freshly thawed pond on the first day of spring. You mutter the words of the eldest tattle-tales as if spoken from the scriptures themselves and I sing. I never knew the words, I just mouthed along until I chose to write the song the way I felt it belonged.) Brutus held not the only mighty dagger of subterfuge It takes King Kong instincts to avoid tripping into black holes while traversing through negro spirituals of doom and gloom History pages for the third-eye blind hidden inside a dark room But I hold my search light steady in the best manner With a blood-stained banner while my homies riot in the name of love at the local pizza tavern And maybe the skunk stentch stinks best when the cause of such bullshit is freshly in effect but a candle wouldn’t hold a candle to that
It’s the eternal seashell hermit mannerisms That bashful black sheep ain’t no friend to the famine He rolls blunts out of canvas and paints monsters with smoke and mirrors Rocket launch your calm mind with a stomp-to-start Eating poptarts in futuristic golf carts and when the sunsets Abandon ship I repurposed your grip tape to hold my feet to credibility like a Vans van full of Vans going 90 on the interstate Light a doobie in the rompus room We watched a couple in the bangbus from the coup when she desides to follow suit Whiplashing all down 66 dipping snicker sticks in miracle whip And I didn’t spill a drop of my god damn sippin’ Got enough intuition to let Yakity Yaking simpletons simp on simple situations while I prescribe them with their symptoms: First they have no pride, or they’d sound much more like flesh Vices turned to voices in their head until a gold chain equates to a bad back Second is a lack of tact First to throw the punches always first in line to need a spine attatched They’re used to sludge bombs making days long and hosting bong-a-thons when the smiley face is on Before I continue, let you be warned, they’re summoning DeerMan of the Dark Wood at a seance in the backyard I wouldn’t cross those beams These mortal men know only 3 things Clits, Tits and Bong Rips give the soul a smokey shade of pink that I don’t think I’ve ever seen Liquor store at the cornerstone of the systematic connection between the hunter and the hunted Every piece on this chessboard is a pawn No Kings No Gods Just man And this machine that we’ve created It lets me anaylze with great detail the extents of my particular persuasion.
Take a look in the obsidian mirror Every memory held by black men's hands grip the noose by the loop and dare the front man to kick down the safety switch that sends these cooped pigeons through the roof As if I'm not free by definition Defying my current living conditions persevering apparitions as I wait for the bat signal in the sky telling me it's time to rise again as the darkest night fades To sunrise Glazed Over the fact that Brother Starlight and Sister Moon seem to always have better things to do than cover my 6 while I turn tail for them hills Hidden Valley where all my former awkward exoskeletal shells try To live forward-facing progressive lives Growing good-guy cops in patchy crop circles Circling the vanity of the drain Swirling humbly away Way way way over yonder where the spontaneous attitude is pondered upon without a fear for the fall All my niggas are Walking tall And the humble earthworms still crawl As our narrative is called to be displayed upon a Jumbotron Of honesty Induced by alcohol A pair of balls and a need for catharsis living in the suburban projection of a ghetto I feel as if my goals are nearly met Though that's probably just the part of me that wants to breathe with certainty that the next police officers I see won't crack knuckles and bats across my legs, arms, and back like the got my homie Rest in peace, Eilonwy I know you came a long way Black Cauldron tells my future I hope I make it home today I'll even take the back way (All my niggas are Walking tall And the humble earthworms still crawl We burn ex lives into the mirror We write scriptures on bathroom stalls All my homies Float with grace And the humble earthworms still crawl I don't have time for saving face On my belly turning dirt to vital psalms)
I don’t have time I’m fading into lines Empirical design Impossible to find Experiment with time Experiencing life We search for truth We scavenge for the light I want to decay astranged from sight We want to have a good time I don’t have time
I spell "Fuck Corrupt Cops" with 3 capital K's And use 3 capital K's with capital gains to package my art form and use it as compensation weight for all the Jerry-rigged nigger shippers selling slaves in cellophane coffins and improper expiration stickers on the graves of their fame When the eagle fights the crow over territory not his own I sharpen talons using silence I begat bloodshed with no violence And watched a passive song excommunicate in serpents tongues how to run from K-9 units who only smell in biased blueprints I run home everyday For the sake of safety by my own hand I fight to Bend my own rules I fight to Be my own man I put 2 loafs on the table Now taste the soup straight from the ladle They cannot ever find a fitting label So I'm considering filing to be a rapper-disabled Maybe feed hungry hands with a pay roll And you know I've got a jay rolled For when the door gets bludgeoned down by the critically enabled and I get shipped off back to black man grade school Attention! You have the might to remain violent Turn a pigs head into dress pants and parade with your black friends at the riots There's spraycans in the armory and AK's in the trunk Don't tread on me Watch we never move Don't tread on me Watch we never move
Approaching the masses (I roll over in my body bag) Of culture and class (My black skin holds fervent past) I'm on the super highway of identity crisis That road's unfinished. Diminished my roots with a blend of suburban totalitarianism white cookie cutter homes My housing rights commend your private lawns for being so well kept I dare not face my demons Yet my black soul begs for feelings Told the Oreo is closer to god because nobody wants the shell The encasing The binding of the book who's pages are blank and white I'm told on Martin Luther King day The importance is on my shoulders to celebrate But all my friends are not my skin Not of my will but the world on tilt I made my first black friend in the deepest reaches of my 2nd grade classroom and his father saw me as a buffoon holding race no "pass go" signs Ill-drawn Design Rewind, we don't fuck with that Rewind, we don't fuck with that Rewind, we don't fuck with that Rewind, we don't Rewind That black boy said we'd stick together and his complexion complicated the intricacies of brotherhood for the niggas that were birthed amidst the flood I want my brothers back. I don't recognize the poor syntax I can barely afford to be black Breaking stereotypes with baseball bats Hanging all my ties to life as "the whitest black guy" out to dry while I sign on the dotted line for My severance package Only to have my application declined when they search they find he was a half ragheaded culture-killer Could kill the whole world with an arrow to the calf's dreaded head. I was born and named after the gospel's own words which I denied, denied, denied Until I dug so deep in my own denial I found my new name cut all the ties I was too scared to hide. Burnout til the sun dies Calling all cars, I think that somewhere deep inside there's a real nigga coming to life. Burn out till the sun dies Calling all cars _________________________________________________ I spoke to the elders of guts and glory Let a scribe mark every phrase in a blank bible and had it titled “8th of February” That’s the same day that I met Rory I think it’s incredible how influence fuels fires so strong that the earth grew extra grass to help it burn longer Took an afropick with the black power fist out of the same rock Arthur pulled his sword from and declared myself a warrior in my own right The patron saint on the come up got the lavish life in plain sight He’s got the stench of seven sailors and the omnipotence of fake gods who mirror all your favorite fables with appropriate labels like “This one’s for suicide” Here, have a seat Not every move is do or die In fact I scribble nonsense in my freetime and I’ve authored many secrets And I’ve fathered 9 children, dressed them in their raggedy worst and let the silence of the crowds do the rest I promise this process is for the best (I am calculating understanding misconceptions are decieving I am reevaluating all the wonders I’ve been seeing) I am longing for the brightest light to shine upon my face and give me warmth and a happy place But I’ve exhausted all my efforts and my motives were all vain so I humbly crawl home on all fours to learn to be a better man (I am calculating understanding living life requires balance not meaning I am reevaluating all the wonders I’ve been seeing)
I’ll be a black boy turning colors onto white noise With my limbs contorting rappers into play toys Watch the stones turn cold unearthing secrets from the years before Artisan; my art of choice Art is not the art of war Riding camels into battle Casting anit-depressant magic spells that turn your greatest fears to cattle (Is kettle burnt or just under attack?) Normally I lay upon my throne of ambiguity and chuckle at the lemmings envoking their own fates with portal guns and cursing their own morality But honestly It takes a long time to build up these abra-cadabra answers to your prayers Which is why I prefer to neglect them all and say follow your heart (Who wouldn’t make a better god? Got no judgement, just impulse and immediate reward) Your instant gratification ceremony is sacrificed to uphold to social norm I bet I bleed a better brown man’s blood from these government certified paper cuts P O L I C E Commit brutality Attatch affinity for the suffering Of negro boys like me Prefer our pussies to the pavement and our brains across the streets The Man’s got a golden girl for the future and he’s kept her in a glass house so we’re taking a poll on how many would prefer an X-Man Malcom in the middle of this ignoramous ignorance tele-mesmerization-station with a metal bat and an attitude over the exploitation of swift hand under calm face Gesture check Better double-back and fumble that term before you discover why it’s mother nature that makes your discrimination absurd
(I have had a million dreams of making money I have had a million dollars in poor man’s fame One night I gave it all for a million special moments And I swear that….) (We Sculpt For Your Love So We too can feel Loved You Share Your light with our world We Sing To fight the darkness) Worth no death is no mans work These men work for their souls are over- Flowing with the bounty of a thousand setting suns Across the galaxies, through time and space Constellations to commemorate the smallest instance in their life where they shared Happiness With another Or kindness With a brother We will commemorate our happiness Commemorate our happiness We will commemorate We share the same stars as an infinity of smiles We run with arms stretch out wide No strife nor pride I could share this feeling until the day I died
Unironically rock the metal shirt Jerkin off the money tree until my greenthumbs hurt Fuck the world while she's wearing a tan skirt Put a brain in the vein of the robot Till his heart hurts And he's praying to God for a calm burst of love The mixture in my phanny-pack puts covers over granny's fascist actions We run triumphant with the serpents tear I found new bravery That caters to me and my Every need So the mantra sings out "Evil-doers beware!" Casket Dancing, drunken-fist style in my favorite pot socks Till my fucking heart stops Option for failure is naught Ego has begun decay Death ray fired promptly The darkness seems inviting when your soul is kinda wonky I'm Tomb-Dead in the dead of night On a mission for salvation Grip the blade never the handle Toss your stigmas on the mantle He paid for hope with body language Let the succubi as old as time write an early ending for the fable Face blue in hue like a smurf yet He didn't find the same Jesus as the one who sold him Percocet We run triumphant with the serpents tear I found new bravery That caters to me and my Every need So the mantra sings out "Evil-doers beware!" Casket Dancing, drunken-fist style in my favorite pot socks Till my fucking heart stops Option for failure is naught Ego has begun decay Death ray fired promptly The darkness seems inviting when your soul is kinda wonky
Vivid dreams of vicious guillotine gorilla swings knock me four feet back from the conscious body I’m controlling. Head in my hands Holding Bated breath Scolding me For biting off more than I could eat Off of this array of trays with multiple courses of life lessons My homie put the sauce in the pot With the key to flowing in out of hearts Like 3 old bare bowls waiting to be filled with them goldie locks I thought I saw her last week Slipping in and out of my mind In and out of her unfairly shortened timeline We were family for the short time that it’s worth She holds the world’s weight in a smile full of pearls And I think that if I thank her enough for all that she’s done When the time comes I’ll cook this soup this time in exchange for a moment more of Q’s love Like a dove, I remember passing by you More concerned about getting home safe so I could reach a high mood Wouldn’t have even known and I was there before they found you Hid behind the crowd who learned fellowship on a late night I guess I learned my lesson too How a friend became my family before I even really knew her Found home on an isolation island and built a new heart out of spare and scrapped parts I still hear you everywhere I gotta go And every now and then I wish for all our sakes you’d come home But home is carried in us always, even if I can’t call your phone I just can’t wait to tell all the dope shit that’s happened since you’ve been gone Sitting on a dope throne Sending whispers through the wind, in a breezy riding eyelashes, pink and black on that chrome I’ll lift my blunt to the sky for a high nigga pie Susie Q, cutie pie, with a twinkle in the eye, claimed she’s not afraid to die because she lived a full life Sleep tight
Burn the maps We ain’t coming back Charter for the unknown Sacrificial heroes Heralded through space time For every chronicled rhyme we design Gets to shine in the stars While the herbs sticky-ick to the grind Existential crisis Pardon all my vices, I’m impervious to the virus Walking barefoot on glass legos has me fending off my calices in my chasing of the holy chalices My nigga Beartooth super sleuth cookin’ cookies in the kitchen Savannah crews are family ain’t got no time for the dissin’ Descending into madness Can’t afford to recess Defecting from the process Depression brings the cold sweat But I’m marvelous with my wise-guy hair cut Hopped on the throne young Re-embodiment of King Tut, but you can call me Cuna Never find another brother who can slick you with the smooth cut And I’ll Cut it apart Fuck the game up with cheat codes Guitar Hero rockstar Paintball gang war Feast your eyes upon the high score Spitting fire till my throat’s sore I’ve recently grown fond of all my passions To the point where I feel confident I can make all my dreams happen And man this city scape is bleak without any Sunday Night action Active effects on the battlefield including spewing confident tactics ’til you’re making that bread while asleep in your favorite bred Spread-Eagle to form the ultimate showside attraction Grab the torch and hold that flame just right Ignight your life by the lamplight Save file deleted to take the extra chance at living with no strife homie Onso got the gold goat and we’re holstering our performance anxiety in the jell-o mold deep beneath our ever increasing belly rolls D-cypher the prose while we unclog your nose and you can sniff the proverbial shit just to see it’s 4 days old in the time it took for you to announce that I should do as I’m told But niggas don’t know the code And I’ll Cut it apart Fuck the game up with cheat codes Guitar Hero rockstar Paintball gang war Feast your eyes upon the high score Spitting fire till my throat’s sore


Dedicated to Susan Allen Bartoletti. (RIP)

"This album has gone through many changes.
The original concept was something along the lines of a soundtrack accompanyment to a Cowboy Bebop/Cosby Show/Final Fantasy/Atlantis The Lost Empire mash-up manga I was writing.

The manga turn into an animation project- with each song being planned to have a cartoon visual to help progress the story, and each visual being a different style of drawing/animation.

Then Bill Cosby was arrested, so the story changed.
And then my friend passed away, and the story was abandoned.
And soon after- when writing for the album had officially begun, my computer's motherboard crashed, and I was left without a way to record or produce the second half of this record.

I was at a loss for what to do, if to do anything was an option for me to take. I struggled with a level of depression and anxiety I hadn't experienced in years and fell recluse, away from my friends and family.
I felt isolated and uncertain, but as the days continued I felt many of life's important lessons were being brought to light.

There is a lot of personal growth in the moments where life seems most fleeting. It's important to continue to live for the people you love, even when they are gone. No matter what you believe in, remember to cherish the little moments, embrace the darkness, learn from your mistakes, and breathe slowly. Life moves as quickly as you let it."


released May 1, 2016

Tracks 5 & 7 (Measures #3 & #4), produced by Jack Bennett.
Tracks 6, 7 (Measure #2), produced by Nu Vintage.
Track 10 (Measure #1), produced by STONEDAPE (RIP).
Track 10 (Meausre #2), produced by AnotherPlanet.
Track 8 (Measure #2), produced by Thovo.
Tracks 1-4, 7 (Measure #1), 8 (Measure #1), 9, & 11-13, produced by sp00ks.
Track 14, produced by Nalim The Martian
Track 15, produced by Onso

Executive producer: Matthew Dass

Written, recorded, & performed by Cuna Bear
Featuring BigStupid!diot, sp00kytooth, & D-Cypher

All rights to their respective owners.


all rights reserved



cunabear Savannah, Georgia

Patron Saint of Patron Saints.

Jazzy, lascivious, psychedelic rap.

EPK: beartoothcollective.wixsite.com/cunabear

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