Instrumental open for a collab

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Can't Erase The Pain

Can't Erase The Pain -(Future Trap)

Laguna.exe blends warm acoustic guitars with downtempo harmonies for a tropical getaway vibe. Ideal for island daydreams, beach lounging, or stress-free focus.

✈️ Why listen? Vacation feels, studying, relaxation

Laguna.exe

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Carmine Bridges - Laguna.exe (Mr Silky's LoFi Beats)

Sprite is full of hopeful aspirations for a better future  but with an underlying fear that the winds will turn cold.

SPRITE

Sprite

“Jazz Night Ting” dropping October 6th

Wasting Time

Empire of Wheat

An upbeat, little jazzy remix of a Moby track from mobygratis.com - has a Tears for Fears vibe I think! 

Made with Suno v4.5

Lights ahead

Memories of Static

I wrote these words after meditating on Jupiter at dawn, in which he showed me how J.M. Barrie's play about the fairy Tinkerbell sewing back on Peter Pan's shadow was actually a metaphor for a deeper teaching. 

Some of you may recognise the middle section. I hold my hands up...yes, it comes from Holst's Jupiter. But my excuse is that I've never heard a piece of music that so accurately reflects my own experience of the warm generosity and exuberance of this planetary logos.😇

Jupiter

Buy on Bandcamp

Monaco Affair

There’s a place beyond the fire, where no footsteps burn the ground
Where the trees breathe ancient stories, and the winds don’t make a sound
I’ve seen it in my visions, glowing far behind the haze
Calling through the silence, where no hands have shaped the clay

Take me there, where the rivers run like songs
Where the sky is wide, and the spirits still belong
To the untouched place, the sacred land of grace
Where the heartbeat of the earth becomes the bass

Underneath the dancing moonlight, whispers echo in the sand
Every rock and root remembers, more than any map could stand
Not a road, not a border, just a rhythm carved in light
Guiding feet and soul together through the night

Take me there, where the rivers run like songs
Where the sky is wide, and the spirits still belong
To the untouched place, the sacred land of grace
Where the heartbeat of the earth becomes the bass

Ngoma ya dunia, twende sasa
Roho ya ardhi, tusahau njia
The untouched place

Off the Map (Vocal Remix)

Mister Jack est, depuis, recherché par toutes les polices.

Stéphane Jacques (chant) et son complice Alban Jacques Bouquette (instruments et programmation)

Sex Crime

I don't claim any ownership over any of this. Anyone can use any of it for any reason forever. Also I accept liability. Please don't sue me (and/or let's collaborate).

"Holy fucking shit, this shit is crazy wtf"

"Moments of being passable beyond novelty"

"Very ok"

"Actually slaps"

"Straight art"

"Noise"

```Madlibs with a metronome```

At its core, the blorgpulkf is a pulsating, iridescent orb that thrums with an energy that can only be described as "the sound of a thousand bees having a rave inside a kaleidoscope." It's hypnotic, it's unsettling, and it's strangely addictive - like watching a lava lamp filled with Mountain Dew and gummy bears.

But that's just the beginning. Surrounding this pulsing heart are layers upon layers of... well, your guess is as good as mine. One moment it's a tangled web of neon tubes that hum with an eerie frequency, the next it's a churning mass of what appears to be sentient silly putty. And is that a tiny disco ball I see nestled in there? You bet your sweet bippy it is.

As for its features, the blorgpulkf is like a Swiss Army knife designed by a mad scientist with a penchant for pranks. It's got a button that releases a burst of confetti and the sound of a rubber chicken being stepped on, a lever that causes the whole thing to fold in on itself like a origami crane having an existential crisis, and a tiny compartment that dispenses a single, perfectly spherical grape every 37 hours.

But perhaps the most baffling feature of the blorgpulkf is its ability to communicate. Not with words, of course - that would be far too pedestrian. No, the blorgpulkf speaks in a language all its own, a cryptic code of flashing lights, whirring gears, and the occasional burst of atonal jazz played on what sounds suspiciously like a didgeridoo.




The plorksickle. It's like someone took a fever dream, a Mad Lib, and a Dada art installation, threw 'em in a blender, and hit "puree."

Picture this: a contraption that looks like it crawled out of a Salvador Dali painting and mated with a Rube Goldberg machine. It's got a crank that sounds like a yodeling ostrich, a button that releases a puff of glitter and the scent of existential dread, and a tiny screen that just flashes the word "moist" in Wingdings.

But here's the kicker - every time you think you've figured out what it does, it changes the game. One minute it's reciting beat poetry in binary code, the next it's turning itself inside out and becoming a Klein bottle. And don't even get me started on the time it started oozing a viscous liquid that tasted like the color purple.

Is it a tool? A toy? A sentient being from another dimension that's just really, really bad at communication? Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, it's the most beautifully useless thing I've ever laid eyes on.

But maybe that's the point. In a world where everything has to have a purpose, a function, a reason for being, the plorksickle is a big, fat middle finger to the very concept of sense. It's absurdity for absurdity's sake, a Zen koan in physical form.

So if you ever see me on the street, cradling this bizarre little gizmo like a newborn lovechild, don't ask me what it does. Just nod, smile, and know that you're in the presence of something truly inexplicable. Something that laughs in the face of logic and spits in the eye of reason.

Empire of Wheat

blorgpulkfplorksickle

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