repost x2

Re-Ex Sound 81

EDM Edit

Automatico - Build With You (feat. FreshcoBarz) (Official Audio) ( #FortniteRadio #YouTube #Shorts )

Intou

Indulge in the soul-stirring symphony of 'My Everything' – a heartfelt love song that echoes the depth of emotions and the magic of an all-encompassing connection. Let the music take you on a journey through the sweetest moments of love.

My Everything

MONSTERS

Mont Rouge, Sasson (FR) - War Cry


Follow Release Vinyl :
Instagram : https://www.instagram.com/releasevinyl/
SoundCloud : https://soundcloud.com/releasevinyl
Spotify : https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2MQFuSEva0UcNK11jYsULB
YouTube : https://www.youtube.com/@releasevinyl


Follow Mont Rouge :
Instagram : https://www.instagram.com/montrouge.music/
SoundCloud : https://soundcloud.com/montrouge_music
Spotify : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/artist/29Spoit35xez115MTLfMB4?si=lVS8K0jORs-elmp-TSNkuQ


Follow Sasson (FR) :
Instagram : https://www.instagram.com/nicolassasson/
SoundCloud : https://soundcloud.com/sassonparis
Spotify : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/artist/6wG0hZz1XJNZEDaNUyfpSa


#MontRouge #SassonFR #WarCry

Mont Rouge, Sasson (FR) - War Cry

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bbno$ - it boy

WAR CRY - Mont rouge, Sasson (Karnaak FR)
Afro Percussion

Mont Rouge, Sasson - War Cry (AM Edit)

"Real Badness" is a haunting and gritty anthem that delves into the cold reality of street violence. With raw, menacing lyrics and a shadowy beat, the song paints a vivid picture of life on the edge, where power and survival are earned through grit and firepower. It's a chilling exploration of darkness, resilience, and the weight of choices in a world where every move counts.

Real Badness

When Skywoman, Venus descends , we come calling so we can be in  paradise again. .

Venus is descending featuring Christinartnd

Control My Name

Outta Da Skies ft. Slim Dizzle (prod. by Chiarelli)

Higher

Therapy Fodder

growın’ wıngs # beat

My Window

Clock999 speed corruption

If the Celtic god Hu Gardn was setting out to seduce Gaia, the goddess of Earth, he might sing her a lusty fertility song like this one. Hu is the mythical operator of The Plough constellation, which rises in the night skies at Spring in the northern hemisphere. 

I wrote the lyrics and then Andreas (@APi_ZZ) found our Hu vocalist on Suno, and dusted him down with some of his extra special magic dust — and this is the result. We hope you like it. 

Come into the Wildwoods, my Lady,
Meet me at dark, under the light of the moon.
I yearn for my sap to throb into life for you,
And the hawthorn buds to burst into bloom
Under the glistening downfall of silver dew,
At the rustling whisper of your passing. 

Come into the Wildwoods, my Lady
Before the pink fingers of dawn discover us there.
I hunger to press you against the trunk of an oak
While I caress you and whisper spells in your ear,
Magical words to make your knees grow weak
And your blood to buzz like honeybees.

Come into the Wildwoods, my Lady
And let my eyes drink in your voluptuous curves
Your pert, soaring peaks and wooded valleys
Your rounded hills, orchards and vineyards.
I ache to breathe in your musky belly
And swim in your fragrant waterfalls. 

Come into the Wildwoods, my Lady
Let me guide your hand to my blade that awaits
Throbbing and ardent, my ithyphallic organ.
I am Hu that ploughs the Astral Plains,
The husbandman of your night garden
I am here to plough your furrow. 

Come into the Wildwoods, my Lady.
Let me kneel in the grass at your toe-ringed feet,
I long to stroke your slender legs, the envy of swans.
And lay you down in the love-in-the-mist,
And decorate your navel to your Venus Mons
With passiflora, clematis and hot lips.

Come into the Wildwoods, my Lady
Let me gaze deeply into your bluebell-wooded eyes
I lust to run amuck in your flower beds like a roebuck
Glorying in the soft scented warmth of your thighs, 
Until no lily remains unlicked, no honey unsuckled,
No butterfly that hasn’t been kissed.  

Come into the Wildwoods, my Lady
And mount me, straddle me ‘till the cock crows,
I must slake my thirst from your honeyed streams
And bury my face in your purple silken folds,
In your ambrosia nectars, ‘till I can hardly breathe
In wonder at such a love divine. 

© Lyrics copyright: Annie Dieu-Le-Veut, February 2025

Rites of Spring (erotic)

Have You Cried

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.

Therapy Fodder

blorgpulkfplorksickle