Re-Extended 25

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SINGULARITY

I'm not really sure what genre this track is... i feel like I'm currently doing musical theatre, but I don't remember ever signing up to do so!

Anyway, the words here come from my experience of meditating on Mars at dawn on his day, Tuesday: 

Too many tears,
Deluge and flood, 
The Earth is mired
In marsh and mud
That only fire of Mars can dry.

Too much hot air
From profiteers
Fans the camp fires 
Of strife and war,
That Mars arrives to provide. 

Our men are gone,
Our children sold,
Our lives destroyed,
Our cities dust,
In this they call the great game

And only the oligarchs gain. 


There was a time, before the Age of Iron,  
When Mars was not just the god of war.
But that was in a different aeon,
A time when the wise were aware
That when winter had done its work,
Only the cobalt gnomes of Mars 
Could awaken seeds from their sleep
In the frozen soils of Earth’s dark,
And fire them up to arise, their spring
Flowers like flames reaching for the Sun. 


But if we ask, Mars will be our guide, 
If we appeal to him, invite him in.
To fit our inner armour of steel,
To forge our iron shield and sword
And fill us with the fire of will,
So that we can defend our life’s road
Standing sovereign, proud and tall
No longer the weak victims of those 
That perpetuate forever wars. 
Or else it will be more of the same.

Our men will be gone,
Our children sold,
Our lives destroyed,
Our cities dust,
In this they call the great game.

Where only the oligarchs gain.
Where only the oligarchs gain.
Where only the oligarchs gain.

Lyrics copyright © Annie Dieu-Le-Veut, August 2025

Mars

GNOSIS33

Draedai x Ogi feel the Beat - It's on you (Gnosis33 Remix)

Bruda (luvgarments)

Under Pressure voiced solidarity; Ice Ice Baby flipped it to swagger; the lawsuit set precedent and the Streisand effect fused them—so now we work to invert the inversion, as AI copyright and art debates turn on subversive use, not sound (maybe)

“May 7th” is a smooth slow-pop vibe with mellow melodies and heartfelt energy — perfect for late nights and deep thoughts.



May 7th (feat.  Isabelle Grace)

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"

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.

Under Pressure voiced solidarity; Ice Ice Baby flipped it to swagger; the lawsuit set precedent and the Streisand effect fused them—so now we work to invert the inversion, as AI copyright and art debates turn on subversive use, not sound (maybe)

blorgpulkfplorksickle