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Hit play and dive into a glowing mushroom rave across the cosmos!
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Hypnotic Techno Pulse 🌀 Neon Mushrooms & Stellar Soundscape
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Quantum Shroom Surge
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— Page 1 —
Even in a cosmos where planets wrapped themselves in silken auroras and comets sang in gravity-bent choirs, the fungal moon Verridia shimmered with a strangeness all its own. From orbit it looked like a pale amethyst pearl veined with emerald. Up close, its surface was a living quilt of towering mushroom citadels, bioluminescent rivers, and spore-storms that swirled like nebular tempests.

Explorer-librarian Nyra Vale arrived alone—save for her pocket-sized archivist drone, Glyph—hunting a legend whispered through pirate channels: “Where the caps glow indigo at dawn, reality folds easier than parchment.” She believed those words pointed to the Quantum Shrooms—organisms rumored to warp probabilities with every heartbeat. Secure in a sapphire pressure suit, Nyra stepped from her scarab-shaped lander onto a lattice of fungal roots as wide as an ocean. The ground pulsed beneath her boots in a steady, alluring beat, like a promise or a dare.

— Page 2 —
Low gravity made each stride a languid leap. Spore-dust spiraled around her visor, painting psychotropic mandalas across the glass. Glyph projected a holo-compass, but its readings jittered—up became east, north folded back onto itself, and the horizon ran in Möbius loops. Nyra disabled the device; here, instinct would guide better than instruments.

A shriek of chromatic light erupted a kilometer away: indigo caps blooming taller than skyscrapers, their stalks braided with silver mycelium. Every pulse rippled into the air as a prismatic shockwave, rearranging reality like shards in a kaleidoscope. Nyra’s breath caught—the Surge had begun.

She set a micro-beacon and walked toward the phenomenon. With each step, memories surfaced unbidden: her childhood kite morphing into a solar sail, a lost friend’s laughter echoing like crystal chimes, dreams she hadn’t yet dreamed. Verridia’s spores read her mind and projected possibilities into living hallucinations. Nyra steadied herself, remembering her mantra: Observe, don’t drown.


Continues on the website: 
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Quantum Shroom Surge

Press play for a 4K trip through cosmic mushrooms & vortex techno!
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360° psychedelia: techno beats + galaxy fungi = instant escape.
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Arcane Vortex Slipstream
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Page 1 — Spores in the Dawn
Violet dawn bled across the fungal ridges of Agartha-9, where cathedral-high mushroom spires whispered in bioluminescent hush. Deep in the mycelial catacombs, a lone glide-craft dreamed beneath crystal-webbing—a relic the spore-sages called the Starglider. Its heart, a Prism Core, pulsed once every decade, drinking stray photons and liquefying them into kaleidoscopic fuel.

Tonight it pulsed twice.

Raine Arclith, fugitive techno-mancer, tasted the second heartbeat as a tingle behind her eyes. She pressed a palm to the craft’s nacreous hull; color rippled up her arm, mapping neural constellations onto skin. She’s ready, the thought sang. Outside, distant sirens signaled that the Order of Chromancers had discovered her theft of a forbidden map—the coordinates of the Arcane Vortex, a wormhole said to braid time like rope.

Raine slipped into the pilot’s cradle. Filaments of living glass snaked around her wrists, melding vein to vein. The Prism Core bloomed, flooding the cockpit with refracted starlight. Alarms blared in the tunnels; armored footsteps clanged nearer. Raine exhaled a spore-laden breath.

“Wake up, old girl,” she whispered. The craft shuddered.

A roar split the caverns—the roof shattered into powder, and the Starglider rocketed skyward in a plume of neon spores. Gravity tore loose; mushroom spires bowed away as if saluting her escape. Beneath the hull, the planet’s crust glowed like ember-glass.

She punched into the upper atmosphere, leaving Agartha-9 behind as a shrinking, iridescent pearl. Ahead spilled the infinite dark, but Raine felt no fear; the Core thrummed like a second heart, eager to ride the Slipstream hidden inside the Arcane Vortex.


Continues on the website: 
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/07/18/arcane-vortex-slipstream/

Arcane Vortex Slipstream

After a year of intense sound design, experimentation, and emotional energy, Total Destruction marks the climax of the project. Dark, raw, and unapologetically brutal – this track is a personal statement and sonic weapon for the dancefloor.

⚙️ Genre: Industrial / Hard Techno
🔥 BPM: 160



► Part of the Techno Feeling EP 
📺 Official visualizer on YouTube: [insert link]
🌐 Stay connected: https://linktr.ee/synthtech

TOTAL DESTRUCTION

Ride a glowing spore‑river—4‑K techno visuals you’ll watch on loop!
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Bioluminescent Sporescape
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#bioluminescent #sporescape #psychedelic #techno #4kvisualizer #trippy #mushroomforest #psytechno #visualjourney #neonlights #deepbass #progressivebeats #ambient #spacevibes #cosmictrip #fantasyscape #spore #vortex #hypnotic #meditationmusic #nightdrive #studybeats #soundscape #darkpsy #dreamscape #galaxytrip #luminous #ethereal #mindride #chillgroove #sporewave  #chromaticfungi  #myceliumbeats  #psyforest  #quantumshrooms  #iridescentgroove  #biolumilight  #stellartrance  #fractallight  #mindbloom  #dreamtempo  #alienflora  #nebulatech  #otherworldly  #etherealtrance  #galacticchill  #subspacebeats  #celestialdance  #psyfi  #holographicvibes  #interdimensional  #luminoustrip  #universalrhythm  #spiritualbass  #visionarysound
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Page 2 — Hyper-Mycelium Drift
Stars stretched into silver threads—as if the universe itself unraveled yarn for some cosmic loom. Raine nudged the throttle. The craft answered with a bass-deep purr, latching onto an invisible river of tachyon foam.

Inside the cockpit, time grew syrup-thick. Memories looped: childhood laughter wove into yesterday’s arguments, then blurred into tomorrow’s triumphs she had yet to live. The Prism Core refracted moments into prisms of color; each hue tasted like a different emotion—joy fizzing citrus-bright, grief tasting of black licorice on her tongue.

Halfway through the drift, warning sigils lit the canopy: pursuers. The Chromancers had launched obsidian skiffs, their hulls etched with runes that drank light. Raine snarled. The Slipstream was narrow; one collision would detonate the corridor, turning it into a kaleido-grave.

She banked left, diving into a pocket of warped gravity. G-forces became kaleidoscopic serpents curling around her organs. Reality hissed, shedding fractal scales. Waves of psilocybin static cascaded across her vision—each pixel a shouting idea.

Raine centered herself with a mantra she’d learned from the spore-sages: “I ride the edge of becoming.” The serpents quieted. She flicked open a panel, revealing a phial of liquid DMT-amber. One drop vaporized into the ship’s breathers, merging her consciousness with the Core.

The universe split open like a seed.

She saw the Slipstream not as math but as songlines of pure intent. All she had to do was hum the right line—and the Starglider obeyed. With a spiral twist, she threaded the craft through the Chromancers’ formation. Shockwaves painted after-images: violet arcs that smelled of burnt cinnamon.

The pursuers faltered, engines coughing void-smoke. Raine didn’t slow to watch them spin from the path. Ahead, the Slipstream constricted, funneling toward the Vortex’s throat.

Bioluminescent Sporescape

What happens when techno meets DMT? 4 minutes in and you’re already elsewhere.
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DMT Corridor Drift
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The sky above the wasteland looked bruised—deep indigo scraped with crimson scars—yet the ground beneath my boots felt uncomfortably alive, as if thousands of tiny roots were tasting each footfall. I’d followed a faint, rhythmic tremor here, a heartbeat pulsing up through the ash. When the tremor peaked, a shard of crystal burst from the soil, spinning on its axis like a razor-bright compass needle. It caught the bruised light, refracted it into emerald rivers, then unfolded into a doorway of liquid prism-glass, humming with the promise of elsewhere.

I didn’t hesitate. Wherever “elsewhere” was, it called to the restless riptide in my veins. I stepped through—
and gravity inverted.

Upward into the Quartz Well
I fell skyward inside a spiraling well of translucent citrine. Walls of fossilized light stretched forever; each layer trapped ancient moments—laughter, sorrows, revolutions—now flickering past like thumbnail memories. Luminescent spores swirled beside me, the children of gargantuan subterranean mushrooms I’d only seen in outlaw holos. They flirted with my skin, diffusing micro-doses of raw data straight into my nervous system. In flashes I tasted the metallic dusk of extinct planets, heard choir-songs made of starlight, and felt the grainy warmth of gravity settling into new equations.

The well tightened, momentum surged, and for a breathless instant I became a singularity of thought. Then the citrine walls burst into motes and I landed gently, as though the universe cushioned me in slow motion.

The Corridor Where Mirrors Lie
I stood in a hallway paved with mirrors that reflected futures instead of faces. A thin veil of violet vapor—rich with DMT-scented electricity—rolled across my ankles, painting shifting glyphs that rearranged every time I blinked. One mirror showed me feathered in fractal plumage, eyes swirling like twin nebulae. Another revealed me piloting a city carved into Saturn’s rings.

Instinct said choose, so I lifted a hand—half curiosity, half rebellion—and pressed my palm to the nebula-eyed version of myself. The mirror surface rippled, swallowing my reflection and my doubts in one gulp.

Sudden vertigo. The corridor unzipped itself, twisting into a Möbius strip that flung me forward without direction, as though space had forgotten which way tomorrow was supposed to go. Time stretched, knotted, and re-coiled. When it snapped back, I found myself kneeling on luminous sand that whispered in three voices all at once.


Continues on the website:
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DMT Corridor Drift

Bioluminescent bass drops meet cosmic visuals—skip ahead if you dare!
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Dark techno + trippy fantasy art = your next late‑night obsession.
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Echoes of the Fungi Lords
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I. Spores Beneath the Obsidian Dawn
Deep in the marrow of an unnamed continent, a cavern yawns—its ceiling a cathedral of black crystal, its floor a velvet quilt of mycelial lace that glows like moon‑soaked snow. From that living lattice a lone spore quickens, silver as starlight caught in water.

Nyra, a wanderer whose dreams have always whispered in forgotten tongues, kneels beside the spore. She feels it trembling against the pulse in her palm, hears it singing inside her skull—a hum so low it might be the heartbeat of the earth itself. When she breathes, the air tastes of petrichor and electric pine.

A ripple of emerald vapor uncoils from the ground, shaping itself into a serpent crowned with obsidian feathers. Its eyes are twin vortices, galaxies spinning in reverse. With a hiss that feels more like a promise than a threat, it slithers around Nyra, dusting her skin with bioluminescent pollen.

The cavern wall before her softens into translucent flesh. Behind it, shadow‑figures in chalk‑white masks beat unseen drums, their motions slow and tidal, summoning glyphs of an empire lost before language was born. Nyra steps forward, and the wall parts like silk, inviting her into the Spiral.

II. The Spiral of Masked Voices
She finds herself upon a circular mesa suspended in nothingness—an impossible stage surrounded by endless night. Masks float above the rim, each carved with a rune no living alphabet could hold. They chant in a tongue that slides sideways through thought, and Nyra’s own words fall away like leaves in autumn.

The serpent coils at her feet, then bursts into spores of scintillating jade. The pollen swirls upward, knitting a doorway of refracted moonlight. Through it marches a procession of tribesfolk draped in feathers and radiant lichens, skin tattooed with constellations that shift like migrating flocks.

They circle Nyra, marking her brow with violet resin that burns cold. In that sear of ice she sees a vision: titanic beings—Fungi Lords—looming in a valley of living quartz. Their limbs are roots, their crowns are coronal shrooms fuming rainbow spores that rewrite the wind. They speak without mouths, their voices felt rather than heard, commanding her to bear witness to the Cyclone of Prism Blood.


Continues on the website: 
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Echoes of the Fungi Lords

Can your eyes handle this fractal warp drive of techno? 🌌
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Heliotrope Axiom Jump
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The glass planet Aurelia-6 hung beneath the frigate Heliotrope Axiom like a shimmering teardrop—every jungle, ocean, and city frozen in prismatic reflection. Inside the cockpit, Captain Nara Quell adjusted her breath mask. A single sliver of violet fungus dissolved on her tongue, sending warm pulses down her spine. Across the curved windshield cloud-veins glowed neon lavender, signaling that the mycelial core was waking.

Page 1 – Flicker of the Spore-Drive
Silence poured through the bridge, thick as velvet. From the engine bay came the first flutter: bioluminescent filaments undulating in zero-g, quickening to the rhythm of Nara’s heartbeat. Heads-up glyphs danced across the console—ancient runes translated into vectors and velocity. One glyph—flashing cinnamon-orange—requested neural consent. She closed her eyes, answered yes with a single steady exhale, and the ship listened.

Vision fractured. Every edge of the room smeared into kaleidoscopic trails. Gravity tilted. The Axiom slipped into its own reflection, folding space like origami until fore and aft hashed into a single horizon-line. In that shimmering seam, the Drive whispered coordinates older than constellations.

Page 2 – Descent Through Vortex Lace
A thunderless shockwave hurled the vessel forward. Outside, reality writhed: electric lilac tunnels spun in corkscrews, lined with lattices of living crystal. Nara gripped her chair yet felt weightless—as if her body were a translucent echo trailing several milliseconds behind her mind. The flight computer’s alarms were silenced, overridden by a steady fungal chant vibrating in sub-audible tones.

Shapes emerged in the translucent walls—ghost-cities blooming and collapsing, mushroom domes dripping with dew that sparkled like microscopic nebulae. Nara sensed each ruin and birth as a resonant chord of emotions: grief, elation, curiosity. She tasted them in synesthetic gusts—peppermint sadness, cedarwood joy, coppery dread—yet fear never took root. The Drive’s telepathic presence curled around her thoughts with gentle, spore-soft assurance: You are guided.

At the vortex’s heart a fissure yawed open—an abyss of violet so deep it looked like the bruise where infinity had been punched. The Axiom plunged.

Page 3 – The Luminal Hollow
Light slowed until it felt syrup-thick. The Hollow was a pale-amber cathedral the size of a galaxy, where photons meandered in lazy spirals and gravity took a contemplative nap. Spore-dust drizzled like luminous snow, settling on the hull in fractal arabesques. Sensors charted no up, no down, only a serene everywhere.

Nara released her next breath; it blossomed into flowering mandalas that hovered and gradually unfolded into star-maps. In those maps she saw roads untaken—lives she could have led, worlds she might yet meet. Each petal flickered, hinting at possibility. For a hushed eternity she drifted in choice and wonder, her consciousness dilated to fit the moment’s vastness.


Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/07/24/heliotrope-axiom-jump/


#techno #deeptech #melodictechno #technojourney

Heliotrope Axiom Jump

Loco Ghost is a Music Producer (Wave & Synthtechno) based in Hamburg, Germany.

Individuation

Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/dz1gj8fCAzU
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Can you hear the ibex whispering beneath the bass?
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Tap in—this techno ritual glows brighter in the dark.
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Whisper of the Hollow Ibex
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A sand-red dusk bled across the Vermilion Void when the caravan first appeared—seven wanderers cloaked in fabrics the color of half-remembered dreams. Their leader, a sinewy guide named Vael, pressed his palm to the dune beneath him. He could feel it: the hush-loud heartbeat rumored to lie under this desert, a primordial rhythm older than stars. Tonight it throbbed like an invitation.

The group’s purpose was half-spoken, half-felt. Each carried a buried ache—a lost love, an unanswered question, a fracture in their own reflection. All believed the legends: that somewhere beyond the last ripple of sand rose the Lunar Root, a crystal that could rewrite the mind’s worn grooves. But the Void was treacherous; only those who matched the pulse of the land could cross without becoming mirage.

They moved in silence until the third crescent of the moon crowned the horizon. Then, on a dune as sharp as a scimitar, a phantom silhouette emerged: an ibex sculpted from living dusk, antlers hollow like twin horns of bone-wind. Its eyes shone void-black, absorbing all starlight.

Vael’s breath snagged in his throat. This, legend swore, was the desert’s sentinel. The Hollow Ibex appeared only to caravans worthy of passage. But its price was steep—a fear willingly offered.

Without speaking, the travelers laid bare the truths they dreaded most. A warrior named Irian surrendered the terror that his blade was all that defined him. A glass-voiced singer named Seral released her secret anxiety that every note might be her last. One by one, the ibex drank their confessions; shadows peeled from their spines and evaporated, tasting like iron on the wind.

The ibex bowed. A single wordless whisper rippled through the Void, sinking into skin, marrow, memory. Proceed.

The Mirror Gates
Hours later, twin arches of black obsidian rose out of nowhere, facing one another like opposing truths. Polished surfaces reflected neither stars nor faces but endless corridors of possible futures. Stepping through, the caravan felt color invert: sky bloomed into viridian, dunes shimmered in gold. Time elongated, syrup-thick. Thoughts flitted like moths across molten glass.

Seral heard the hush-loud pulse grow louder, altering pitch as if tuning their hearts to a cosmic hymn. An emerald gust swept across the arches, scattering crystalline sand that rang faint chimes with each grain’s fall. Everyone knew: they could no longer turn back. The Mirror Gates sealed behind them, swallowing their echoes.

Comet-Serpent Tempest
Inverted skies crackled as a comet-wide serpent slithered along the firmament, scales sparking cyan lightning. Wind gathered, howling wordless drones. Sand rose into spiraling towers. Vael signaled for the caravan to lock arms. Instead of resisting the gale, they leaned into it, bodies swaying like blades of dune-grass.


Continues on the website: 
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/07/30/whisper-of-the-hollow-ibex/

#techno  #melodictechno  #deeptech  #trippyart  #visualizer

Whisper of the Hollow Ibex

Feel lava under your feet—hard techno meets a psychedelic sky in 3…2…1.
Plug in—this dark rave journey will melt reality in five bass drops.
Nomads march. Drums pound. The sky turns ember. Are you ready?
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Close your eyes—follow the spiral galaxy and bass into oblivion.
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Nomads Under the Ember Sky
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The moon had not been seen in thirty-three nights, for an ember-red shroud lay over the heavens like molten silk. Beneath that burning veil sprawled an obsidian plain—black glass so polished it mirrored the crimson firmament above. Rumors called this place Ash-Hollow, though the oldest wanderers claimed it was once a lake of fire that cooled into stone the night something else fell from the constellations.

Into this hush trudged a caravan of cloaked nomads. Their boots rang dull notes on the glossy floor, each footfall accompanied by a pulse that throbbed up from the rock itself, as if the ground possessed a heartbeat trying to match their own. Spirals—tattooed in shimmering mica—glittered across their weathered skin, guiding them forward with a geometry no star-chart could replicate.

I. The Echoing Path
Kai, youngest among the pilgrims, paused to gaze at his reflection in the obsidian. The sky’s ember glow painted his eyes a fierce amber, yet within them danced the tremor of uncertainty. He had heard the legends from whispers in desert markets: When the sky turns embers and the stone begins to hum, follow the pulse to the heart-rift. There the world’s secret will open like a mouth of light.

He tightened his cloak and rejoined the march. The caravan curved toward a fissure in the plain—an ink-black wound wide enough to swallow cities. From its depths rose faint tendrils of emerald luminescence, like vines of living ore trying to escape. It was here, the elders said, that the ritual would begin.

II. Breath of the Spore Wind
A sudden gust, impossibly cool, spiraled up from the rift. With it came a cloud of spores—spherical motes aglow in hues that shifted from jade to amethyst to gold depending on how one dared to blink. They drifted among the nomads, kissing foreheads and slipping under cloaks.

Kai inhaled—and the world kaleidoscoped. The obsidian plain rippled as if water; constellations buckled and re-arranged into sigils that pulsed in time with his racing heart. Cloaked companions fragmented into geometric silhouettes of themselves—prisms walking. Every doubt, every childhood memory, floated outward and crystallized as visible thought-petals before dissolving back into the wind.

An elder touched Kai’s shoulder. Through vision warped by chromatic tides, Kai still recognized the gesture: reassurance. “Let the spores rewrite seeing,” the elder murmured, voice both thunderous and whispered grains of sand. “Only then can you walk paths not yet laid.”


Continues on the website: 
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/03/nomads-under-the-ember-sky/

#techno  #psytrance  #hardtechno  #psychedelicvisuals

Nomads Under the Ember Sky

Industrial / Hard Techno producer & DJ from Münster, Germany.


check my socials!⬇️⬇️⬇️

Loco Ghost is a chilean Music Producer based in Hamburg, Germany. Social Media Links ⬇️👻😜👍🔥⬇️

Dig the tunes? Check out the music videos YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum

Website or Instagram for booking.

Need change - going harder.

Techno, Trance, Psytech, Psytrance, and other liquid psychedelic music is where I'm the happiest but I do love a lot of Latin, Tribal, Lofi, Chillhop so occasionally I'll release something off-beat.

------ Past-Tense Shenanigans ------

Born in the dust-filled vibes of a ‘90s apartment, Grass Patch Bum started spinning records back when vinyl was king and internet cafes were revolutionary. Armed with a crate of vinyl, Grass Patch Bum dived headfirst into underground raves and sweaty house parties, learning the art of blending beats on turntables and (eventually) the "futuristic" CDJs. But the journey didn't stop there.

After taking a hiatus to dive into the world of FL Studio and dissect the mechanics of production, Grass Patch Bum came back stronger, with a repertoire of original sounds and the technical chops to match. Fast forward, and they've turned dancefloors upside down from Thailand to Vietnam, Bali to the heart of Europe. Now, powered by Ableton Live and a creative arsenal that refuses to stay in one genre, Grass Patch Bum weaves sonic journeys that blend groove, grit, and just a sprinkle of nostalgia for the good ol' days.

Catch him live for a taste of nostalgia, modern beats, Latin grooves, electronic melodies, and a wide range of liquid sounds. Whether it's a tropical beach in Thailand or an underground club in Berlin, Grass Patch Bum brings thems booty movements like no other.

New tracks tagged #Synthtech