Acacia 1

Gordon Spicer Band - Telephone Bore

“devour me, deform me to your likeness, so that no one after you will understand”
**** is the body of the world that i see
careless like a dog and empty of a cause
nothings felt the same the way you made me hate
to prove that you’re alive, that’s pretty in my eyes
you’re not real to me 
angel freak
i felt the expression of your life

spiral back

Homeless Life

The Pine - Homeless Life

mathew lee cothran - better off alone

In the hazy heart of London's underground, Kaleido existed in a perpetual swirl of vivid, mind-expanding color. Their sanctuary was a smoke-filled loft studio in an abandoned warehouse overlooking Camden Lock—a chaotic haven drenched in the heavy scent of incense, scattered with threadbare cushions soaked in spilled wine and sweat, flickering candles casting shadows on walls alive with hand-painted mandalas that seemed to pulse with hidden life.

Days blurred into nights of raw, uninhibited inspiration, fueled by acid's electric visions and the velvet surrender of psilocybin dreams. Orion Kaleido sprawled cross-legged on the floor, his notebook a portal for feverish poetry that poured out like cosmic revelations. Jasper “Drift” Vale teased shimmering, feedback-laced riffs from his electric guitar and hypnotic drones from the sitar, notes bending and twisting like lovers' bodies in ecstasy, lingering in the air as iridescent haze. Milo Brine hammered primal, throbbing rhythms on drums and shook the tambourine with feverish intensity, driving pulses that echoed the heartbeat of the collective.

This was the throbbing core of the free love revolution, and Kaleido embodied it without restraint. Their studio drew a constant flow of artists, drifters, mystics, and hungry seekers—a fluid commune where boundaries dissolved in waves of shared ecstasy. Connections formed not just through words or music, but through raw, intimate touch: tangled limbs on piled cushions, heated skin against skin, breathless explorations of desire that blurred into one another. They paused not merely to rest, but to revel in carnal recharge—passionate embraces, lingering caresses, and uninhibited group intimacies that they believed channeled pure creative energy, turning lust into sonic alchemy.

As darkness descended, Kaleido emerged into the pulsating neon underbelly of the scene. They played in dimly lit beatnik dens, hidden tea houses thick with hash smoke, and fog-shrouded basements where applause came in finger-snaps and knowing glances. Their performances were erotic rituals disguised as concerts: swirling projections dancing over nude silhouettes, incense mingling with the musk of aroused bodies, music that throbbed like a lover's heartbeat—electric guitar stumming in psychedelic rhythm, sitar weaving Eastern mysticism, drums pounding relentlessly, tambourine shimmering in hypnotic frenzy—opening doorways to altered states where inhibitions shattered and collective euphoria reigned.


Tonetta - I Get A Little At A Time

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