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shaper of decrepitude.

dense and cutting doom-noise-industrial with spoken word accompaniment. two bleak soundscapes. cw for lyrics that may trigger mental health sensitivities. all tracks written, performed, composed, produced by Ms Xxan. ©Ms Xxan, all rights reserved.

Alien Alarms

The Battle Of Trafalgar Street

New music about the Carnival Against Fascism in Brighton on 13th June 2026 featuring amazing words and vocals by Rebecca Hill. Released as a free/name your price download, all proceeds go to Brighton Antifascists.

Versiv

Questions (ft. David Whyte)

David is one of my favorite poets. He is my introduction to poetry. "Sometimes" is a poem that keeps giving me goosebumps every time and it inspired me to make a goose-bumping drum & bass track. A bit eerie, a bit heavy and nasty, and wonderfully philosophical.

Bound Unto Root

Losing the Plot

A lost soul wanders the hillside in a hypnotic daze. Initially guided by an innate yearning, he soon realizes that he doesn't actually know what he is looking for. As he looks for clues in his surroundings, both the hillside and his body begin to warp. Will he find his way or lose himself to this place?

Black Leather Birds

of Children and Their Sorceries

"of Children and Their Sorceries" sees Black Leather Birds continuing its exploration of immersive, world-building music where spoken word, experimental rock, ambient sound design, and ritual chant coexist. Across five tracks, the EP examines anxiety, memory, home, and the strange significance that ordinary objects can accumulate over a lifetime. Literary in both tone and structure, its songs unfold less as narratives than as inhabited spaces -- places where tension, nostalgia, grief, and acceptance are allowed to linger and intermingle.

Michaël Potier & Auntsoot

Croûtes de sentiments

"Le carnaval des cul-de-jattes couverts de tisons." Poésie noire des fêtes foraines incandescentes. Le sol est jalonné de membres humains gluants et disparates, d’ampoules électriques éclatées, de confettis de toutes les couleurs possibles (et impossibles), d’excréments fumants, de crucifix couverts de glaires inconnues, de sang chaud et de foutre. Les caravanes hurlent des chiens de prairie. Puis elles vomissent des clowns ambidextres munis de hachoirs écarlates. ANTI-JAZZ À LA SAUCE DE GLOBE OCULAIRE (N'est-ce pas mesdames?!?) J’aime ce bruit. Surtout quand il est insidieux. J’aime le verbe quand il remonte l’échine avec un coutelas. Froid. Glacial. Ravissant. J’aime. J’aime. J’aime. MÉLANCOLIE MYSTÉRIEUSE DES MIROIRS CORROMPUS. Il fait bon festoyer pendant que le Soleil devient supernova et fait fondre les forains dans une grande danse païenne finale. Wicker Man terminal. Les yeux fondent en dernier. Ils font !POP! en éclatant. Et moi j’ai éjaculé un slinky roux. -Sir Kuliktavikt