"with contempt for imported convertible sports cars"
rumba – shadow
I, with contempt, turn away from you—
your polished leather seats and roaring engines.
I see no romance in the speed,
no freedom in your gloss and chrome,
just the hum of plastic pretension.
You, strutting like a peacock through the streets,
careless in your vintage pride,
cutting through the city like a butcher
slicing through bones.
But beneath the surface, there's something more—
a shadow, cast long and deep in the curves
of this dancing world.
A rumba of protest,
our feet do not tap to the rhythm of wealth,
but instead, to the sound of resistance,
to the pulse of streets untouched by vanity,
where the grass grows wild
and the world is not for sale.
The shadows we cast are real—
not as elegant as your polished toy,
but honest and stubborn,
swaying like the hips of ancestors
dancing through fire.
“gradually becoming a disaster”
yacht rock – hollyhocks
There’s a slow shift in the air,
like the tide creeping up on an idle boat—
no rush, just a pull,
silent but relentless.
A breeze that feels lighter
than it is,
carrying the scent of something sweet,
but the sweetness is fading
with each wave,
as if it was always meant to fade.
Hollyhocks bloom in the distance,
their petals turning too quickly,
colors softening into the background.
The world is moving,
but not fast enough
to notice how much of it slips through
without a sound.
We’re floating here,
but the hull beneath us cracks just enough
to let the water seep in,
quietly, with no ceremony.
It doesn’t shout—
it just keeps coming.
It is easy to pretend the leak isn’t there,
as easy as forgetting the voices
that begged us to listen
long before the cracks appeared.
This isn’t disaster,
not yet.
Just the slow, inevitable tilt of things,
like a boat drifting further
from where it once meant to be.
The song plays on,
smooth and steady,
but even the melody can’t ignore
how the edges blur
when the line between what is right
and what is accepted
becomes indistinct.
A soft hum in the distance,
the feel of a day that should last longer,
but it won’t.
It never does.
The wind picks up,
but it doesn’t seem to matter.
We’re drifting—
and it’s too easy
to let the drift take over,
too easy to float past
the moments that once demanded
we change course.
rumba – shadow
I, with contempt, turn away from you—
your polished leather seats and roaring engines.
I see no romance in the speed,
no freedom in your gloss and chrome,
just the hum of plastic pretension.
You, strutting like a peacock through the streets,
careless in your vintage pride,
cutting through the city like a butcher
slicing through bones.
But beneath the surface, there's something more—
a shadow, cast long and deep in the curves
of this dancing world.
A rumba of protest,
our feet do not tap to the rhythm of wealth,
but instead, to the sound of resistance,
to the pulse of streets untouched by vanity,
where the grass grows wild
and the world is not for sale.
The shadows we cast are real—
not as elegant as your polished toy,
but honest and stubborn,
swaying like the hips of ancestors
dancing through fire.
“gradually becoming a disaster”
yacht rock – hollyhocks
There’s a slow shift in the air,
like the tide creeping up on an idle boat—
no rush, just a pull,
silent but relentless.
A breeze that feels lighter
than it is,
carrying the scent of something sweet,
but the sweetness is fading
with each wave,
as if it was always meant to fade.
Hollyhocks bloom in the distance,
their petals turning too quickly,
colors softening into the background.
The world is moving,
but not fast enough
to notice how much of it slips through
without a sound.
We’re floating here,
but the hull beneath us cracks just enough
to let the water seep in,
quietly, with no ceremony.
It doesn’t shout—
it just keeps coming.
It is easy to pretend the leak isn’t there,
as easy as forgetting the voices
that begged us to listen
long before the cracks appeared.
This isn’t disaster,
not yet.
Just the slow, inevitable tilt of things,
like a boat drifting further
from where it once meant to be.
The song plays on,
smooth and steady,
but even the melody can’t ignore
how the edges blur
when the line between what is right
and what is accepted
becomes indistinct.
A soft hum in the distance,
the feel of a day that should last longer,
but it won’t.
It never does.
The wind picks up,
but it doesn’t seem to matter.
We’re drifting—
and it’s too easy
to let the drift take over,
too easy to float past
the moments that once demanded
we change course.
- Oizys.
