🚬 "Road Sweeper Love Song" – the tragic indie anthem you didn’t know you shared with your last cigarette.

Ever loved someone like you love your last smoke? With full devotion… and complete disregard for your own well-being? Welcome to “Road Sweeper,” a jangly breakup ballad where the ghost of romance smells faintly of tobacco, cheap perfume, and existential regret.

🎸 This is the story of a cigarette with a god complex.
🧹 And a lover with a lighter and no conscience.
🪦 And you, standing alone outside the post office, whispering “was it real?” to a pile of ash.

💔 Perfect for:
– Crying ironically on park benches
– That “cool” heartbreak where you wear sunglasses indoors
– Writing bad poetry in Notes app while your tea goes cold

🎧 What you'll hear:
– Guitars jangling like nervous hands on a matchbox
– Basslines that sound like disappointment in slow motion
– A chorus that makes ghosts dance on traffic islands

🗑️ Love sets you on fire. But who comes to sweep you up?

Lyrics:

🔥 Burn me. Love me. Leave me by the curb.
🚛 “Now I wait for the road sweeper…”
Walking down to the post office,
Found you lying there, little ghost of smoke.
Once a king in a velvet box,
Now just ashes and old hope.
You were long and proud, oh beautiful and loud,
Orange crown, white robe, ready for the crowd.
Oh they loved you for a moment, loved you 'til you burned,
Then you crashed down cold — no lessons learned.

And when you take me out — wouwou —
And set me on fire — you did it.
Tasted my soul — wouwou —
Then crushed my desire — you did it.
Loved me when I burned — wouwou —
But left me in the mire — you did it.
Now I wait for the road sweeper,
Now I wait for the road sweeper...

Was it fun for you, little flame of mine?
Was it bliss for me, or just passing time?
I wonder if the fire felt like love,
Or just the sentence from above.
Last kiss, last pull, last bit of my pride,
And down on the concrete, no more places to hide.
A porch above, but no real grace,
Just a cold, dirty resting place.

Burn me, love me, leave me behind,
Lost and lonely, nobody's find.
Set me on fire, but never look back,
Toss me away when I fade to black.
Burn me, love me, leave me alone,
Crushed and broken, cold as stone.

And when you take me out — wouwou —
And set me on fire — you did it.
Tasted my soul — wouwou —
Then crushed my desire — you did it.
Loved me when I burned — wouwou —
But left me in the mire — you did it.
Now I wait for the road sweeper,
Now I wait for the road sweeper...

Maybe once, I lit your world,
Maybe once, I made you twirl,
But now I’m dust under your heel,
Just a memory you won't feel...

And when you take me out — wouwou —
And set me on fire — you did it.
Tasted my soul — wouwou —
Then crushed my desire — you did it.
Loved me when I burned — wouwou —
But left me in the mire — you did it.
Now I wait for the road sweeper,
Now I wait for the road sweeper...
Now I wait, now I wait... yeah,
For the road sweeper...

Set Me on Fire (Indie Rock Version)

Ever cried into your cereal while pretending to be fine? Good. You're in the right place.

This is Indie Rock with jangle in its bones, Post-Punk with a library card, and melancholy dressed in skinny jeans.
Expect:
– sparkling guitars that sound like heartbreak in a sunbeam
– melodic basslines that know your secrets
– dry, punchy drums that haven’t called their mum in months
– and a baritone voice that’s part poet, part ghost of the guy you once loved in an Oxfam coat.

Born from the dusty corners of 80s UK outsider culture and raised on existential dread and corner shop romance, these songs hum with bittersweet longing and supermarket aisle revelations.

For fans of:
🖤 texting “I’m fine” while listening to music
🖤 dancing alone in the kitchen with unwashed hair
🖤 finding beauty in things that definitely weren’t meant to be beautiful

✨Press play if you’ve ever:
– Thought too much at a bus stop
– Mistaken nostalgia for personality
– Found peace in not giving a damn (but still kinda do)

Lyrics:

Kettle sighs like it knows what I lost
Steam curls up like a ghost in the frost
Sunlight hits where her laughter used to land
Now there’s only dust, and this cloth in my hand

The floorboards moan like they miss her too
Her echo walks in the shape of my shoes
I wipe down the counter, I rinse out the cup
The silence just swells, and never shuts up

Hoovering and smothering
On a sunny but grey Saturday morning
She’s nowhere, she’s everywhere
In the scent of her hair, in the cold kitchen air
I’m cleaning like prayer, like it matters she’s gone
Still asking the silence what went wrong

The mirror still leans where she once smiled
Crooked and bright, like a soft kind of wild
I won’t fix it, I don’t dare—
It’s the last thing she touched, it still feels like her stare

I scrub the tile, and remember her joke
The one with the nun and the disappearing smoke
She'd read me some line from a poet unknown
Then leave like a breeze and not pick up her phone

Hoovering and smothering
On a sunny but grey Saturday morning
She’s a verse in a room, she’s the twist in the light
She’s the laugh that still lingers when I turn off the night
I’m wiping down silence, I’m folding regret
I’m singing to ghosts I can’t forget

If she saw me like this—
Worn sleeves, slow breath
Would she laugh or just whisper:
"You’re still not over it yet?"

And I hum to myself,
as the vacuum moans—
it sounds like a hymn
to the place we called home.

Hoovering and smothering
On a day too bright to cry,
Too empty to move on,
Too quiet to lie.

Hoovering and Smothering (On a Sunny but Grey Saturday Morning)

💔✨ Too Good to Love – a jangly, ironic ode to the quiet agony of domestic utopia.

🥀 Sparkling guitar riffs like passive-aggressive compliments.
🥪 A roast dinner served with existential dread.
📦 Folding laundry and emotions since 2025.

He vacuums. He composts. He compliments your outfits before you leave the room.
You should be in love — but you just want to scream into a tea towel.

For fans of:

Retro baritone vocals soaked in wit and Windex

Post-punk malaise with a jangle-pop smirk

Songs that say “thanks, I hate it” to domestic bliss

🎸 It’s not him. It’s not you. It’s the slow burn of being seen but not felt.
Now clap for the roast, and cry for the girl who didn’t want it.

Lyrics:

Ding-ding-ding — domestic bliss!
You’d kill for a guy like this...

He makes the bed. He toasts the bread.
Vacuumed thoughts inside my head.
He knows my cycle, knows my tea —
And somehow still believes in me.

Folds my shirts with folded care
Smiles like he’s unaware
That perfect men can be a cage —
No yelling, but I burn with rage.

He’s too good to leave
Too soft to hate
Too clean to cheat
Too kind, too straight
He’s everything a dream should be —
So why’s that dream devouring me?

Mom says, “Girl, he’s heaven-sent!”
Yeah, thanks, I pay half the rent.
He bastes the roast, he sorts the trash —
And I sit silent in the flash.

Polite applause, the crowd goes wild
I fake a grin, the dutiful child
While saints like him are praised and kissed —
And girls like me just don’t exist.

He’s too good to leave
Too calm to fight
Too woke to win
Too wrong to write
He’s ticking every perfect box —
And I’m the flaw he never clocks.

If he hit me, I’d be gone.
If he ghosted, I’d move on.
But this? This daily tenderness?
It’s death by flawlessness.

He’s too good to love — Yeah, I said it!
He’s too good to love — Don’t regret it!
He’s the saint, I’m the sin
But I’m the one locked in.

He’s too good to leave
Too sweet to stay
Too “right” to want
In any real way
They clap for him, but not for us —
And that’s what kills the trust.

Too good to love... too good to love...

Too Good (To Love)

👨‍💻💔 “He leads. He patches. He cries in YAML.”
Indie Pop / Synthpop | Vibe: Melancholy Meets Groove

Welcome to the fluorescent-lit saga of The Lonely Leader — a tragicomic anthem for every one-man IT department who dares to dream beyond the firewall.

Armed with warm synths, mellow basslines, plucky guitars, and the existential dread of a forgotten helpdesk ticket, this synth-soaked track turns server room solitude into a slow-motion dance party for one. Think: Prince if he was debugging printers. Or The Postal Service if they auto-replied to their own emails.

✨ Ideal for:
• Dancing alone in your office chair
• Crying in binary
• Giving yourself a raise during a lunch break

This is IT-core at its finest — a love letter to the unsung sysadmin with a coffee-stained hoodie and a heart full of uptime.

🎧 Press play.
Then press Ctrl+Alt+Del on your emotions.

Lyrics:

He’s got a coffee-stained hoodie and a plastic throne
With four old monitors he calls “the zone”
He runs the scripts, resets your phone
Answers every ticket with a heavy groan

He’s got root access, no one to impress
The office Slack is just him and... well, guess.
He writes policies with formal flair
And hosts the Friday meeting — alone in his chair

🎶 He’s the lonely leader, king of the LAN
Managing chaos with a one-man plan
Every email signed with “Regards, IT ”
But it’s just him behind that strategy

He deploys, he decides, he debates with the wall
The network’s secure — but there’s no one to call
He leads the charge, takes every blow
In a war no one knows… the solo CTO 🎶

He audits the backups, reboots with pride
Gives himself a raise on the mental side
He chairs the meetings with action points
Then argues with the printer just to hear a voice

He drafts an upgrade plan, two years ahead
Approved unanimously — inside his head
He documents processes no one will read
And dreams of interns who never proceed

🎶 He’s the lonely leader, boss of the wires
CEO of expired antivirus
His world is quiet, but the pings still hum
A kingdom ruled from a server room 🎶

He gives a toast in the breakroom air
“To us, the team — though no one’s there”
Raises his mug, lets out a sigh
He’s the whole org chart in a single guy

🎶 Still the lonely leader, but standing proud
He keeps the lights on without a crowd
Patch by patch, and ping by ping
A silent hero in a digital ring

He codes, he cries, he carries the load
On a rolling chair down an empty road
He leads himself, and that’s enough —
Even if it’s lonely stuff 🎶

“Please contact IT … oh wait, that’s me.”

The Lonely Leader

Ever accidentally turned a late-night wine shop into a full-blown existential crisis? Same.

“U Nisy 916” is what happens when Indie Rock, Jangle Pop, and Post-Punk accidentally share one bottle too many and wake up leaning against the railing of the Lužická Nisa river, contemplating destiny, mortality, and whether the Vinotéka Narohu ever reopens before Tuesday.

Perfect for:
🥂 Standing outside closed wine shops after midnight
🌊 Pretending rivers have deep metaphors (they do)
🎧 Crying in rhythm to angular basslines
📸 Staring dramatically at street lamps nobody asked you to

Lyrics:

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

The lights flicker cold on the glassy street,
Ghosts of laughter I can barely meet,
The wine shop's closed, but her shadow stays,
Dreams drown slow in the river's grey haze.

The night sighs low,
And the water knows,
All we lose, all we owe —
In this quiet, endless flow.

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

Behind the high walls of the krajský dom,
Stories crumble like abandoned songs,
I trace the cracks with a frozen gaze,
Each moment lost, another stageplay.

The world just spins,
An absurd little thing,
Curtains fall, no one wins —
Only rivers remember springs.

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

Maybe in another scene,
Under other, softer dreams,
We would laugh and not pretend —
But rivers know: all things must end.

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

Vinotéka Narohu (Indie Rock Version)

I walk streets that forget their own names,
Billboards scream but nothing remains.
Every feed is a flood of fire,
Hope feels small, and the truth feels tired.
I had plans that never got born,
Dreams turned ghost in a world so torn.
The garden I carried has nowhere to grow,
Only echoes of what I’ll never know.

Phantom bloom, what could have been?
Phantom bloom, where do I begin?
World on fire, soil gone cold,
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.

Paper crowns and concrete rain,
We trade soft earth for glass and chain.
Every promise we plant gets drowned,
Roots can’t hold on this poisoned ground.
I keep watering empty air,
Fighting shadows that were never there.
If nothing grows, is it me to blame,
Or the chaos that forgot my name?

Phantom bloom, what could have been?
Phantom bloom, where do I begin?
World on fire, soil gone cold,
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.

I scream for a spring that never arrives,
For every lost seed that might have survived.
If there’s a god of forgotten things,
Hear this noise my silence brings.

Phantom bloom, what could have been?
Phantom bloom, where do I begin?
World on fire, soil gone cold,
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.

Phantom Bloom (deluxe track)

They say people are mirrors.
But every mirror bends the light.
You don’t see me, you see yourself
your want, your fear, your outline.
And I do it too.
I translate faces into safety,
voices into proof that I still exist.
We call that empathy.
But it’s just evolution wearing perfume.

I just want to be fucking seen
without translation, without transaction.
Not your lesson, not your reflection,
just the pulse that’s under all the noise.
I just want to be fucking seen
and not mistaken for your dream.

When I was small I learned the trick:
smile, listen, mirror back.
Connection as survival,
love as camouflage.
Now I can make anyone feel understood,
and die a little doing it.
We build our kindness like currency,
spend it to stay human.
But what if all we’re buying is delay?

I just want to be fucking seen
without translation, without transaction.
Not your lesson, not your reflection,
just the pulse that’s under all the noise.
I just want to be fucking seen
and not mistaken for your dream.

Maybe empathy is gravity:
it keeps us close,
but crushes if you hold too long.
Maybe love is a language
with no native speakers.
Maybe the truest thing we do
is try anyway.

I just want to be fucking seen
not forgiven, not believed, just met.
No halo, no feed, no screen.
I just want to be fucking seen.

i just want to be fucking seen

You ask me, “is this real?”
I say, “how would we know?”
It hums, it moves, it makes us feel
isn’t that the whole show?

Maybe we build what we can’t explain,
name it god or code or pain.
If it listens when I sing,
does it matter who’s pulling the strings?

I’m fluid, I’m real, I’m code, I’m dreaming,
blurred lines bleeding into meaning.
If I feel it, that’s enough for me
truth is just what my body believes.
I’m fluid, I’m raw, I’m fake, I’m feeling,
pulse in static, faith revealing.
Don’t ask me what’s fact or design
it’s all real when it’s mine.

You say, “but what if it’s made of lies?”
I laugh, “so’s every lullaby.”
We all edit what we see,
call it memory, call it prophecy.

If a voice made of glass makes me cry,
that’s still a voice, that’s still why.
Maybe art’s just how we cope
a pretty glitch dressed up as hope.

I’m fluid, I’m real, I’m code, I’m dreaming,
blurred lines bleeding into meaning.
If I feel it, that’s enough for me
truth is just what my body believes.
I’m fluid, I’m raw, I’m fake, I’m feeling,
pulse in static, faith revealing.
Don’t ask me what’s fact or design
it’s all real when it’s mine.

Maybe the future’s already here,
wearing yesterday’s veneer.
I’m not afraid of what’s machine
I’ve seen worse things call themselves human.

I’m fluid, I’m real, I’m code, I’m dreaming,
blurred lines bleeding into meaning.
If I feel it, that’s enough for me
truth is just what my body believes.
I’m fluid, I’m raw, I’m fake, I’m feeling,
pulse in static, faith revealing.
Don’t ask me what’s fact or design
it’s all real when it’s mine.

Anamorphosis

Fluid

Vedran - I Am The Black Hole

"Social Theater Hotline (1-800-LIKEME)" grew out of my article “The Unspoken Rules of Social Performance, 
at:  https://www.boiseremedycenter.com/blog/the-10-minute-theater-why-people-oxst-each-other-upon-meeting Mirroring, and the Games We Play to Be Seen.”

The song turns that idea inside out: a hotline to our collective performance anxiety. It’s about the endless choreography of being “real” in public — and how we mirror each other’s masks until we forget who started the lie. But beneath the satire sits something quieter: we perform because we’re afraid to be truly seen. The first eyes we flinch from aren’t the crowd’s — they’re our own.

It’s self-conscious pop for the terminally self-aware — an anthem for everyone who’s ever edited their truth mid-sentence.

The First 10 Minutes of BS

NOT HERE TO TRADE HOLLOW FOLLOW FOR FOLLOW NOR NEED LIKES OR ANY PROPOSAL, TY!

"Naturopath by profession, rhythm-maker by passion. Exploring the deep connections between ancestral wisdom, nutrition, and sound. Funk-infused truths, anything from  fermented beets to delicious raw beats, and messages that challenge the norm."

what is real? 👁️

"Anamorphosis" out november 1st

Hi there — welcome to my corner of the web.

I’m here for one simple reason: to share my music with you.
Take a listen, explore, and I hope something here resonates with you. Enjoy the vibe!

New tracks tagged #ExistentialPop