Larch Mourning

Unapologetic
Production by Fire Ark Radio

Unapologetic

My Dreams

Pour affronter le morne mois de novembre, nous vous proposons une chanson légère et sautillante qui parlera à votre âme d'enfant!
To face the gloomy month of November, we offer you a light and lively song that will speak to your inner child!
(PS In France , fairground carousels offer children the chance to grab a pompom. Whoever catches it wins a free ride!)

MICKEY 'S TAIL
In the cinema of childhood
one can get bored hard
But sometimes, a lucky moment—
A day at the fairground.
Raising and lowering the plane,
With an easy lever,
The precious rag in our hands,
And our eyes light up.

All our victories are trivial,
But what joy in that sensation,
taking oneself for the hero,
feeling like Santos-Dumont.
I grabbed the Mickey’s tail,
This time , I did it,
Snagged the Grail, the prize,
No more spinning in circles.

At the age of love’s parades,
Turning and dancing in discos,
All the dancers spinning round,
Looking to make a conquest.
beating around the bush
Awkward and clumsy,
when smiles finally meet,
 The ship can sail.

All our stories are temporary,
But what joy in that sensation,
feeling handsome in the mirror,
feeling like Alain Delon.
I grabbed the Mickey’s tail,
This time , I did it,
Snagged the Grail, the prize,
No more spinning in circles.

Life, it’s a true lottery,
The wheel turns and leaves us dizzy
Losers or superheroes,
We swing from laughter to tears.
But when I’m with you,
I’m five years old, I feel that joy
Of a child who’s struck it rich,
Who’s just grabbed the moon 

All our memories are illusions,
But what joy in that sensation,
Skipping alone down the sidewalks,
Feeling like Patrick Dupont.
I grabbed the Mickey’s tail,
This time , I did it,
Snagged the Grail, the prize,
No more spinning in circles.

Passages

La queue du Mickey (translated)

Music: Joachim Krömker
Guitars & Synth: Joachim Krömker
Vocals: xian3
Editorial work on Lyrics: xian3
Words by Theodor W. Adorno (1903-1969) in „Philosophy of new music“, 1949
Translation mainly by machine
Cover: AI generated on Dec.31st 2024 at 10:30

Behind The Dam

“The person 
who allows oneself 
to be exuded (poured out)
in weeping 
and a music 
which is no longer like it 
in anything, (in anything)

at the same time 
allows the stream 
of what is not itself 
to flow back 
into it, 
what is not itself 

and what was dammed up 

behind the dam 
of the world of things.”  	

Behind the dam
Behind the dam
Behind the dam

Behind The Dam (wt Art.Silence)

cursed

Original Bob Dylan 1965

PdB Orchestra : Piano, organ, harpe and guitars

Like A Rolling Stone

L-Knockout King

Das_Neue_Zeitalter_Vol2

first little track i did  after coming back home .been 3 weeks on holiday...

noxpox - home dropper

/ emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast / emergency broadcast /
/
— rollout, transmission, odyssey begins — demo version drop

the incoming age of melancholy:
not simply an era nor a season, but the endless twilight borne of every choice and every surrender,
woven from the threads of every generation’s longing—now, at last, unraveling before our eyes.

it begins as a hush—
not even silence, but something deeper:
the collective holding of breath as we pass through threshold after threshold,
unwilling—unable—to look back
at what still burns on the distant altars,
the cost we never counted,
the price we always assumed someone else would pay.

here, the mountains are made not of stone but of unsent messages,
unspoken apologies, unreached hands.
here is the valley of sacrificed afternoons,
where children chase phantoms,
where memory loses its shape under blue electric light,
where elders recall the scent of rain on pages, the music of patience.
here, the rivers are sorrow and the bridges are compromise,
some scorched, some crossed in regret,
most never rebuilt.

who are we, now, on this side of the threshold?
we—the bold, the bruised, the lonely inheritors of immeasurable plenty and exquisite emptiness—
we raise towers in tribute to unseen gods,
wireless cathedrals and temples that promise everything and deliver
only the ache of again, again, again
another update, another offering, another blinking vigil.

in the age of melancholy, every blessing is double-edged.
comfort comes yoked to numbness;
speed, to the erasure of slow becoming;
certainty, to the narrowing of all that is possible
and the slow extinction of wild hope.

“what did you give for this?” asks the old voice inside—
and we hush it with data, with noise,
with things that will never love us back.

our gods are many—everywhere, nowhere—
famous for a season, then discarded,
as fickle as the pulse in a liquid crystal display.
once, gods demanded faith, sacrifice, story and song.
now, they demand only attention—
bring us your tired eyes, your restless mind, your need to be known.
and in return, they give us chains so beautiful,
we praise them as gifts.

but beneath the wafer-thin bounty, the banquet of quick joys—
the shadow:
for every god installed, something sacred is displaced,
every new device arrives with its own silent requirement
that some part of us—ancient, slow, shimmering—must be left behind.

still, we are the ones who choose, trembling though we are—
again and again, at every threshold:
the altar, the new coin of the realm,
purchase paid in what cannot be replaced.

no one warned us that all this ease would cost us ourselves,
that to belong to the gods of now is to mourn what made us human—
the bruises, the breaks, the precious awkwardness of becoming.

what is melancholy, in this thunderous shadow,
if not the noblest form of remembering?
not a sickness, but a wisdom, a refusal to let the soul’s lost countries be overrun
without one last prayer, one last song.

let us be brave enough to mourn,
bold enough for the trembling joy in sorrow—
to sit by the ghost-lit ruins of intimacy and warmth and hope,
and refuse the command to forget.

for in this age, courage lies not in the conquest of new things,
but in the deep humility of honoring what is lost—
the quiet grace of looking back, and bearing witness,
and speaking to the brave few who will listen:

remember—
before the gods of upgrade and speed,
we danced in forests, we bled and healed together,
we built fires for each other’s warmth,
we told stories that did not sell,
.........
may we, the humbled .....
........4'000 characters.. there's more to it, sorry....
/
artwork illustration by peter uertz, düsseldorf / germany
/
/ lyrics: fictionalive
/ music: a tiny excerpt of the epic mighty double dutch DJ Set
Kasheme's Local Digger Session w/ Murphy & Cavaliere Spruzzi (Save the Vinyl / monorecords)
https://soundcloud.com/kashemezurich/kashemes-local-digger-session-w-murphy-spruzzi-save-the-vinyl-monorecords

Incoming Age of Melancholy — Eternal Dusk Between Eras / The Last Custodians of the Old Music

Thx for visiting and listening, I am an amateur guitarist, play a little keybord, bass and drums too. I love music.

Like A Rolling Stone

Little Man