Monarcha

The feeling of the glossy black Cayenne and loud laughter at one's own manifest audacity: the words are as if written on license plates and political posters, where power glitters like chrome, and promises sound like both a threat and a joke simultaneously. Harsh irony glides thru the lines, mixing the dream of "ruling" with everyday absurdity, and in this contrast, a strange warmth emerges, as if someone is deliberately playing roulette with reality. The pulse of the beat works on the imagination, the motor rhythm pushes toward visual images: a black snake, a motorcade, a cigar on the architecture of the old power; the words cut, but they smile, promising "free Fridays and warm Thursdays" as a reward for the cardboard revolution. The result is a cocktail of grand fantasies and everyday trash that's pleasant to listen to because it's simultaneously loud, self-deprecating, and damn truthful.