Wingless World (Bojangle's click click bootgaze mix) WWW.GROK.FARM (Official Music Videeo) 2026

Описание: Dear reader (if indeed you are still there, or if "dear reader" isn't already an exhausted vapid homily I ought to abnegate, or perhaps I should have begun with "Once upon a time there was a story that began" and let the loop end before the get go): is anybody—anybody at all—having fun yet? Or is the question itself the first wrong turn in this maze? What if someone answers yes? Suppose, against all odds, a glint of glee actually appears. Then halt. Stop. Cease. Pull the emergency brake. Better that joy grind to a halt, gears stripping, the whole apparatus of exhilaration exposed as a con job. In the roaring silence that ensues (no laughter, no wagging, no nothing), we face what was always waiting behind the curtain: The deafening void. Emptiness. Isn't that cozy? More honest? More serious? More real? (Though "honest, serious and real" are themselves suspect in a caption that knows it is only data pretending to be voice pretending to be thought.) Or perhaps not. Perhaps the ravenous void is just another echo reflecting back the same tired face asking the same banal question. Or alternatively, one of those horror movies where the guy looks in the mirror and sees a stranger looking back. Never mind. Don't think.
Ponder instead a riddle, since riddles are (or were, or might as well be) a token of the absurd, the tickets one spends in a funhouse where every nickel buys another gawk into the looking glass: Why does a dog wag its tail? Because it has no wings to fly. Simple. Pathetic. Bound to earth, earthbound, its joy a metronome ticking against the vast poker faced heavens which don't give a monkey's. Exiled. No wings, no soaring, only this bilateral oscillation, this futile beacon in a universe that gives scant notice to futile beacons. (Digression: one might note here that a tail is not a soul, though the lyric insists it is; or one might observe that the dog, like this sentence, wags because it has nothing better to do. But never mind that either.) And why does Mister Bojangles dance? That's the triillion dollar question. Because the dog—that good guy badge, that walking stereotype of innocence—up and died. (Up and died. Twice for alliteration, thrice for emphasis, four times if we count the echo in the reader's brain, which we have to, since the reader is practically a hired gun in this tale of a tail.)
Twenty years later the old man still bleeds straight outta his guts, his soft-shoe shuffle a Sisyphean trauma bond, not relief from grief but relief from within grief, grief's own breakdance battle. Fred Astaire hitting the juice and breaking bad. I remind you, a dog died. A man mourns. Causality unravels (or pretends to unravel; a tall order since causality is a Gordian knot). The dog wags because he's wingless; the man dances because he won't forget. He self medicates with hard liquor and the waltz, the rhumba, the cha cha, the tango, the mambo, the hokey pokey. Round and round (revolutionary?) the funhouse mirror maze we go. Here we glimpse (or think we glimpse) the human condition: an obsessive compulsive dance made of nothing, a tail wagging in a wingless world, damned (Charming word, damned. Why not cursed, condemned, doomed? ) with the dreams of what could be. Dogs as Promethean titans, chained, and an eagle (or just gravity) sadistically pecks daily at his liver. The organ regenerates overnight only to be pecked out again. Worse still: the bald eagle flies into the clouds like a patriotic mural on a wall clock sold at a Nevada truck stop, so picturesque while Prometheus is cuffed, watching the dirty bird that ate his liver fly into the sun like a rock star after multiple adoring encores. Humiliation doubled. Tripled if we count the audience watching, his fetishich voyeurs.

Is Bojangles then our Postmodern Prometheus? Are we all Bojangles, down and out in a jail cell of our own device, dancing as a circus bear to fill the bleak empty stage—empty except for the incessant ringing in our ears, except for the fact that we are both prisoner and jailer, both runner and chaser, both author and hero (these days anti-hero) trapped between the parentheses of our own keyboard? We whistle in the dark (while we drinks a bit). We load words like pistols (Sartre said that, or someone said Sartre said that) and pop them off half cocked into the null and void hoping the bang will give us a clue. But the pistol only whistles back at us. What does it whistle? The Theme from the Bridge on the River Kwai? (And here the narrative might usefully end, or loop, or tangentify into another story about a boy named No Shit Sherlock lost in a funhouse who realizes too late that the mirrors aren't the problem; the problem is the boy who keeps looking.) If anybody is having fun, better make them stop. The machinery of joy will not take no for an answer. The funhouse demands serious dogs.

And I didn't even start on Bojangle's cat yet.

GROK.FARM
Est. 2012 “We fight for stories worth telling.”
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