Leonard Cohen // Solidarity Forever
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Leonard Cohen // Solidarity Forever

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Empty Chairs // Don McLean
feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame And I wonder if you know That I never understood That although you said you'd go Until you did I never thought you would Moonlight used to bathe the contours of your face While chestnut hair fell all around the pillow case And the fragrance of your flowers rest beneath my head A sympathy bouquet left with the love that's dead And I wonder if you know That I never understood That although you said you'd go Until you did, I never thought you would Never thought the words you said were true Never thought you said just what you meant Never knew how much I needed you Never thought you'd leave, until you went Morning comes and morning goes with no regret And evening brings the memories I can't forget Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs And I wonder if you know That I never understood That although you said you'd go Until you did, I never thought you would
Pintura, Joan Miró (1934)
Hope Of A Condemned Man I,II,III, Joan Miro (1947)
Miró painted this triptych in reference to the hope of grace as he prayed for the life of the young anarchist Salvador Puig Antich finally executed by garotte.
“It’s odd, yet significant, that I finished my work on the same day that they killed that poor boy, Salvador Puig Antich. I finished the painting on the same day than they killed him, without me knowing it: a black on a white background, a black line is a cut because someone has the force and no mercy”
“The line is interrupted. A leaflet, which I call The hope of a condemned Man.”
— Joan Miró
“I’m A Monster” Future Politics // AUSTRA
I'm a monster I am on fire, I'm blooming, baby Why don't you care for me anymore? Just like the morning when you're gone I've been believing that you'll carry me away But I don't see no horse, and no carriage There must be more to life than this Am I a fool to believe that maybe If I could shift these parts around By catalysis or brawn I'd get something back? Keep me high, keep me thin Carry on, keep it in But I don't feel nothing, anymore I don't feel nothing, anymore I try to keep my head on straight But I don't feel nothing, anymore I don't feel nothing, anymore I don't feel nothing, anymore I try, I try to keep my head on straight But I don't feel nothing, anymore

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“the unbearable weight of staying - (the end of the relationship)” from warsan versus melancholy (the seven stages of being lonely) by Warsan Shire
“questions for the woman i was last night - (the honest conversation)” from warsan versus melancholy (the seven stages of being lonely) by Warsan Shire
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot—— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: ‘A miracle!’ That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” (via queenradical)
CUJO // STEPHEN KING (1981)
AUSTRA / FUTURE POLITICS ~ ARBUTUS RECORDS
HOW DO WE FUND HOPE WHEN THINGS SEEM SO BLEAK?
FOR ME, HOPE LIES IN THE FUTURE. IT LIES IN THE POTENTIAL OF A FUTURE WORLD THAT DOESNT EXIST YET; A WORLD CAN BE CREATED ONLY IF WE CAN IMAGINE IT. IT’S TIME TO BUILD VISIONS THAT ARE RADICALLY DIFFERENT FROM ANYTHING WE’VE KNOWN.
ITS TIME FOR FUTURE POLITICS.

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T O P S / ANYTHING ~ Arbutus Records (Montreal, Canada)
Inez Milholland, at the 1913 Women's Suffrage Parade
Flowers in a Glass Vase, Rachel Ruysch, 1704, oil on canvas, now at Detroit Institute of Arts Museum
Love Me Like I’m Not Made Of Stone // I Never Learn (2014) // Lykke Li

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Cocteau Twins- Persephone
untitled, mark rothko 1969