Tuesday, December 6, 2022

Poke Crayons and Felt Pens in the Vacant Tombs

More death, rest in peace Hamish Kilgour of The Clean

Love The Clean, posted many songs, almost all of them zeroed out on youtube for copyright violations, fine metaphors abound, as do all these people whose creations I loved for years, decades, dying. I haven't written in tablet in days, I can tell, all I want to do is give you the links that anger me or amuse me or save me and make self-portraits to honor and embrace the fuck it

Has the next Civil War already started?
Capital as a historic conceptBETRAYAL
Living throught the revenge of capital
Laugh, there will never be an American Labor Party
How capital has fucked Baltimore forever
Elite Capture: weaponizing identity politics
The difference between Republicans and Democrats in one tweetCollapse of simple societies
*This* motherfucker and neoliberal identity politics
How not to become an anarchist
Trump *has* to know he's dead meat, yes?
For some of these links whose paywalls you can't get through, if you want a scanned PDF and I like you, ask
Trump *has* to know he's dead meat, yes?
A theology of the present moment
Varieties of Vergangenheitsbewältigung
Maggie's weeklyFRESH HELL
And by *short swoon* he means the down seasons caused by the fallout over upperclass football players raping the JV team with broomstick handles, Helmetball devotees
New workplace surveillance, wOOt!
The Art of Namio HarukawaMANIFESTO
Gaithersburg and the "law of the conservation of urban change"
2022 December 2I have learned not to address my Mastodon superiors either
Two-thirds of the way through DeLillo's *The Names* and I just don't give a fuck, everybody talks the same exact way, smart idea or two paraphrases, repackaged, the fuck
{ feuilleton }'s weeklyI'm a hundred pages in, so far so good, jinxed


Simon Armitage

The frantic adding machine
   of a wasps’ nest
     in the eaves,

its fizzing pregnancy, thrilling
   to lay an ear
     to the plasterboard wall,

let its raving fusion
   blur with the mind.
     The waspman cometh

in T-shirt and shorts,
   pumps white dust
     under a roof tile

through an extendable wand.
   Insecticide clings to fine hairs
     on the legs and wings; panicked,

they ferry the powder
   deeper and deeper
     into the chambers and halls,

through cloisters
   and vaulted naves,
     all the way to the throne.

The collapsing sound
   and sinking heat
     of a city-state

as it empties and falls. On fire,
   an ambulance rolls to a halt
     on a soft verge;

the last Trojan child
   totters in wooden clogs
     through cobbled streets...

He takes the dead nests
   into schools; kids squeal
     at the monster’s skull

and the mausoleum
   of opened brain,
     poke crayons and felt pens

in the vacant tombs. I fit
   the quelled attic
     back on my head.

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