320 plays

ivoy:

keep the streets empty for me by fever ray

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nothing
Венерические болезни
Бесконечно тоскливые ночи
Телефонный звонок как инъекция морфия
Как мне увидеть тебя среди прочих?
Всё случится после
Если случится после
Я вдыхаю твои обстоятельства чтобы
Выдохнуть и оказаться возле


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Gus Gus - When Your Lover’s Gone

inneroptics:

Peter Orlovsky - Venice, September 1957. Photo © Allen Ginsberg Estate
FRIST POEM
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified. 
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills 
    the air. 
I look for my shues under my bed. 
A fat colored woman becomes my mother. 
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap. 
I grow a beard in one day. 
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut. 
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to 
    talk to me. 
I empty the garbage on the tabol. 
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them. 
I use the typewritter as my pillow. 
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes. 
Bums give all their money to me. 
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life. 
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough 
    bacon. 
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of 
    blue beards. 
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed. 
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a 
    bullet. 
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me. 
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning 
    of life 
All I needed was ink to be a black boy. 
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face. 
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven. 
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for 
    fresh butts. 
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed. 
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street, 
    look up at my window and see nobody. 
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears 
    then I do?" 
Nobody around, I piss anywhere. 
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies, 
    my gay jubilation.


Peter Orlovsky, Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris

 
Figure 43.12. A photographic impression of a speed trip.
Chapter 43. Drugs and Human Behaviour.
souvenirgarage:

Construction by Joyce Fitzgerald, chapter title page, Respiration
The Heart is a Sleeping Beauty / Wim Wenders.
79 plays

loquefue:

Little Dragon || Feather

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iwdrm:

“You’re so earthly and yet so heavenly! You don’t belong to this century.”
Sedmikrásky (1966)

The Radio Dept - Deliverance