we are the young and dying breed



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Liam’s Critique

Grohlism, basically, sounds like a party I went to once and never really recovered. Grohlism is what it means to be a true rocker. Someone who is searching after the most fun possible. Getting lost in the hedonistic styling of being young, wild and free. I couldn’t handle the grohlism life truly and thoroughly… but observing it and dipping my hand into the grohl pool every now and then appeals to me. I enjoy the way this manifesto is written. Through humour and sarcasm, through wit and passion it conveys a sense of recklessness and rebellion. Two intrinsic elements of being a “grohl-er”. 

Grohlism is aggressive and mean. Grohlism is enjoying yourself but sometimes at the expense of others. The manifesto has some contradictions, but these contradictions let in that it’s a joke - sometimes - to be a “grohl-er”. This is a world of debauchery and unsettling, yet exciting adventurism. Never say no, unless it’s to playing an acoustic guitar. Let yourself live in the moment and be a little bit naughty. No whining, no pining, no hiding. Grohlism is to wear your heart on your sleeve and not be ashamed of it. Let the world know that you’re around. Don’t settle for shitness and party hard. Allow yourself to be immersed in the ocean of……………………………

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Artist Manifesto

AN EPHEMERAL EXISTENCE

-Romanticsm

-Contentment

-Adventure

-Nature

-Acceptance

-Reflection

Making art for the world, but maintaining privacy. Sometimes privacy is integral to the creative mind. 

I will strive to be as content and aligned with myself as I see fit. Only I will ever know how I feel and think inside my mind. I am alone with my thoughts, until I want to share them. These thoughts are not important and very important.

I will not be coerced to think there are truly differentiated social hierarchies, humanity is what keeps us from destroying the world. Always remember the power of humanity in people as a whole. 

WORDS ARE MEANINGLESS UNLESS YOU SAY THEM ALOUD?

———-Performance is not egotistical, it is brave———

Art is subjective. Art is what you want it to be. Art is expression. 

personal goal: be free, be whole, just be. 

tangible personal goal: be a writer, publish work so people can read it and hopefully want to keep reading it. Make more work. maybe, not write. maybe draw, maybe make things with my hands. Create things; mentally, physically, spiritually. 

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|||||||||||||||||||||||||———Onwards……onwards….. ravings obsessions delusions fantasies…onwards…..full sail, full sail to not much….. the shipwreck left to tatters in the carport - all scrap and black ham…. on ward….. like the black plague… onward… take that fish out of your mouth…untie your tap shoes… no more blisters from the light-bulbs… onward…. passing down by the creek, that flooded latrine; are those swans? Onward! like the little girl running from the monsters…. like the black plague….. onward…blue above, grey ahead…. haggard flashes of beauty….onward… ravings obsessions…delusions fantasies…bring out that extra body, bring out that third body…onward….gladiators down by the creek….looking for a place to eat…onward….onward…. obsessions delusions fantasies, screaming….onward….onward…unknown, emerging, full….—————————————-   onward. |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

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Breathing through straws

Glancing at strangers with passionate intensity

I want to delve into the depths of the abyss

I want it you it pulsating through my body

Filling hollow veins with something more than blood

I’ll dance with you until the sun pours in

We are where we’ve always wanted to be

Taking our lives with a pinch of salt ><

We might burn brighter than anyone

We give give give

But only because we want flowers to bloom inside our minds

I’ll go anywhere and be anything

Let us live la vie boheme

Young fuckers wandering through life’s hazy maze

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((((((((((((((If I could swallow the ink from my pen and let blackness seep into the crevices of my brain I’d be capable enough to write the words that describe the way you make my fingers tremble and my eyes water. If I could invert my body so that my organs and pulsating heart were visible, maybe then you would notice how everything beats erratically when you say my name. If I could drop sunflower seeds into your black coffee each morning, hoping for them to bloom inside your body, knowing I made something grow within you. If I could make you see. If I could make you feel. If I could make you want. If I could, If I could, If I could. I still wouldn’t))))))))))))))

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Is this all enough

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paintdeath:


Thomas Struth - Galleria dell’Accademia I, Venice 1992 (1992)
26898
"

Touch me, I tell him.
Do you feel the child in me?
Can you taste
cotton candy and bubblegum
when your tongue’s on my thighs?

He says,
You don’t seem like you’re twenty.
And I am left wondering
how twenty seems,
if “acting my age” should mean
scrapping my habit of scratching
where there’s no itch.
But I don’t want to act like something else
because I like the way
I can get him to look at me,
thirsty and pants throbbing.
I like how simply changing
in front of him
causes him to salivate.

Boys my age never know
how to touch.
They’re too nervous, too new
at what they do.
He has nine years on me and
unhooks my bra with steady fingers.
I like thinking that he has
studied hard to know how
to make me shake.
When I moan and moan and
then exhale a “thank you,”
he replies, “I’ve been doing this for awhile.”

I remind myself that this
is not the sort of thing
to regard as permanent.
I know he likes me because
he correlates youth and foolhardiness,
and so I play the giggling
light-hearted girl in front of him.
Lolita, I almost say,
call me Lolita.
I work myself into his sort of fantasy-
with bouncing breasts and soft skin,
I am too smooth to remind him of
his other women.
I know that the women he
kisses taste like commitment,
that they pick up his clothes
off the ground and
wash his dishes because
they want him to brand them as “wife.”

When he falls asleep after
finishing on top of me,
I plead with myself not to
lean into his chest.
You are not meant to
see this as anything more, I say.
Still, no matter how much
the logic in me begs me not to,
I fall asleep with my arms
stretched in his direction.

I am still young.
I have not yet learned
that he will touch me
as much as I want,
but he will never
love me.
It takes me so long,
months and months
of irreplaceable youth,
to realize that he
will never settle down
for anyone,
not those women,
not me.

Six months in,
while his unshaved chest
rises and falls beneath his sheets,
I slip out,
a half-naked ghost
walking down the street,
and leave a note saying:
I didn’t want you
to only fuck me,
I wanted you to
love me.

But I didn’t know what to
convince you with
besides my body.

"
Your Sort of Fantasy | Lora Mathis   (via m-i-l-a)
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kalories1:

good
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agreeing:

Mt. Fuji at 18:31
17894
"I lapsed into my pathetic cut-off period. Often with humans, both good and bad, my senses simply shut off, they get tired, I give up. I am polite. I nod. I pretend to understand because I don’t want anybody to be hurt. That is the one weakness that has lead me into the most trouble. Trying to be kind to others I often get my soul shredded into a kind of spiritual pasta.
No matter. My brain shuts off. I listen. I respond. And they are too dumb to know that I am not there."
Charles Bukowski, Hollywood  (via falcade)
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