#our death

[loneberry]

Sean Bonney, from Our Death

I love this prose poem so much. Wish I knew Sean when he was alive but it’s still precious to make contact with his poems.

[borussionella]

Süle is out for 2-3 weeks????

[anarkittyy]

They don’t need to, they’ve got teargas. Don’t expect me to justify that.

-- 6 / What Teargas is For, Sean Bonney.

[thelonguepuree]

Sean Bonney, from Our Death (2019)

[whereismyminddelilah]

Do you ever wonder what will happen in 100 years time when everyone on tumblr, and instagram, and twitter, and facebook will most likely be dead. Social media will be a grave yard filled with millions and millions of ghost accounts. Doesn’t that scare you?

(art by christoph niemann)

[evans-heaven]

Tonight is the night, lovely fuckers. Its been nice knowing y'all😢💞

[mybarricades]

Our Death 22 / Georg Trakl's Psalm /as I imagine it spoken by the ghost of Anita Berber/ It is a light gone out forever. It is a bar that’s never opened never closed. It is a vineyard it is a black hole it is a mouth full of spiders. It is an abandoned room, sprayed with burning milk. The maniacs have died. It is an undiscovered island It is the sun as it is in nightmares. They are smashing the drums They are inventing war. Here they are wriggling their hips here they are buying smack Oh the screaming ocean. Paradise is catastrophe. It is all porn especially the fairytale forests. Here they are they have buried the refugees. Oh my its raining again. Nasty old gods are digging the ditches They are all asleep in the boring city squares and bombs are falling. It is chemical rain it is little girls it is poverty and celebrity and crocodile tears. It is rooms filled with impossible chords it is your tedious record collection. It is shadows it is Air BnB it is mythological mirrors. Here are the inmates they have burnt the hospital down. Here is your favourite dealer, here are the latest plagues. An invisible person has appeared in everyone’s simultaneous dream. Oh look here I am. Fuck the police. It is the surveillance laws. All ages are not contemporaneous. We are outside this century. We are very glamorous. We are waiting in the hall. Somewhere near Moritzplatz the adepts are getting sick. It is the stupidity of gardens. I love the tiny sparrows. The janitor’s kids are not playing they are digging up gold. It is the last song you will ever hear. It is horrible blind children waiting in the alley Their shadows are climbing the wall, it is poisons and fascists and fairytale roses. It is a tourist boat on the Landwehrkanal. It is the building where I live, it is valium and speed. Here are the dead refugees, piled up inside the walls. It is our smug little rooms it is our wings stained with shit. It is the western border it is what you want it to be it is England controlled by maggots. Here I am, in love with this city. It is peaceful like my childhood dreams. Here we are choking our memories to death. What if this year never ends. Here are the experts being fed to the dogs. In America a very boring lunatic opens his eyes. Sean Bonney www.abandonedbuildings.blogspot.de/2016/12/letter-in-turmoil-22-georg-trakls-psalm_2.html