#underground life

[laughingupyoursleeve]

Underground Life (Italy 1977-95)

Their sound spanned Punk, New Wave, Minimal Synth and Post-Punk

[6goat6zombie6]

Burattino e burattinaio di me stesso.

Passo da "smetto quando voglio" a "voglio smettere ma non riesco".

[ghouliethejoyboy]

How To Spot A Juvie Hall

 Now, every good Joy knows that Juvie Halls are nothing but BLI-reliant cowards who hide out in the underground. Sure, some of us were desperate when we escaped, and got out through the tunnels underground. We were kids and the world was crashing, so you become a Juvie for awhile. It happens. But, we’re grown now and we can see those who chose to remain for what they really are.

Sign One: Skin

Juvie Halls exhibit an unusually pale skin, almost a grey, diseased type color. No matter what race they are, Juvie Halls are almost unhealthily pale due to being in the Underground levels they’ve carved out under the old subway tunnels of the pre-days City. What was it, LJ? LA? Something like that. Sign Two: Weapon

The pale cowards don’t really carry proper weapons. They carry flash guns in their holsters, not blastas, or what Doc has identified as “flare guns.” When you shoot them into a body, there’s a loud bang and a bunch of smoke comes from the remaining body. No one’s sure why they chose these loud weapons, but a lot suspect that it’s because the resounding shot will burn and char a good amount of whatever it hits, making it hard for BLI to identify the dead bodies of their soulless soldiers, when they do care enough to recover them.

Sign Three: Age

Most Juvie Halls are scarily young. I mean sure, we have our Sand Scouts, and plenty of kids end up being in Rongee Kay gangs before they join up with a proper Joy squad, but Juvie Halls are indoctrinated into the fight as young as ten, whereas we up in the sane world actually value our children and are hesitant even to make them Runners. It’s not unusual to see a pale shortie running around spinning a flash gun on his finger thinking he’s hot shit. Not to mention, they marry and have kids young. It’s not unusually to hear a 13 or 14 year old talking about having his first kid on the way. Maybe it’s because they live so close to the City, but they still don’t believe in love. They believe in mating, like BLI does. Having kids to provide for the revolt. They never have any proper childhood.

Sign Four: Talk

Juvie Halls have an odd way of talking sometimes. The don’t talk about the Zones like we do, they just call everything “the up.” And they refer instead, to their Underground by levels. Level 1, Level 2, etc. We call their home The Underground, and ours by Zones. They call our home the up, and their home by Levels. They also slur out Joys a lot, they use the most offensive phrases they can to irk us, calling us sand worms, paint heads and stereotyping us all as waveheads and burners. They also refuse to call Party Poison and Kobra Kid by their proper Joy names, instead insisting on calling the two by their old Juvie Hall names, Redhead and Rattlesnake Sign Five: Name If you hear two suspiciously Juvie-like individuals calling each other names that sound like they could be compound words, they’re probably Juvies. All Juvie Halls have names that are compound words. Maddog, Gearhead, Wingspan, stuff like that.

Sign Six: Behavior They’re all dickheads.

[redheadinmanhattan]

angel of the underground. washington heights, nyc.  © ShellyKay Photography

[mariamnamah]

my modern arab history prof kicked off the class today by PERFORMING poetry by nizar qabbani and ahmed foad negm

[videomessiah]

Visit Original Link

[mariamnamah]

my lit professor this morning: « christopher marlowe lived fast and died young »

damn straight ma man

[wes-bound]

The 04:00 Delusion, or: What Day is it Anyway?

There is a distinct, quiet tragedy in working the night shift, a fundamental unraveling of time that twenty-five years on the London Underground has done absolutely nothing to cure. I call it The Chrono-Baffle.

You step onto the platform in the crisp ink of a Monday evening, fully prepared to battle the darkness. You do your duty. But somewhere between the third lukewarm coffee and the eerie, hollow hum of an empty station, reality fractures. You look at your watch. It is 02:00 on Tuesday. You look at the official log. According to the railway, it is still stubbornly, defiantly Monday.

Classic management move, really. Why accept the natural rotation of the earth when you can simply decree that tomorrow doesn't officially kick off until 04:00? It is a bureaucratic gaslighting of the highest order.

By the time the sun bleeds over the rails and you finally stagger back into daylight, the brain is entirely fried. You are a ghostly, well-meaning pigeon blinking at the morning commuters. They are aggressively conquering a Tuesday; you are still emotionally trapped in yesterday’s late afternoon. You crawl into bed to sleep the sleep of the beautifully confused, entirely unsure whether you’ve travelled forward in time, backward, or sideways.

You’d think a quarter of a century of this would breed expertise. Instead, it just breeds a profound, permanent state of existential jetlag. Glorious, really.