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A black punk, fan of the early London punk scene, photographed in 1978.
(via “In the Gutter” book by Val Hennessy)
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I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love + last lines
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Reliquary Arm of St. Valentine, 14th century, silver, partial gilt, and sapphire.
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Joy Sullivan, “My Mother Says Kissing a Man Without a Mustache Is Like Eating Eggs Without Salt”, Instructions for Traveling West
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isn't insane that they were forced to read an ad right before cancer. like arguably one of their most emotional and uncomfortably raw songs made cheap and shallow by the reminder nothing is free and they and You are bought and paid for and you will eat the slop- i mean soup they feed you because there is no music without the money. not in this world. you could be slowly withering away from a disease with no cure and losing your will to live day by day and it will be scored by jingles and the greedy demands of the rich and powerful for every goddamn thing you have to give. you can turn away but you can't turn it off. You're Not Allowed.
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two million people starving to death because it's geopolitically convenient and we're all expected to go about our day normally like the casual cruelty on display for the past two years has been so insane to me like i'm not even trying to make a point it's just truly something i can't wrap my mind around
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