occam

What in terms of creation is a priority for your right now?

To show the people a convincing picture of decisive actions. To passively squander it all on symbolic actions right now, when you can smell the History, would be amoral. The December and now the February events make that clear. The citizens have been led astray by an opposition that grovels before the authorities, back-scratches, worrying in advance about their phantasmagoric seats in parliament and nothing else. People in the streets are forced to pointlessly freeze, in a trance, under a foreign tune. And none of those frozen people can make up their minds to have a dance. As a result, instead of getting three months of experience in a war of resistance the crowd has experience in freezing and stomping their feet at protests with blown-up condoms in their hands. And that’s what they’ll take to the presidential elections. The opposition has reduced the protest to the point of using memes that are generously provided for us by the Kremlin zombie box. Everyone is sucking Putin’s jokes dry and moaning gratefully instead of training themselves to be street fighters, preparing themselves for battle, sabotage at the enemy’s flank. Seriously, if the political opposition cannot handle Center E, if they think that is their unconquerable enemy, then they have to change their methods of action.

source voina

giddybombs:

Every air conditioner in the city is broken.

The wind cakes around our thighs, curdles

in our hair. My breasts are musty plums,

your fingers careful switchblades, peeling 

the ripe want from my sorghum collarbone.

I am dirty. A dead dog in the gutter. 

My mouth is watering, you say, seaweed

spilling out of your wet flaps. The chairs

float across the apartment floor, moss 

climbs the bed posts.You can’t have me, 

I say, wringing sweat from my swollen fins. 

I want to be carved clean as soft sea glass

I want to be fresh coral on your tongue.

Our neighbors swim down the hallway, grip

the banister, gurgle in their thin night gowns, 

When did the tide come in?  The streets crash

and pour, shiny foam gathering along storefront

windows. Don’t touch me. You will wince when 

you enter this rank cave. Your shudder will stain.

I will wilt. Crawl back into my crusty skin, a dried

woman with no gills. But baby, I want to drink 

your rot and heat. I want to swallow every inch

of your salty filth. Let me taste your shame. My

mouth is watering. The city is soaked.