100 hours of POST PUNK
All eras (76, 1980s, post punk revival, post punk 2k)
All subgenres (no wave , the new wave, doomer, some shoegaze, dance punk , garage rock revival )
All Regions (Mex🇲🇽) (RUS🇷🇺) (UK🇬🇧🏴🇮🇪🏴) (USA🇺🇸) (Den🇩🇰) (SWE🇸🇪)
Includes Interpol, Talking Heads, Lowlife UK, Joy Division, molchat doma, ,Iceage, Fontaines DC, Shame, Squid, Ploho, The Horrors, Bitchevsky Park, Bambara, A Projection, Protomartyr, makthaverskan , The Feelies, New Order, The Mission, Preoccupations, Black Midi, Editors, White Lies, The Strokes, KILLING JOKE, king krule, The National, Two Door Cinema Club, The Fall, Bauhaus , Nick Cave, Essential Logic, ESG, Viagra Boys and More !
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you’re in her dms im in her car about to get hit by a double decker bus
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A heartfelt thank you to all those who have reached out post latest termination. Your continued patience and affection make the inconvenience and anon hate worth it. To the serial reporters and authors of anons you can kiss my fat ass 💋💋💋
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(previous chapter)
stillness, like an unbroken curse. your trailing limbs cut a line in the sand like a cruel finger over milky adolescent skin.
the walk seems endless. the sun never comes up and the nomad maintains an impossibly even rhythm. after a while it feels almost too natural, too comforting, as if this is exactly what you're born to do.
---
and you know, darling? you're so beautiful. you wear death like an angel drowning in a sea of stars .
have i told you i love you today? love you. love you. love you.
love you when the flesh falls off your bones and your soul leaks from the cracks in your skull.
---
you don't notice it, but the nomad starts to hum, softly at first, then louder, enough for you to make out that it isn't a melody but an airy cacophony of ringing, like bells on a fishing line in winter. and then you can taste it in the air, a pungent yet pleasant smell of burning that fills your lung with warmth.
you arch up your neck to see a field spanning as far as the eyes can see. it is lined with perfect intervals of clothing lines, on which thousands of blankets hang burning, tongues of flames licking up at the dark sky as if reaching to swallow the stars in their grasps. there is no smoke.
the nomad signals you to stop, and takes off its cloak. you observe that its body is small and smooth, like that of a child, but proportions slightly elongated and with just a hint of deformations at the joints, like a bird ripped of its wings and forced to stand. you linger on the nape of its crooked neck, and find it strangely endearing.
unperturbed by your gaze, the nomad leaves its belongings and raft by your side, and continues alone into the field of the burning blankets.
like a good dog, you lay down in the sand, waiting. your eyes glued to the fires, as their crackling smoulders soothe a fever you don't realise you have.
---
the sacrificial lamb pulled its mottling wool over your eyes
dressed you in white linens
and crossed your hands over your heart.
lamentation is for those who can afford it,
but that's alright now.
lies don't hurt when you're dead.
you lay your head on the altar
it was the best sleep you'd ever had.
---
when the nomad returns its skin smells like coal and eyes glitter like diamonds. now it gazes at you, quietly. against all odds, you feel your heart break. you want to pull it into your arms and hold it against your chest. but i won't let you do that. mine. mine. mine. you shan't hold another being unless i allow it, and i only want you to hold me.
but there is no need for us to bicker. the nomad puts a stop to all that by gently placing a light sheet over your shoulder, careful to place the flesh and entrails and are constantly spilling from you inside the fabric.
this feels ceremonial, this feels like love.
read the full story up to date here
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