Tumgik
#Live Bullet
girldraki · 14 days
Text
Tumblr media
48K notes · View notes
moms-music · 2 months
Video
youtube
Nutbush City Limits (Live In Detroit/1975)
“As I told everybody last night, I was reading in Rolling Stone where they said DETROIT AUDIENCES ARE THE GREATEST AUDIENCES IN THE WHOLE WORLD... ... 
I THOUGHT TO MYSELF, SHIT! I’VE KNOW THAT FOR 10 YEARS!”
0 notes
baffledartistry · 1 month
Text
this fucking parallel gets me every time
Tumblr media Tumblr media
3K notes · View notes
thnks--fr-th-vnm · 2 months
Text
i think motor oil gerard needs more love !!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
2K notes · View notes
Text
no need to be doing all this but i think they should do it more
1K notes · View notes
bixels · 1 month
Text
The idea that uni protesters are "elitist ivy-league rich kids larping as revolutionaries" on Twitter and Reddit and even here is so fucking funny to me if you actually know anything about the student bodies at these unis. Take it from someone who's going to one of the biggest private unis in the US, 80% of the peers I know are either from the suburbs or an apartment somewhere in America, children of immigrants, or here on a student visa. I've heard about one-percenter students, but I've never met one in person. Like, don't get me wrong, the institution as a whole is still very privileged and white. I've talked with friends and classmates about feeling weird or dissonant being here and coming from such a different background. But in my art program, I see BIPOC, disabled, queer, lower-income students and faculty trying to deconstruct and tear that down and make space every day. So to take a cursory glance at a crowd of student protesters in coalitions that are led by BIPOC & 1st/2nd-gen immigrant students and HQ'd in ethnic housings and student organizations and say, "ah. children of the elite." Get real.
#also idk how to tell you this but even if it were true. wealthy children potentially sacrificing their educational careers to protest is#a good thing actually. idk how to tell you that caring about people from other nations is good#personal#“this war has nothing to do with most students cuz nobody's getting drafted” idk how to explain to you that we should be angry#that our tuitions of 10s of thousands of dollars that we pay every year for an education is being used to fund a genocidal campaign#also the implication that if you go to a uni institution you are automatically privileged by participation no matter your bg#i didn't /want/ to go to this school. i was supposed to go to a school with an art/animation program. but i realized my immigrant#parents have been working their whole lives to get me here. and turning the opportunity down would be a disservice to their sacrifice#this is getting into convos of “what 2nd gen kids owe their parents” which is different for everyone but. yeah#i just get pissed off at seeing people misrepresenting student bodies as “wealthy” and “privileged” and “elite” when it's such a blatant li#i remember a year ago a friend told me they can't fly home to hong kong for winter break because the plane tickets are too expensive#so they have to find temporary housing around the area#last quarter for a film doc class my film partner made a doc on a small group of marxist grad students from india discussing praxis#during a rally a few months ago in response to police presence the coalition invited palestinian students to speak about their experiences#and lead songs and read poems they wrote. these are STUDENTS. are they elitist too?#this is not to disregard my own personal privilege either.#this whole narrative's just to rationalize a lack of empathy to me. seeing a 19yo student get shot by a rubber bullet and your first#reaction is “HAW! HAW! bet richy rich didn't see THAT coming when she put on her terrorist hood!”#newsflash. these big uni campuses are HAUNTED by the violence of past protests and revolutions and police brutality. we know.#why do you think these coalitions have been making reinforced barricades at record speed
832 notes · View notes
ckducky · 1 month
Text
Tumblr media
Almost found out
502 notes · View notes
edenexxe · 3 months
Text
the lyrics of bullets are meant to be written in chicken scratch on the napkin of a shitty night club.
the lyrics of revenge are meant to be written with a fancy fountain pen in jet black ink on a blood-stained letter.
the lyrics of the black parade are meant to be typed out by an old typewriter on age-worn papyrus.
the lyrics of danger days are meant to be spelled out with cut-out letters from magazines, or sprawled messily with spray-paint on the side of an abandoned building.
this has been a psa
706 notes · View notes
theoppositeofprofound · 2 months
Text
How much more deranged would Middle-Earth be if Tolkien was given access to modern scholarship re:the ageless depth of trees?
It’s true that by the end of the Third Age, no trees in Eregion remember the elves that walked there. But there’s an ancient yew in Rivendell that Gil-Galad planted, a clone of one of the old trees of Lindon, that’s still thriving when Elrond leaves his home. It’s seen elven kings and laughing lords and harried messengers. Though trees don’t care about such things, it’s nice to be seen.
There’s a golden aspen grove between Lothlorien and Fangorn. The elves say Nimrodel planted it before her name was Nimrodel, before continents sank, when the forests were home only to a handful who loved them more than paradise.
By the shores of the Mirrormere is another yew. In a little known tradition, kept by one dwarf alone, every Durin plants a few of its seeds, and one of those trees always lives long enough to see his next self.
There’s a cypress in the port of Umbar. Locals say the lord in Mordor planted it the first time he visited (he was still in the habit of planting trees back then). It lived past several of his deaths but faltered, finally, beneath the ashes of his last, worst destruction—more than four thousand years later.
On a tiny island in the sea is a little cluster of spruce trees—some scrap of drowned Beleriand too holy, for one reason or another, to falter. It’s the same tree—when one falters a new coppice comes to take its place, growing out of the same root system. There’s a betting pool among the deep sea fishers of the Falathrin about whose grave lies beneath.
Much is made of the White Tree of Gondor, but on the hillsides in Ithilien, dangerously close to Minas Ithil, are gnarled olive trees that witnessed the Last Alliance. Faramir is inordinately fond of them without knowing the reason why.
Ulmo keeps a garden of sea sponges. The oldest didn’t just see Númenor founded and drowned, it saw the bones of the very first second-comers. (Ossë collects many things.) It’s been… 10,000 years? 12,000? Sponges don’t keep time, they just remember.
Ulmo also keeps a bed of sea grass older than the destruction of the Lamps, but he doesn’t mention that to other people; it’s just for him.
568 notes · View notes
ego-meliorem-esse · 9 months
Text
Tumblr media
July 13th, 1917
Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.
Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.
He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.
Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.
The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.
Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.
His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.
Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.
Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.
As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.
In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.
Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.
He preferred the emotional solitude to this.
Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.
Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.
Arthur wasn't a good man.
He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.
So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.
He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.
The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.
Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.
Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.
How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.
Arthur definitely was not a good man.
1K notes · View notes
tangybug · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
6K notes · View notes
moms-music · 2 months
Video
youtube
Travelin' Man (Live In Detroit/1975)
0 notes
puppetmaster13u · 7 months
Text
Prompt 76
Tim has no idea whether to laugh or cry. Bruce sends him away from Gotham to stay safe from Red Hood, yet who is standing there, in the Titan Tower, but the man himself. And if he was attacking or something then fine, he could deal with it. But no, the man is standing there, in the kitchen, cooking like it’s an everyday thing. Like sure he’s cooking angrily and Tim swears he can see some sort of eye glow in the helmet, but it’s not like he’s actually threatening any of them?? The literal crime lord has been hissing about them not having any food and being out of medical supplies and who decided to leave a bunch of teens alone to take care of themselves. Which. Rude, he’s been taking care of himself for years, and both Raven and Beast Boy have too! What type of scheme is this?!
Jason was going to go through with his attack on the Tower, he really was. But seriously, they didn’t even have any medical supplies, their cupboards were practically empty of food, and they didn’t even have any cleaning supplies. For fuck’s sake he’d gotten in so easily and it was a giant tower shaped like a T- everyone knew where it was! Honestly it’s not his fault the pit rage went from being pissed to the literal child- which uh, huh he’ll have to freak out about that later- to raging about how he took better care of the alley kids than the heroes were taking care of their kids so guess whose going to have to fucking step up! 
635 notes · View notes
thnks--fr-th-vnm · 5 months
Text
MORE SECRETARY GERARD :3
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
always thinking about him
2K notes · View notes
mcroutfits · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
100000/10 boi wearing his own merch <3 pt. 2
661 notes · View notes
sunlit-mess · 13 days
Text
Tumblr media
consumed by the inevitable
369 notes · View notes