continuity error ;

and i turned into a pillar of salt.
no, that's wrong. i mean, i felt
a lot like a sand dune.

i cannot even deal with how much love i have for Being Human right now. it’s like it went through its moody angry teenage phase and has since become a darkly hilarious twenty-year-old. probably one that goes travelling a lot and has an awesome job writing sarcastic photo captions for a hip webzine. other tv shows want to be like it but they just can’t do it.


oh my god i need to get out more. 

Kony 2012 

someone just asked me (in a roundabout way) why I have a problem with Kony 2012. the short answer is, I don’t. the longer answer is, actually, I kind of do.

don’t get me wrong, the principle is awesome. i’m hugely in favour of seeing atrocities like his publicised, and i really, genuinely hope that he is arrested. anything that raises awareness and gets people really, genuinely caring about the lives of others is amazing, as far as i’m concerned. 

what i don’t think is amazing is that they’re encouraging people to spend $30 plus postage on a t-shirt, a bracelet and some posters in order to do this, and then telling them that the ONLY way Kony will be arrested is through continuing or increased US military involvement (which is a pretty fucking terrifying message to promote considering the ongoing situation in Afghanistan).

i’d much rather see people spread the video, create their OWN promotional materials, take part in Cover The Night, encourage goverments to use diplomatic channels to attack Kony (particularly against states that co-operate with the LRA like South Sudan) and donate the money they’ve saved to projects already taking place in the region, run by more accountable and transparent charities with proven track records.

the last thing we need is more people thinking that the only way MEDCs can help in situations like this is to send a shitload of soldiers in. ideas like that will cause lasting damage in other volatile situations around the world, and may well result in even more unnecessary deaths.

Candy-coated unicorns and Converse All Stars 

She asks what I’m crying for;
I tell her it’s the same thing dolphins are dying for,
that in my last life I was ultramarinean and though 
I am now a land lover, I often re-swim the blue;

These tears are re-washed waters of B.B. King’s 
daughters, plugged into the ocean’s floor, re-sorrowed 
and renewed, these tears are the blues in bloom.

I ask her what she’s crying for;
shoulders slump, head rises. Bloodshot are the whites 
of her eyes and her pupils sparkle bright black.
Her legs begin to buckle, I catch her before she hits 
the café floor. In my arms she whispers between sobs

it’s the same thing you’re crying for,

how in the last hour, her boyfriend was a boxer
and her jaw will testify. Her whole body sighs 
as if speaking it makes it a truth she can no longer deny
and I half-carry, half-drag her to the round table.

The café is littered with newspapers that tell bitter 
fables of war in the Middle East. Snatched snippets 
of its distant screams pierce this bubble 
of brown water and baked yeast.

She tells of the boyfriend of a beast; as she speaks 
blood drips from her broken lips, slips into her coffee cup. 
Before I can stop her, she takes a sip:

it’s a thing going where it should not 
and I’m hoping she runs like her blood 
and lets the beast be 

She holds on to this broken love, like a war 
-torn mother holding to a dying child, 
whose watery eyes won’t let her see it’s all in vain.

I squeeze her shoulders, hold her hand, say it’s okay, 
let it rain. We’ll be here when the smoke clears; 
two strangers wearing old-school trainers swapping tears.

A poster on wall reads Our deepest fear 
is not that we are inadequate, 
but that we are powerful beyond measure;

we can reason faster than speeding fists, 
can whisper louder than atomic voices 
can dream bigger than nuclear slaps 
and the only excuse that could stand 
is not having enough pillows to go round.

Yet we are fearful. 
But in this new wasteland of coffee cups and couches
I will be brave.

I will dare to dream a candy coated unicorn in this bruised 
princess, mistake cold hot chocolate for Kenyan beer, 
crunch ice cubes like frozen river water.

And when backpacks become briefcases and this table 
stables wars, we will sit and converse
like all stars.

— Inua Ellams (twitter)

this guy has a one man show at the National in April called Black T-shirt Collective. if it’s even half as awesome as his poetry, it’ll be more than worth the ticket price.

and I am crying of laughter. This is amazing.

I AM MRS. NESBIT.

my halloween costume is so sorted.

fluctus:

(by Old Chum)

themata:

vrijheid (by Sophie Van der Perre)

quelowat:

A protester kissed a Yemeni army officer during a demonstration demanding the resignation of Yemeni President Ali Abdullah Saleh at San’a University Friday. (Ammar Awad/Reuters)

mtsullivan:

Now you’ve pissed off Grandma

blackandwtf:

Date unknown

(via m1a9366b)