silent-fiction:

Steve Schapiro: The Worst is Yet to Come, New York, circa 1968

silent-fiction:

Steve Schapiro: The Worst is Yet to Come, New York, circa 1968

(via oldnewyork)

What happens to old Olympic venues? Here’s how this decade’s host cities - London, Vancouver, Beijing, Turin, and Athens - have repurposed old arenas, or left them to ghosts.

Will Sochi have trouble finding use for their super-expensive venues? I guess we’ll see… 

(Source: thegregweber)

Future Transportation Technology Could Completely Change Your Commute - Curiousmatic


I will take one hyperloop, one superbus, and one robo-car, please and thank you

Literary Pop: Applause - Literary Pop #3


literarypop:

image

1.

Behind the curtains, a red glow would flood the stage. Through them, muffled voices, just loud enough to crawl beneath and under the taut skin of a performer. Anticipation cutting flesh as they open. Her body would levitate, a song would erupt from its belly: this a phoenix of a number,…

Mars One's One Way Trip To The Red Planet (Explained Via The Hunger Games) - Curiousmatic


I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE/ASTRONAUT. But no, not really… 

Literary Pop: We Can’t Stop - Literary Pop #1


thegregweber:

literarypop:

image

To those who have filed noise complaints against us, we have no apologies to make for our behavior based on our rights as human beings, as young people, and as Americans. To put it simply, we behave how we want to behave and we say what we want to say. Who we kiss and the songs we bellow from…

I don’t normally reblog, but I love this, so…

Follow Literary Pop! My brand new tumblr dedicated to literary interpretation of pop music

visual-poetry:

»the twenty most frequently used words (written and spoken)« by cody trepte

Why no “she”or “her” ? This art doesn’t pass the Bechdel test :(

visual-poetry:

»the twenty most frequently used words (written and spoken)« by cody trepte

Why no “she”or “her” ? This art doesn’t pass the Bechdel test :(

Death in a Hotel Room


My skin doesn’t seem to be able to absorb hotel water.

Hotel water hits the skin and resists it, slides down it, or becomes hard at the collision point and tumbles to the shower’s base. It melts into clorox white and porcelain, pooling around ruddy toes.

Diamonds collect on the glass of the shower. They collect on my tongue, but it tastes synthetic - sharp, even toxic cutting the tongue, burning the roof, rubbing the gums. Damn droplets won’t settle and neither will the soap. This foreign body resisting the impeccable clean, these crooked teeth and the level shelves: their antithesis.

The shelves of the body are different. Molars rot. The soul swells. The anatomical heart dies. The soul is punctured. The liver fails. The breathing slows. The skin sags and in it are shelves; the stomach lurches and gut feelings are compromised. The world waits with an apathetic hunger for the longest time before partaking in the meat of its cattle.

The soul swells. The soul is punctured. The soul departs the body and, fuck, I think I’ve lost it. You’ve made your copies, but what of the damn archetype? Filed away? A memory, an angel.

Memories don’t rot, but they do age. Finite. Like wine, bones, gardens and anything else with a name.

Steam fills my lungs; it clings to my reflection. I touch it with cracked fingertips to trace myself, drawing in it ribs, a profile, long, flowing hair that doesn’t belong to me or this place. It doesn’t look human; it’s not even close. Who will pray for me now?

On TV: Meteors, hitting cities. Dust walls and plunging darknesses. Blankets of yellow blocking the sun. You, not in a car. Blinded and choked by the grit.

I brush my teeth with a stranger’s toothbrush. The blood is alarming amidst baking soda foam, and I almost swallow it. Instead, I spit it in the sink where it exists as an impermanent scene of crime, until the diamonds wash it away.