Everything this person has written for TUNETHEPROLETARIAT


Written by

Okkervil River – So Come Back, I Am Waiting

I sat on those concrete stairs, rife with cracks that were riddled with ants crawling as fast as they could to get back home. Those concrete stairs, waiting, the air humid and thick and pushing down on my skin. So humid and held so tight, not the tightness of our time, but this new tightness of my time, so tight I couldn’t tell when I would start to breathe again. Those stairs hurt to sit on. They were too hard, immovable, impenetrable, they would be there for God knows how long and God knows they hurt to sit on. Cigarette butts were littered around my feet, and if I stared down long enough and let my eyes wander and blur til it looked the way it felt to sit in that humid air on those concrete stairs, they were just orange blobs, blocks, not stepping stones but walls and barriers for the ants that live in the cracks that were crawling as fast as they could just to get back home. Cigarette butts littered around my feet that were anchored to that concrete, immovable, waiting, held by the humidity that was causing beads of sweat to form in the crease of my knees just like the creases and cracks of those concrete stairs. There was an ache in my spine from those goddamn concrete stairs that just wouldn’t go away, an ache in my spine and a hunger in my bones that screamed at me from inside, to move, to stop waiting, to start walking and moving forward just like the ants knew to do. There were cracks in my nails just like the cracks in the concrete, but these cracks were not pathways, and there was no way home because while I was waiting for you, home did not exist. My home had cobwebs on the ceilings and cracks in the paint just like the cracks in my nails, the walls in my house creak and moan just like my bones creak and moan on these concrete stairs waiting for you. Waiting for you is stifling, so tight, not like the tightness I knew with you but this new tightness that I know alone, so tight I can’t tell when I will start to breathe again. [Buy.]

Déjà vu? We do have more (1 2) from Léa.

Oh, not to touch a hair on your head

Written by

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds – Into My Arms

Just like Nick Cave sings in that deep, earthy voice that you can just tell knows so much more than you ever will, I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in the intelligent entity with one name who waved his wand from a cloud in the sky, declared ‘Let there be light!’ and from that point on there was. I don’t believe, because I can’t believe, that a soldier, whether he be proudly swathed in his country’s uniform or simply marching in his own clothes, own shoes and to his own beat, must invade, torture, murder, because the God he believes in is the right one. The God he believes in is the same one you do, but you believe in the wrong way. Another human who opens his mouth and with a struggling gasp works his lungs to suck in air just to live, the same air you take into your body to live just the same. But you are not the same. Your God is right. His God cannot be. Another man whose heart beats, maybe a little faster than yours but it beats all the same and I know you know it beats the same because you can feel it in your own chest. Put your hand to your chest and feel. He feels the same. But your God is right, his God is wrong. A heart living under skin the same as yours beats and pumps blood around his body, pumps blood through his fingers that crack and bend and will pull a trigger because you kneel down to your God in the wrong kind of building. So I can’t believe. But just like Nick Cave sings in that voice full of heartache and promise, I believe in love.

And I know that you do too.

Because my feet scrape the pavement just the same as your feet scrape the path you walk along, wondering the same things I’m wondering. I lay down at night and my eyelids flicker as pictures from my subconscious dance in front of my sleeping eyes, I dream just the same as you do. I have told lies and I have kissed strangers and I have been scared of the dark. You have admitted mistakes and you have fallen in love and you have grazed your knee. You can kneel in your church to your God but I won’t kneel to anything other than what I feel, and that should be alright. [Buy.]

We’ve had Léa over for words (1) before, and she was that damn delightful that we asked her to come by again. She did, and we’re pleased. Elsewhere: she occasionally jots something down at Wanderlust / Wonderlust so stop by, say hello, fall head over heels.

Life is about to change.

Written by

The Medics – Sinking Ship

Life is about to change. It’s rising through my chest and throat with every drumbeat, and can’t be stopped. This naked skin is sticky with honey, and in bed with nothing but these pages, my lips and lungs move just waiting for your amber tongue. Things are happening and I can feel it in my veins. You press my body, hold my limbs with those fingers and that mouth, that mouth that has sworn, promised and lied over and over. Rinse and repeat. All the same, my desires are schizophrenic – to be content and still moving. I would crease the spine of your book until it was covered in lines, I would leave red wine footprints all over your souls dirty floor. I would pull back your curtains, open your windows, and let the neighbourhood see my bloody devotion. Let them see our whiskey stained pages. I’ll read our story, drunken and bruised.
You are the iceberg,
I am the ship.

[Buy This Boat We Call Love.]

Léa (Lay-ah, not Lee-ah!) writes for us about Cairns project The Medics before jettisoning across the seas to Europe. She might write about her days in between living them at Wanderlust/Wonderlust. We wish her good health, love, and smiles slicked with sun, rain, and wind.