75 years ago, on this date, Billie Holiday recorded a song that Time Magazine would call song of the century: Strange Fruit, a song written about a lynching in the South. 

Holiday first performed the song at Cafe Society in 1939. She said that singing it made her fearful of retaliation but, because its imagery reminded her of her father, she continued to sing the piece making it a regular part of her live performances. Because of the poignancy of the song, Josephson drew up some rules: Holiday would close with it; the waiters would stop all service in advance; the room would be in darkness except for a spotlight on Holiday’s face; and there would be no encore. During the musical introduction, Holiday would stand with her eyes closed, as if she were evoking a prayer.

(Source: satindolls, via youreyesblazeout)

"I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t
spoken in months now
and I wanted to tell you that
someone threw a bouquet of roses
in the trash bin on the corner of my
street, and I wanted to cry
because, because
you know exactly why.
And, I guess I’m calling because
only you understand
how that would break my heart."
Shinji Moon, If I Left You A Voicemail, This Would Be It (via bluecheeseandchilipeppers)

(via 0aklungs)

"Here is what we did on purpose:
made ourselves and each other
feel better, feel loved. I pronounce
your name like it’s thick. I tell
you your arm is heavy - that it
can build a wall and tear it down
just as easily. You believe me."
anne, here is what we did by accident: replaced our names with “we” (via anneisrestless)

Waking in the mouth of the city with its skyscraper teeth,
I find myself unconsciously seeking or coveting a silence;
Begging for the thin atmosphere sleeping on rolling mountains,
Dotted with the peaks of trees like green sequins.

(There is a craving that beckons when I breathe in
but that air is choked with thick slivers of brown fog)

Every time I drink the water, I think of a slower death;
Imagining it infectious, splashing down my tunneled throat;
Every time I sip, having to apologize to my body:
“I should love you more than this; I am sorry.”

(How does one escape the romance of their own demise?
This jungle of concrete is sucking the color from my skin)

I live with the dusts of a downtown mixed in with my blood;
Stretches of traffic light up my veins with dark red brake lights;
There’s a bustle in my heart, like a farmer’s market on Sunday;
With the want to sip whisky neat against the backdrop of quiet.

(And so with my eyes pencil-thin-tight, I jump off,
To where frothy streams trickle down paths of rocks)

Truth is, I’m sick of poetry with my own tongue;
I want to find it under thick grasses bathed in light;
The breezes through the pines sing its song to me alone;
Let the world speak to me, instead of I to it.

In The Mouth Of The City - BM (via beardedmusing)

(via beardedmusing)

"Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else, but just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes."
– The Winter of the Air  (via fuckinq)

(Source: kalynroseanne, via baileysays)

I am finding things deep in my pockets.


I am finding things deep in my pockets,
things that remind me of you: string
that I tied around my ring finger to remember
that crying when stumbling home was a bad thing,
a bad thing. A seashell from the beach of Avalon,
bone white, bone cold, the colour of me, you said.

I am emptying out the corners of my life
and finding sand, still, and it itches and it
burns. It finds its way into the creases
and cracks, and no matter how many times
I take long baths and try not to think,
you’re still somewhere hidden.

But I have spoken to the elderly lady
down the street. She runs a laundromat
and she fell in love with a boy like you,
once. Forty years ago, he had blonde hair
and sea blue eyes and he was made of ice.
He melted into her and deep within him
was dirt. 

I will run you through the washing
over and over. I will sleeplessly pour powder
over my body, and I will not rest
until I remember what it feels like
to be clean.

"This above all: to thine own self be true."
– William Shakespeare, who died on April 23, 1616