Imagine this very elaborate scientific lie: that sound cannot travel through outer space.

 

As Arnold points out, there is an otherwise inexplicable shift in direction in the Piccadilly line passing east out of South Kensington. “In fact,” she writes, “the tunnel curves between Knightsbridge and South Kensington stations because it was impossible to drill through the mass of skeletal remains buried in Hyde Park.” I will admit that I think she means “between Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner”—although there is apparently a “small plague pit dating from around 1664” beneath Knightsbridge Green—but I will defer to Arnold’s research.

But to put that another way, the ground was so solidly packed with the interlocked skeletons of 17th-century victims of the Great Plague that the Tube’s 19th-century excavation teams couldn’t even hack their way through them all. The Tube thus had to swerve to the side along a subterranean detour in order to avoid this huge congested knot of skulls, ribs, legs, and arms tangled in the soil—an artificial geology made of people, caught in the throat of greater London.

London and Its Dead

i read shit like this and think what could my imagination possibly have to add

like how do i write something about london that’s weirder than london already is?

(via weunderstandthelights)

the dead speak. and they are powerful.

(via hungryghoast)

(Source: saxifraga-x-urbium)

verycooltrash:

the  aesthetic  police  is  here

(Source: vloktburz)

Manifesto: Somewhere inside a glowing kernel of peace is an irritant - an inflamed seed that messes up the organism. We are best seen as conductors, through which solids, are and liquids flow constantly, matched by a whorl of loosely related thoughts. If I am a prophet of chaos, then this is truly my age; but perhaps I am a prophet of order, recoiling in disgust from the uncontrollable force of life. Inside and out. This album does not deal with the conventional problems of so-called ‘real’ life: relationships, injustice, politics and central heating systems, about which it’s notoriously hard to talk because orthodox lines of cliche have been devised for and against everything. In the short span of a song- let alone a newspaper - it is easy to descend to slogans an dogma: Thatcher is bad, vegetables are good, show business is indifferent. Everybody who wants to know that knows it already. The dinosaurs graze in the last warm valleys, avoiding the icy winds. To go into ‘issues’ at the length they merit requires the depth - and the double-talk - of a politician. I’m concentrating instead on the organic. All of us exist in a swarming, pulsating world, driven mostly by an unconscious that we ignore and misunderstand. Within the framework of ‘civilization’ we remain as savage as possible. Against the dense traffic of modern life, we fortify our animal selves with video violence, imaginary sex, and music: Screw you, mate - here I go! One side, mother ____er! Give it to me, baby, as often and as beautifully as possible - Eat lead, infidel scum. Mostly we contain ourselves. Sexual crimes and private murder are still news (Legalized murders, though, such as executions, wars and the systematic deprivation of the helpless, seldom make he headlines). But our inflamed and disoriented psyches smoulder on beneath the wet leaves of habit. Insanity is big business. And vice versa. Religion isn’t dead either. The AntiChrist will have access to computers, television, radio and compact disk. If he walks among us already, the chances are that he has a walkman. I just hope it’s not Christ himself, disillusioned after two thousand years in a cosmic sitting room full of magazines and cheeseplants, turned malignant and rotting in despair at the way his message has been perverted. My contention is, however - and it’s a bloody obvious one - that beneath our civilized glaring, we are all deviants, all alone, and all peculiar. This flies in the face of mass marketing, but I’m sticking with it. So loosen your spine, bury your television, and welcome to a Globe of Frogs…
-Robyn Hitchcock Globe of Frogs 

Manifesto: Somewhere inside a glowing kernel of peace is an irritant - an inflamed seed that messes up the organism. We are best seen as conductors, through which solids, are and liquids flow constantly, matched by a whorl of loosely related thoughts. If I am a prophet of chaos, then this is truly my age; but perhaps I am a prophet of order, recoiling in disgust from the uncontrollable force of life. Inside and out. This album does not deal with the conventional problems of so-called ‘real’ life: relationships, injustice, politics and central heating systems, about which it’s notoriously hard to talk because orthodox lines of cliche have been devised for and against everything. In the short span of a song- let alone a newspaper - it is easy to descend to slogans an dogma: Thatcher is bad, vegetables are good, show business is indifferent. Everybody who wants to know that knows it already. The dinosaurs graze in the last warm valleys, avoiding the icy winds. To go into ‘issues’ at the length they merit requires the depth - and the double-talk - of a politician. I’m concentrating instead on the organic. All of us exist in a swarming, pulsating world, driven mostly by an unconscious that we ignore and misunderstand. Within the framework of ‘civilization’ we remain as savage as possible. Against the dense traffic of modern life, we fortify our animal selves with video violence, imaginary sex, and music: Screw you, mate - here I go! One side, mother ____er! Give it to me, baby, as often and as beautifully as possible - Eat lead, infidel scum. Mostly we contain ourselves. Sexual crimes and private murder are still news (Legalized murders, though, such as executions, wars and the systematic deprivation of the helpless, seldom make he headlines). But our inflamed and disoriented psyches smoulder on beneath the wet leaves of habit. Insanity is big business. And vice versa. Religion isn’t dead either. The AntiChrist will have access to computers, television, radio and compact disk. If he walks among us already, the chances are that he has a walkman. I just hope it’s not Christ himself, disillusioned after two thousand years in a cosmic sitting room full of magazines and cheeseplants, turned malignant and rotting in despair at the way his message has been perverted. My contention is, however - and it’s a bloody obvious one - that beneath our civilized glaring, we are all deviants, all alone, and all peculiar. This flies in the face of mass marketing, but I’m sticking with it. So loosen your spine, bury your television, and welcome to a Globe of Frogs…

-Robyn Hitchcock Globe of Frogs