4 y ago

Brownshirts

(click thumbnail to load video)
(click thumbnail to load video)
(click thumbnail to load video)
(click thumbnail to load video)
Complete with armbands, too:
(click thumbnail to load video)
(click thumbnail to load video)
  in Quotes
First and foremost we must not meet the gaze of the SS officer.

The wetness of the eye, the ability to judge, this is what tempts to kill. One has to be smooth, not interesting, already numb. Everybody is carrying their eyes in front of them like a hazard.
"The human race"
  in Quotes
He watched on. Now that he had changed sides to the SS, he admired the strength of Fritz and the police man even more. He finally had left the camp of those who were wretched enough to let themselves be bludgeoned like that. He was glad to have made his choice. He did no longer have to fear the suspicion of the masters. He was on the side of good. The beatings the men received hardened his consciousness to embody good. One cannot receive beatings and be right, one cannot be dirty, eat garbage and be right.
"The human race"
  4 y ago

Open Letter from Ukrainian Writer Yuri Andrukhovych

When darkness falls on Kyiv, unidentified groups of “people in civilian clothes” roam the city, hunting for the young people, especially those who wear the symbols of the Maidan or the European Union. They kidnap them and take them out into forests, where they are stripped and tortured in fiercely cold weather. For some strange reason the victims of such actions are overwhelmingly young artists: actors, painters, poets. One feels that some strange “death squadrons” have been released in the country with an assignment to wipe out all that is best in it.
  in Quotes

In This Blind Alley

They smell your breath lest you have said: I love you.
  They smell your heart;
  These are strange times, my dear.
They flog love
at the roadblock.
Let's hide love in the larder.

In this crooked blind alley, as the chill descends
they feed fires
with logs of song and poetry
Hazard not a thought:
  These are strange times, my dear.

The man who knocks at your door in the noon of the night
has come to kill the light.
  Let's hide light in the larder.

There, butchers are posted in passageways
with bloody chopping blocks and cleavers:
  These are strange times, my dear.

They chop smiles off lips,
and songs off the mouth:
Let's hide joy in the larder.
"In This Blind Alley"
  4 y ago
(click thumbnail to load video)