Never believe that anti-Semites are completely unaware of the absurdity of their replies. They know that their remarks are frivolous, open to challenge. But they are amusing themselves, for it is their adversary who is obliged to use words responsibly, since he believes in words. The anti-Semites have the right to play. They even like to play with discourse for, by giving ridiculous reasons, they discredit the seriousness of their interlocutors. They delight in acting in bad faith, since they seek not to persuade by sound argument but to intimidate and disconcert. If you press them too closely, they will abruptly fall silent, loftily indicating by some phrase that the time for argument is past.

Jean-Paul Sartre

Never believe that anti-Semites are completely unaware of the absurdity of their replies

TIME 2 GET OLD

recorded this cover instead of going to a show

always have always will (jane remover)

Feelin' Oi Right!!

Make The Bastards Pay

Just a punk kid with issues 
Fuck It Dog, Life´s a Risk

Pills

will private eventually, but here's a treat <3

Move up north
Leave behind your parents, your pets
your siblings and friends

Move up north
You can always fake your death
and go bury your head down
in Michigan

I came across a lonely boy and I asked him his story
and I listened to what he had to say:

"I had to run away
I had to leave my home
My father drowned himself in liquor
and my mother was never
really in the picture
I never had a friend to my name
So I walked here from Maryland
I wanted to start new again
But everything is worse...If not, the same"

And I had to let him stay
I had to let him tag along, what could go wrong?
I mean, he's awfully sweet
And the company completes me

Your father and your sister are both sitting back at home
Your father grabs a beer and your sister's all alone
They noticed you went missing, like seven days ago
But they never bothered to follow your footprints in the snow
(Did they even?..)
(Did they even?..)

Headed north
When we were halfway there
we stopped and we stared at the river

Headed north
I've never seen a place like this before

We got stopped by the cops
We headed to the station
Me and the little boy were shakin'
They asked us where we came from
We said that we were locals, but the cops
didn't buy it one bit

So we stayed overnight, but we couldn't sleep
We stayed up til we saw the rising morning
The boy got sent back to Maryland
To this day, I can't get through to him
But no one ever came to claim me
And I cry all..
Cry all..
Cry all day
Cry all day

Headed for Michigan
I just want to start new again
But I don't have a friend to my name
I'm headed for Michigan
I just want to start new again
But everything is worse...If not the same
So I'll cry all day
I'll cry day

Well, I'll make my bed in some bushes
Hope I wake up safe
Lay my head in the dumpster
Hope I wake up okay
Maybe leaving home wasn't my greatest thought
I'm cold, hungry, and lost

My father and my mother are still sitting back at home
I've sat and pondered calling them on a payphone
They noticed I went missing, like several weeks ago
But I doubt they'd bother to follow my footprints in the snow
My father and my mother are still sitting back at home
Well, I'm all out of money, so I can't afford the phone
They noticed I went missing, like several weeks ago
But I doubt they'd bother to follow my footprints in the snow
Or did they even know?

(What could go wrong?)
(What could go wrong?)
(What could go wrong?)
(I cry all night long)
(While nature sings its haunting, mocking
fucking taunting song)
(What could go wrong?)

Bury your head down in Michigan

is joe mama a racial slur

Can't Break Down

vocals, guitar, written by — june

lyrics:
im a lamb at the slaughter, 
down the river in the water
caught in a net, to suffice 
the gods’ violent orders

its the few against the many, but
we’re caught like fish and worth a penny
cant move in the net
cant breathe, see or beg
they spilt oil in the water, 
plastic’s gripping round our necks
this cant be the end, we cant 
let this be our end

while we mourn our comrade’s losses
they feign love and hold up crosses
then hunt us and rip our flesh; not even
good enough for their own bosses, to eat

when the rivers overflow with blood, we’ll flood their fucking offices and EAT.

down the river (demo)

Bootleg Tunes for the Hooligan Connoisseur
#SaveUkraine

A psychedelic freak-folk deer girl named after a road sign
                                        ★☆★

My name is Fawn, I'm 16 years old, and I record and produce all my music in my bedroom!! I write songs about anything & everything, but I *like* to write songs with storytelling, running away, and dead little freaks <(@_@)>

I make music that ranges through a lot of genres, but for the most part, I try to aim for psychedelic/freak-folk tunes. 
I'm really inspired by the Hop Along, Queen Ansleis album, 'Freshman year' as you can probably tell, but other people I'm influenced by are 'The Oh Hellos', 'Foot Ox', 'Kimya Dawson', 'June Henry', and many more!!

Stick around for super cool new stuff, and consider joining my discord + following my tiktok/instagram for updates regarding my upcoming releases!!1!1! I'm working on a reworked/better/more-produced/less-grating version of 'Choose Your People Carefully, You Shouldn't Run Away With Just Anyone', so stick around for that!!! May be one of my most favorite projects so far

And while you're waiting, stream my first ever album, 'You're In The Doghouse Now (The oven is piping hot)' !! (It's not great but maybe it'll suit your tastebuds >:-)

I just some jerk from Vancouver.
Follow on Spotify..
https://open.spotify.com/artist/6uvDlMvqtZ7ZrYcUg7FKXx?si=oz7oM5AaQ8Gy1MrxqSvD9w

"Moments of being passable beyond novelty"

"Actually slaps"

At its core, the blorgpulkf is a pulsating, iridescent orb that thrums with an energy that can only be described as "the sound of a thousand bees having a rave inside a kaleidoscope." It's hypnotic, it's unsettling, and it's strangely addictive - like watching a lava lamp filled with Mountain Dew and gummy bears.

But that's just the beginning. Surrounding this pulsing heart are layers upon layers of... well, your guess is as good as mine. One moment it's a tangled web of neon tubes that hum with an eerie frequency, the next it's a churning mass of what appears to be sentient silly putty. And is that a tiny disco ball I see nestled in there? You bet your sweet bippy it is.

As for its features, the blorgpulkf is like a Swiss Army knife designed by a mad scientist with a penchant for pranks. It's got a button that releases a burst of confetti and the sound of a rubber chicken being stepped on, a lever that causes the whole thing to fold in on itself like a origami crane having an existential crisis, and a tiny compartment that dispenses a single, perfectly spherical grape every 37 hours.

But perhaps the most baffling feature of the blorgpulkf is its ability to communicate. Not with words, of course - that would be far too pedestrian. No, the blorgpulkf speaks in a language all its own, a cryptic code of flashing lights, whirring gears, and the occasional burst of atonal jazz played on what sounds suspiciously like a didgeridoo.




The plorksickle. It's like someone took a fever dream, a Mad Lib, and a Dada art installation, threw 'em in a blender, and hit "puree."

Picture this: a contraption that looks like it crawled out of a Salvador Dali painting and mated with a Rube Goldberg machine. It's got a crank that sounds like a yodeling ostrich, a button that releases a puff of glitter and the scent of existential dread, and a tiny screen that just flashes the word "moist" in Wingdings.

But here's the kicker - every time you think you've figured out what it does, it changes the game. One minute it's reciting beat poetry in binary code, the next it's turning itself inside out and becoming a Klein bottle. And don't even get me started on the time it started oozing a viscous liquid that tasted like the color purple.

Is it a tool? A toy? A sentient being from another dimension that's just really, really bad at communication? Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, it's the most beautifully useless thing I've ever laid eyes on.

But maybe that's the point. In a world where everything has to have a purpose, a function, a reason for being, the plorksickle is a big, fat middle finger to the very concept of sense. It's absurdity for absurdity's sake, a Zen koan in physical form.

So if you ever see me on the street, cradling this bizarre little gizmo like a newborn lovechild, don't ask me what it does. Just nod, smile, and know that you're in the presence of something truly inexplicable. Something that laughs in the face of logic and spits in the eye of reason.

New tracks tagged #folk punk