#MeinKampf

[azspot]

Clay Bennett: Trump's favorite mixtape

[pasthistoricalevents]

The Secret Union: Inside the Private World of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun

[vincentsdying]

3 am isn’t the witching hour, it’s my time to write incoherent thoughts and enjoy my floor time. I should consider lobotomy, i have actually been considering etc I’m not gonna lie

I’ve also been considering throwing my phone down a well

Might paint tomorrow, I feel the need to express the fucked shit again

Also I watched a video the other day and I can’t get it out of my head but someone did a video on Sylvia Plath and how their thought on how she “commodified trauma and the trauma of others” and I think they’re stupid for saying that, they tried to say her use of Nazi imagery in lady Lazarus was her attempt to make her poetry shocking and to sell well. I truly think that it was a suicide note, she wrote Ariel months before she died. And I think she used the Nazi imagery because she felt like a prisoner in life not only in her brain and body but in every aspect, her husband was abusive and cheated on her, he also clearly used her for the money and the notoriety that came with being her husband (as seen with the publishing of Ariel, as if he did her the fucking favor of completing her final wish and he removed and edited to high hell).She even says

“I am your opus

I am your valuable.

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.”

I think she used such visceral imagery also to show how she felt in her head, we all do it maybe not using holocaust imagery but we compare our experiences to something digestible or conceivable so people can understand even if it strikes fear. And I think she meant the last line “do not think I underestimate your great concern” as a sardonic jab at Ted Hughes, he mocked her illness In his poetry and in person.

“ a cake of soap

A wedding ring

A gold filing”

I think with this she was not trying to just use the things Nazis did like using human fat for soap or taking jewelry from victims or how they would take filings from the dead before disposal but she was saying that is essentially her worth. That was how she felt she was to him, not those literal things but only as objects as prizes.

The video also mentions Daddy And in Daddy I think she comes to terms with how awful her father was, he probably abused her. And it’s not even filled as much with the intense Nazi imagery, and he was a german nationalist.

“If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two-

The vampire said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping you on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.”

I think that she was with Hughes as some form of flagellation, she hated her father so much she had to find him again

“Not god but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.”

And I think she saw Hughes similarly, an abuser, her tormentor and captor.

“I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do

But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I'm finally through.

The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through.”

I think she also gravitated towards these images for these poems to show how similar these two men were, and it was never confirmed her father abused her but it’s hard not to believe she was when she draws these parallels. I don’t think she was commodifying trauma and I honestly believe she didn’t want these to be published, they’re so raw in their fullest and so angry. And like I said it was Ted Hughes who published them, he did exactly what she wrote she was, her poems were but a gold filing, a wedding ring.

Anyway I really don’t think she was commodifying trauma, I think she just couldn’t express her personal hell any better without it coming out as juvenile to herself. I wish I had a Time Machine to see what her burned journals said, they must have said something that upset him enough he had to destroy them. He probably also noticed the social shift of the sixties enough to publish the poems, and new that Ariel would sell as commodified trauma, he commodified her trauma not her.

[hicapacity]

Ajjaj.. Rogán és röfi túl sokat olvasgatja a Meinkampf-ot.. és a PR-ről is túlon túl tájékozottak.

[jimsgirl4ever]

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

[bgrantt]

DADDY

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one grey toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat moustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

12 October 1962 - Sylvia Plath

[deanjohn]

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time—

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

[lait-de-lune]

Daddy

BY SYLVIA PLATH

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time——

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

[choppedlovepaper]

Allah'la boy ölçüşen bir gamalı haç

Öylesine karasın, gökyüzünden hiçbir çığlık sızmaz içeri.

Her kadın bir faşiste tapar, Suratta çizme, senin gibi bir Acımasızın, acımayan acımayan kalbi.

Kara tahtanın önünde duruyorsun, babacım, öylece Bendeki resminde, Ayağın yerinde çenede bir çatlak ince Ama bunun için daha mı az şeytan? Değil, hayır değil Kırmızı temiz kalbimi ikiye bölen Kara adam daha beyaz hiç değil Seni gömdüklerinde on yaşındaydım.

Yirmisinde ölmeye çalıştım Dönmek için geriye, geriye, geriye sana Kemikler bile idare eder sandım.

Ama beni çıkardılar çuvaldan, Ve parçalarımı zamkladılar birbirine tek tek.

O zaman anladım ne yapmam gerektiğıni. Senin bir maketini yaptım.

Meinkampf bakışlı, kara giysiler içinde

Bir adam raflara ve vidalara aşık. Ve evet dedim, kabul ediyorum.

İşte babacım, sonunda ben bittim.

Kara telefonun hattı kökünden kesildi, Sesler kablolardan kıvrılarak geçemez artık.

Bir adam öldürseydim, iki adam öldürmüş olacaktım – Kendisini sen olarak tanıtan Ve bir yol boyunca kanımı içen vampir, Yedi yıl boyunca, doğrusunu istersen.

Babacım, artık sırtüstü yatabilirsin.

Şişko kara kalbine bit tahta parçası saplı olarak Köylüler zaten seni hiç sevmemişlerdi. Mezarına topuk vuruyorlar, üstünde dans ediyorlar şimdi.

Hep biliyorlardı zaten senin sebep olduğunu bütün kötülüklere.

Babacım, babacım, adi herif, bitirdin beni.

Daddy

Sylvia Plath

[half-life-crisis]

It has been pointed out to #Trump that he has #parroted #verbatim the words in "#MeinKampf" Which are Hillter's #madman #ramblings that led to genocide. https://halflifecrisis.com/2024/05/is-trump-mimicking-hitler/… #reader discretion is advised because this #article requires #introspection to be properly understood.

[commonplaceinacommonplace]

friday, february 23th, 2024 // #14

"Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.   

Every woman adores a Fascist,   

The boot in the face, the brute   

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,   

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot   

But no less a devil for that, no not   

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.   

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,   

And they stuck me together with glue.   

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.   

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,   

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—

The vampire who said he was you   

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart   

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.   

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through."

Plath, Sylvia. “Daddy”. The Collected Poems. Harper, 2008. pp. 222-224.

[sanguepisado]

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time—— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene

An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root, The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—— The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through

Daddy da Sylvia Plath (Ariel, 1962)

[amor-barato]

Você não serve, você não serve, Não serve mais, sapato negro Em que eu vivi como um pé Por trinta anos, branca e pobre, Mal me atrevendo a um espirro sequer.

Eu tive de matar você, papai. Você morreu antes que eu pudesse – Peso de mármore, saco repleto de Deus, Estátua medonha com um dedão gris Do tamanho de uma foca de Frisco

E uma cabeça onde o estranho Atlântico Derrama o verde-vagem sobre o azul Nas águas da magnífica Nauset. Eu rezava para recuperá-lo Ach, du.

Na língua alemã, na vila polonesa Aterradas pelo rolo-compressor Das guerras, guerras, guerras. Mas o nome do lugar é comum. Diz meu amigo polaco

Que há uma ou duas dúzias. Assim nunca soube onde você Fincou seus pés, suas raízes, Com você nunca pude falar. A língua presa no maxilar.

Arapuca de arame farpado. Ich, ich, ich, ich, Mal conseguia dizer. Em todo alemão vi você. E a linguagem obscena

Uma locomotiva, uma locomotiva Em vapores me leva como Judia. Uma Judia para Dachau, Auschwtiz, Belsen. Passei a falar como uma Judia. Acho que bem posso ser Judia.

A neve do Tirol, a cerveja clara de Viena Não são lá muito puras ou genuínas Com minha ancestral cigana, minha estranha sina E meu baralho de tarô, meu baralho de tarô Eu devo ser um pouco Judia.

Você sempre me meteu medo, Com sua Luftwaffe, seu papo furado. E o seu bigode asseado O olho ariano, bem azulado. Homem-panzer, homem-panzer, oh Você

Não Deus, mas uma suástica. Tão negra que nem céu vara. Toda mulher adora um Fascista, A bota na cara, o bruto Coração de um bruto da sua laia.

Você está de pé na lousa, papai, Na imagem que levo comigo, Em vez do pé, o queixo fendido, Mas não menos diabo por isso, oh não Não menos que o homem que em dois

Partiu meu belo e rubro coração. Eu tinha dez anos quando o enterraram. Aos vinte, eu tentei morrer E voltar, voltar pra você. Achei que mesmo os ossos serviram.

Mas me puxaram saco afora, Juntaram meus pedaços com cola. E aí eu soube o que fazer. Eu fiz um modelo de você, Homem de negro, Meinkampf no jeito

À tortura e ao torniquete afeito. E eu disse aceito, aceito Então, papai, finalmente acabei. Arranquei o telefone negro da raiz, As vozes j�� não rastejam até aqui.

Se matei um homem, matei dois – O vampiro que me disse ser você E sugou meu sangue por um ano afora, Sete anos, se quiser saber Papai pode voltar a se deitar agora.

Há uma estaca em seu coração negro E os homens da vila jamais gostaram de você. Estão espezinhando, dançando sobre você. Eles sempre souberam que era você. Papai, papai, seu canalha, acabei.

Sylvia Plath – Papai

[truthbombmemes]

IMAGE: Guide to ballot proposals in #michigan Note how the dark money groups sponsoring the most anti-democratic initiatives use the word "democracy" in their titles. Liars of this caliber often tell you what they're doing by using Orwellian opposite-speak just like Hitler taught them (see Mein Kampf). The "BIG LIE" shouldn't be just a regular lie. You must accuse your "enemy" of doing exactly what you are doing. For example, claiming voter fraud in the 2020 election wasn't just a lie, it was a form of fraud itself. The Trump regime used fraud to accuse democrats and #JoeBiden of fraud. Hitler would be so proud of today's @gop They have, with the help #facebook and others, rekindled the deadly and corrosive spirit of white nationalism around the world. PS Facebook makes their HATE and racial animus spread far and wide. Humans have never had such a powerful propaganda machine and we're going to destroy society if we're not careful. Don't trust any "news" you get from social media. #stophateforprofit #Trump #Trumprally #trumpismypresident #TRUMP2024ToSaveAmerica #Trump2024 #meinkampf #voterfraud https://www.instagram.com/p/CdTSC-ELpVu/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[keinegefuehlevorhanden]

Diese kleinen Panikattacken, die niemand sieht. Das Zittern der Hände, die leeren Augen, die kaputten Lippen, die nervösen Bewegungen, das Luftanhalten, um ja nicht zu schreien. Die Momente, wo die Angst dich erdrückt und du nicht mehr atmen kannst.

[arabicfornerds]

A CLASSIC: The Arabic verb: "to behave like Adolf Hitler" Have you ever had a look at the Arabic root tahatlara ه-ت-ل-ر in Hans Wehr's dictionary? You will be surprised: It means to behave like Adolf Hitler. https://arabic-for-nerds.com/grammar/arabic-verb-imitate-adolf-hitler/?feed_id=4180&utm_source=Tumblr&utm_medium=geralddrissner&utm_campaign=FS%20Poster