#duckbeater

[the-firebird69]

huge crowds headed to nyc no. smallones a dabbler here and there a few noniion. tons of trffic no.and the thistoday its raining yesterday..so what.and the cooler adn itnerestand nowthey sy what  and corkdoes all over what...what what what and we demnd you go tonyc as ducks...try ducking...duckbeat chicken someone ads. what still and it has hit 32 and now it is below.  and the rumbling has  begun up on the st Lawrence river and missouri and mississipi and Hudson all four locatoins and clevelend detroit chicago minnialolis quebec montreal and several more large and very large cities grumpling occurs, smaller bombs, true too they are, Buffalo Toronto Milwakee Ottowa Missagagawa and a fewmore tonsof people hear it...itis large bunkers yes goingup..huge ones blowingsoon more and more and then the cavern...the cavern isbelow ground and many miles about 20 and we held our breath on many bunkers yes, he said nope and we hit and they said why and we said as themyou break ityoupay ad we heard themitis the way in and nicer...nope and they said why over and over scanned nobigones and then thisyourthmothers heard andsaid your nuts you fill it withconcrete wewill never seeit...and heard why have bit stuff..and hit. nowallhearit Thor

[ryanboschetto]

Hey everyone! We're having a pool party, and we want you to come chill and party with us! RSVP for free admission! Any ticket purchases/donations will go to help support the collective with any future events. So don't hate, Donate! Lol 🔥Ticket link is in the bio🔥 #afterlifemusiccollective #music #poolparty #techno #trap #dubstep #edm #byob #snapchat #facebook #soundcloud @afterlifemusiccollective @haanter666 @grssatk @silholdan @exoohdiv @duckbeats @whatathinker @jonathaanjlo

[sqwrtnastie]

Top songs for the month

Top songs for the month

These are the songs that have been played the most by our loving fan base!!

http://itunes.apple.com/album/id1174900478

Top youtube song

Top soundcloud song

http://xydewayz8.bandcamp.com/track/love-my-city-murx-swif-produced-by-duckbeats

[engl425]

he gets ready (photo 66)

Sometimes the question is: how does one even dare to get out of bed?  And then closely on its heels: what are these efforts we make? how could they be worthwhile?

He showered, knowing he'd only work up a sweat.  He fretted over this most recent hair cut and combed his closet--a sweater, a button up, contrasting patterns, matching colors.  Gray is blue this season.  His sneakers have red stripes.

What is the nature of self-consciousness, of discomfort?

He had concerns.  Some sort of thick sheath had swaddled his heart (sometimes desire, passion, expertise make me recoil).  He couldn't be certain of access.  Love felt gross, heavy, a burden of gravity.  The density of his reflection was bound to spoil the prom.

He reached for the tongue of his shoe and tugged.  He tightened his laces.  A sense of responsibility echoed about the room; he had made promises, had taken the bait and would now allow the fishing line to reel him in.  

Expertise is embarrassing, so he would play the fool.  What else is an amateur but a willing fool, someone who says, I will try for you because you asked.

The dancing itself was elegant: bodily, mimetic, deliberative and theatrical, modest in gesture, serious and limber and coordinated. 

[chris-xyzabcarchive]

I'm not sure if it's a strength to be like this or not. The prospect of being blunt with people (or just honest when it would be likely to upset or offend them) is something that makes me anxious to the point of feeling dizzy. But, at the same time, I'm fairly sure that the people I convince don't think I'm an asshole. I'd much rather provoke sympathy than scorn, even if it makes me feel dirty.

[deadliftpoetry]

...and the weird fever that runs behind our blogs.

Duckbeater

In correspondence to you all, to the surprisingly large number of attendees to my somewhat daily milieu, there is a tremendous amount unsaid on any given entry to the public.  What is lost is sometimes found in the direct correspondence that we send one another, the purposively forced communication (sometimes easy, sometimes hard, but always a direct decision) that we send with intent for only one other set of eyes.  

With this letter, I join the blogger-union and subscribe to their unwritten demands of a single, catchphrase, hook-line-and-sinker sentence as the second paragraph.

I often have so little to say because I find the exercise of relating trivial failings and upstarts as exactly that--trivial.  What I don't find trivial is the search for some meaning, some Reality beyond the primitive allowances of our own senses. We devour books like porn, sure that our obsession is in a greater realm than one of sensuality, and ask questions that have plagued all of humanity since the first moment that we realized we were going to die.  We listen to music, searching for a trance that takes us beyond the basic moment of our lives and try to relegate meaning to the bass-line, the sudden kick of the guitar along the bridge.  We move and we travel, scarring beaches with our footprints that we know will only too soon be erased and left for another to imagine that he is the first to walk where ancients walked, regardless of the imaginary time-gap that separates us from the Ancients to the Now.  It's all a fingernail shaving of a king dictating his measure of time.

I'm home alone for the first time this Christmas, and though I do not pity myself, I feel my pain in the ache of too-hard movements in the gym, in the grappling of meaning in the oblivion of pain.  All thousand selves of mine that are catered toward cry out in unison of this solitude having meaning, even if they will later bicker whether that should come forthright with the night or after the sweaty embrace of so many anonymous faces in a crowd of others searching for something that I may or may not imagine.  

With interiority comes acknowledgement of its existence in others, even the most simple of beings whom we come across in our global dealings.  The bored face of my driver tomorrow in a foreign country will most likely be lost in the subdued song broadcasted on his favorite radio station, chords that are unfamiliar to my ears, but represent a home and love and dreams that I cannot begin to fathom.  The letters this man may write may come with quotes from the Quran, so removed from common thought in its power that it arrives as a spell-checkable item in my own diatribe.  And when we attempt to share this interiority, when we flounder at giving it words, there is so much we'd rather have understood unsaid than cheapened by being put to the verse and chorus of a language that in seldom shared.

The "weird fever that runs behind our blogs"? How about the one that drives at the marriage of sensuality with intellect, how about the one that searches for an early night in bed while facing a 4am phone call to tell him that work is about to begin, that his rooster has come in early this morning and crows just as shrilly? How about the trance of life, that sits in the moments that are bound to come, when I sit exhausted and spent in the back of a van that takes me in circles, driven by a man I will never know beyond his nodding head and his patience at watching me button up the tasks for the night in red, flaring seals?  

This is the man that you follow--this is the fever that runs behind my words.