hold, stranger. thou must first teach me a word heretofore unbeknownst to me, and only thusly be granted passage across these mountains. fail, and the hounds that yonder already eclipse the shadows of the grove whence you came shall feed on thy flesh, if the cold don't bite ye first. a-ha-ha-ha.

[vampire voice] welcome to my castle. the abode i have grown so accustomed referring to as 'my empire of dust', in reality a megastructure modelled after exquisite radiolarian shells that stays forever suspended amidst vitrous bridges still wet from the cyclopian hands that brushed them,

so that was weird for me

'internet archive is tracking you online' internet archive can come into my house and steal all my chairs for all i care

bro your maleficent presence is a dark cloud hanging over the hillside on which you dwell, your very existence a stain on the landscape dawg

the 4x4x4 cube of lead must be swallowed whole for the ritual

ESG

black wings dance above crimson droplets fall downward gore splatters my head

[[flexing my lats but it is actually two bulging sacks from the pinnated leaf venation of which massive hair-pencils sprout and coil around you as impossibly large croziers. dark, urticating hair like pine nettles graze your face softly. a rosy mist fills your nostrils with tingling arabian notes.]]

beak-heavy bird head, scything twinned blades greedily across both shoulders

sometimes i'm up to something and then i remember this

they call me 'Old-School Dentist' even though i exclusively deal with amputations, but they don't tell you why. the name makes you feel vaguely nervous when you see me being the only paramedic on the field, even though your limbs are yet intact.

😵💫✨

an ide and december comic tongue

december wants you to taste her newest dish

younglings

three tolkan'ya stages

Epistling (Ohaguro) Teeth Unpursed, Boundless, By Blackened-Out Fingers Inside Elbow-High Satin Gloves; Almost Limbless Overlaid Against the Abyss Of a Doorframe With the Lights Killed; Inside, My Face Tastes Like Olive Oil, Whistles a Wolf Fifth,

not even joking every >single< time now i have to wash my faggot hair i remember oomfie vomit [downwards pentagram]'s deleted post saying she washed her faggot hair

I dream of copper veins and stainless sheep

You've the eyes of a poet and a tongue as the wolves

Kick my stomach black and blue, I got nothing to lose

Your eyes bear new horror, every time we meet.

i fucking hate amphetamines and genuinely adamantly believe they are an evil substance concocted by evil powers solely to facilitate exploitation and murder and making people husks of their true selves

they call me 'Old-School Dentist' even though i exclusively deal with amputations, but they don't tell you why. the name makes you feel vaguely nervous when you see me being the only paramedic on the field, even though your limbs are yet intact.

'internet archive is tracking you online' internet archive can come into my house and steal all my chairs for all i care

the poet will not use its words, the poet is tired

it is always morally correct to say ' my spelling is bad because i deserve to die, ' to your supervisor.

(the Getting Worse will continue until unspecified conditions are met)

tricky question, When am i almost not dying

when i was 14-15yo i wrote a little over one hundred pages of a 'book' calles jimmy. there was two characters named jimmy, which i didn't explain, i just thought it was funny to write confusing dialogue. it had a LOT of blood and self-harm and one of my teachers read it. the chief of culture of the

i am gyrating your accurate posting-soul in my mind right now, probably

Throat Pinned[] Convulsing[] Mo[]th[], [

Throat Pinned Down by the Adder-Fanged Crackling Taser, Electrical Vampire, Wiped from Recollection's Mirrors; Swallowing Undertongue, Convulsing Eels Bow-Stroking a Name Out of Vocal Strings Chipped Away; Mouth-Pond, Made Alight.

after eating shit every game 2day as black playing f3 and king to f2 i decided the *actual* bongcloud with white is,, honestly, still awful. but better. { lichess1.org/game/export/... }

broaching the harsh brier and bramble that with sombre thorns and spikes breath and churn and tremble, pull and strangle sunlight-fed sedges into grieve,

[tapping the john waters sign]

seeing myself on the top of my feed is seriously annoying me

i use a lot of hyphens because: a) words get lonely sometimes; b) i am a species of fungus and these are my — no, not spores; you're just prejudiced at this point — hyphae (you can say it as high-five if you tap me slightly, or forgo the 'h' and call me wifey, i'm not that particular about it).

re-membering things forgotten until your mind becomes a house centipede, convulsing inside your spine and taking control of each vertebra as new-added legs. you can hear it screeching inside you with the sound of a legion of past life voices just before it eats its way free at the back of your head.

on your back?, (i say, holding a scalpel, very still, with a brush-like grip, just until its weight feels natural to my forearm.) that's cute. ... but i'm bleeding your fingertips.

i'm very chill because i've seen the horrors

Bird

Point!

sometimes i need to retweet things that test everyone who's decided to be here. it's like enrichment for you all.

yes! bring coins back! not even for the coins themselves, but because dealing in leatherbound coin purses and reaching for them inside your longcoat and tossing a few coins over a tavern table and holding them from the bottom as you grab your payment in the air are all insanely cool things.

there are so many eggs in my fridge it looks ridiculous

i composed a haiku in my dream. that's the only thing i remember: the form without its words. and this, too, is hauntology.

hollup i know this ghost. she was in cult 2013, by the handsome found footage legend kōji shiraishi

on your back?, (i say, holding a scalpel, very still, with a brush-like grip, just until its weight feels natural to my forearm.) that's cute. ... but i'm bleeding your fingertips.