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this is nothing that a little weed and a reasonably priced cocktail and a themed dinner party and a bisexual he/they and a paperback novel from the discount bin and a bucket of movie theater popcorn and central ac and a personalized playlist from your best friend and clean sheets and a slam poem and a four hour video essay and a pair of comfortable jeans and freshly washed hair and complete political reform and a single, perfect strawberry can't fix

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𖥔 ݁ ˖ 🫐 *ੈ.

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Alice Te Punga Somerville, Always Italicise: How to Write While Colonised - Kupu rere kē

[ID: A poem titled: Kupu rere kē. [in italics] My friend was advised to italicise all the foreign words in her poems. This advice came from a well-meaning woman with NZ poetry on her business card and an English accent in her mouth. I have been thinking about this advice. The convention of italicising words from other languages clarifies that some words are imported: it ensures readers can tell the difference between a foreign language and the language of home. I have been thinking about this advice. Marking the foreign words is also a kindness: every potential reader is reassured that although you’re expected to understand the rest of the text, it’s fine to consult a dictionary or native speaker for help with the italics. I have been thinking about this advice. Because I am a contrary person, at first I was outraged — but after a while I could see she had a point: when the foreign words are camouflaged in plain type you can forget how they came to be there, out of place, in the first place. I have been thinking about this advice and I have decided to follow it. Now all of my readers will be able to remember which words truly belong in -[end italics]- Aotearoa -[italics]- and which do not.

Next image is the futurama meme: to shreds you say…]

(Image ID by @bisexualshakespeare)

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The Lovers - Fyodor Pavlov

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Decay exists as an extant form of life

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Happy Crowy Yule! It's a reall whose who of Yuletide.

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hi hi

trans Minotaur

👍

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ON FAIRYTALES

What I love about the fairy tale is that it sets the domestic on fire. And what I mean by this is that it requires the mother, father, sister, brother, stepmother, stepfather, cousin, uncle, aunt, and all their animals to flee the house in their “hottest,” most psychoanalyzed/dangerous state. The fairy tale surrenders the greatest fears of the house (“my mother she killed me / my father he ate me”) and copes with these fully realized fears until, I guess, everybody is dead or married or eaten or turned into birds or sea foam.

Click here to read the rest of the interview.  

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A personal piece I’ll be submitting to Spectrum this year! 

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I drew a little something for the Hiveworks micro comic summer~

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certified freak five days a week (it used to be seven but I joined a union thank god)

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From Let There Be Light: The Real Story of Her Creation by Liana Finck

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No thoughts.

Only Jeane-Pierre Gibrat illustration of women.

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women want me for my huge cock (silicone) and my huge tits (silicone) and my funny pointed wizard hat (silly cone)

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“[after a half-hearted suicide attempt at age 13] When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all? All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess. The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly. Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says. Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy. Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do. It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin. And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.”

— Mary Karr, from Cherry (via lifeinpoetry)

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