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gothic horror rlly is just. aw fuck look at what youve done. the house has inherited your inter-generational trauma and in response has transformed itself into a metaphorical device to track the decay of the family. we're never gonna pay off that mortgage now

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and all i loved, i loved alone

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bombyul

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Tricycle Gang in Brooklyn, New York City (1930s)

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Daisies (Vera Chytilová, 1966)

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I am hanging from a hook in the ceiling

like animal carcass.

I am splayed open, salted and tenderized.

My fatty bits sectioned off with bakers twine.

Red juices weep from my wounds.

Not blood, but the meat sweating

for better flavor.

A heavy palm comes down hard on my rump.

He lifts from the flank.

He samples the breast.

Hunger animates his body but he knows he must wait until the meat is ready.

He massages oils into the fibrous texture.

Working it in with the strong flat pads of his thumbs and fingers.

The meat is shivering.

The meat is shaking.

I’m told this is a chemical process.

Even once dead and removed from the body,

the meat dances on the table.

Due to the residual energy and nerve endings present in the tissue.

The flesh will twitch.

But it must be ready.

When it is ready he’ll carve it off in slabs,

and drop them into his mouth;

a mouse falling into the mouth of a snake

hanging by the tail.

He’ll glide the knife under the muscle

and it will slide down his throat

but it must be ready.

The meat is hanging but will not dry.

It drips

and drips

more juices.

The air is escaping.

The tendons are loosening.

He ties her off again and again.

Soon little lamb.

Soon.

- MEAT 2024

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"My Eyes", Razmik Davoyan (translated by Tathev Simonyan)

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“And I am jealous of your tattoos and how long they will stay with you after I go.”

— Clementine von Radics

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Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead

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“Poem” by Frank O’hara Instant coffee with slightly sour cream in it, and a phone call to the beyond which doesn’t seem to be coming nearer. “Ah daddy, I wanna stay drunk many days” on the poetry of a new friend my life held precariously in the seeing hands of others, their and my impossibilities. Is this love, now that the first love has finally died, where there were no impossibilities? 

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I THINK I AM GOING TO CUT MY HAIR

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Las Vegas Strip, 1994.

Photo by William Carr. Postcard; view from Treasure Island.

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why did louis and lestat write entire novels to each other about their marriage and each spent a huge portion of their novels talking about how hot and sexy this other guy armand is.

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Natalie Diaz, When My Brother Was an Aztec