finchs-miscellaneous-musings

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here have a cat poem <3

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I had thought I saw you, fisheye above the break room

and for a moment

after the relief of a different blue shirt

I had wished you'd come to visit me after all.

a part of me, who is not tall enough to see over the counter

wishes that you've known me

that I could know you

that we could talk, someday

and maybe we will

maybe you'll text me, and pop by where I work

and I'd get off my shift and I'd tell you about things that matter

but that's another pair of glasses

that's shorter hair than yours, although it's the same color

and I'm still sitting in the breakroom wondering why I'm missing you at all

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Blessed Be by Sol Rios, published in Ghost of my Ghosts

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and in the brightest end of days

it will smile at itself

feathers and all,

devourer of the eternal tail,

the ripest eulogy unfolding

flick its tongue

peaking from behind whisper teeth

no begging it will bear

no reason shall it share

twitch its eyelids dozen

it will sing to itself

the trembling murmur of taut canvas

next time, there will be more blue

next time it will change this hue

or that or here or there

an acorn traded for a pound of flesh

solemn creature,

flash its beak

peck not the sockets nor the crumbs

snake its way to flight

onward to a more vibrant

brightest end of days

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Higgledy-piggledy unparliamentary green parrots quarrel outside in the trees

Squawking out epithets uncomplimentary Squads of unmannerly Oversized peas.

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[x]

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ough

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Jyn the Cat being particularly stinky

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Birds sketches! I used my mate's photos for references, and wagtails scene was created from scratch.

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Crossbill on tree branch | Ohara Koson

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I sing the song of the stained loom

I praise you, halls of my stained loom,

I feed you on glut of creation, of nights I did not sleep,

and more work yet to be done

I praise you to keep my fingers moving and making,

to mask my exhaustion in ink-wicked eyes

to colour the right layers, to sure my lines and kill

my deadlines for your sacrifice, o loom

I praise you in your finger-gnarled glory,

Callused saint marks on scarbourne distal phalanges

My arachnaean angels spinning unceasingly

in buttersoft light of dawn

I praise you with blood that is ink that is that is dye

That is blood once again

Let my tears blur imperfection and work continue

O stained loom I sing your Hasannahs

That work me into woven perfection

And scalpel-clean edges sealed with the perfect tools

You make my hands into.

----

little compilation piece of my writing, @ahno-nimus and @the-unseelie-court-official from the earlier post that I'll be penning into paper in between waiting for commission-ink to dry

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"An Ode to a Dog Rolling Around in the Grass"

Hear this, O folks of feather and gallant friends,

steele yourselves, we writhe at dawn!

gather up your twice-worn patches and burnt ends

the wretched eggs and speckled fauns.

Bring to me your weary ways

and leave them on the thresh,

merriment shall not cease for days

feasting on the bones of Yesterday and Tomorrow's supple flesh.

Cast your wailing to the wind

and let yourselves be heard.

no animal has ever sinned,

today the cries of hell will ring like birds.

Indulge in the plush fields of grass and grain,

roll and flop and twirl and twist

control is not for you to gain

bathe yourself easily in the morning mist.

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me. me when a poem says something ive felt before

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Justine Kurland, Kung Fu Fighters from the series Girl Pictures, 1999

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I Wish for Liberation

I sit in the dark, my thoughts a storm of fragments, and I wish, not with the innocence of a child but with the bitter clarity of experience, that you would feel the weight of every wound you gave.

do you know the sharp sting of betrayal, the cruel echo of a lie, the loneliness that wraps around the heart like a shroud?

I want you to know the hollow ache of waiting, the gnawing uncertainty that burrows deep, the sleepless nights stretched out in their endless, aching expanse.

I want the weight of your own choices to press down on you, heavy and relentless, until you understand the pressure that drove me to despair, until you feel a trace of my sorrow settling like dust in your own empty spaces.

you, who sculpted misery with your hands, who wielded cruelty like a blade, are you aware of the echoes you left? do you hear them whisper in your dreams, the ache you wove so effortlessly into my days?

i could wish for storms to ravage your calm, for the sky to crack open with lightning that rends the fabric of your peace, for the tremors of regret to shake your foundation.

yet, even as I wish this, I realize that suffering does not heal, that the flames of revenge only scorch the hands that wield them.

so, instead, I let the weight of my sorrow settle, a quiet confession to the universe that sometimes I crave for the scales to tip,

for the pain to be known, but mostly,

I wish for liberation, for the shackles of my anger to fall away, and for a heart that no longer clings to the shadows of the past.

so I let the wish drift, a bitter gust of wind that fades into the void, and I turn away, searching for a release from this desire, for a way to mend the broken pieces without adding more shards to the world’s already jagged heart.

S.T. 2024

santa rosalia by roberto ferri(1978) oil on canvas

the shepherd david by elizabeth bouguereau(1895)

dancers by franz von stuck(1896)

perseus slaying medusa by laurent-honore marqueste(1903)

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not normal about orpheus and eurydice. you loved someone so much it opened the stones of the underworld. so much that death had to listen. so much that everything stopped for your love. so much that you turned around. so much that even when you did wrong. she forgave you.

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whats cool about being trans is my parents are totally right. i did kill their beautiful son. im the thing that animates his corpse in an ever more convincing parody of a happy girl. i devoured him from the inside out and now there is nothing left of him and he is dead dead dead and there is only me, with my hollow eyes and dark eyeliner and long hair, and my big smile. my limp, effeminate gestures belie the marionetting of the boy they loved. my fagginess is his death. already his body becomes a fitter home for my parasitism in full; the tits, the hips, the thighs. sorry about your kid. thanks for the biomass <3