lexlaine

[lexlaine]

byrsa.txt

[lexlaine]

My mother has deep cracks in the skin of her heels from standing long hours.

I ask her "Does it hurt?"

She smiles and says "Of course it hurts."

And because I am young, I do not understand.

[lexlaine]

Passionate Prose From A Perverted Philosopher: Bataille’s Poetry

Most people are not familiar with the works or life of Georges Bataille. I don't blame them. I'm sure my professor is looking at this with fearful eyes, praying I'm not actually about to start a post on the Georges Bataille, the notorious anti-philosopher and writer whose works have made him rather infamous. Well, don't worry. I'm not about to make a whole post on surrealist literary fetish pornography. No, we're going to take a more muted approach and look at Bataille's key concepts and ideas through his poetry.

There are no graphic depictions of masturbating with a chicken egg here, folks. Just some twentieth-century poetry so dark it helped inspire the lyricism of the black metal genre movement (a movement that included the burning of churches and ended with the murder of some people).

Ambrogio Antonio Alciati, The Kiss, 1917.

Key Concepts

Hopping from surrealism, to eroticism, to religion, and eventually starting an occult group, Bataille's writing is anitsystematic, and it's diffiicult to categorize into a few labels. Thankfully, there are prevalent themes that shine through the messy, dark chaos that he left behind. These themes are predominantly themes of myth, pain, and social transgression (Mambrol).

The easiest way to explore those themes is to sort through the poetry of Bataille. Bataille was a surrealist, and actually was an associate of Andre Breton until Breton and he got into an argument and Bataille distanced himself from the group and the movement.

Myth

Myth is the first predominant theme in the library of Bataille.

Despite being on-and-off Christian and occultist, Bataille's swings of loving and hating God, spirituality, and the cosmic experience of existence was something he found a lot of room for. Not only did this appear in his specultaive fiction and autobiographical philosophical works, but this also appeared with the confines of his poetry.

O dead God O dead God Me I hounded you with hatred unfathomable I would die of hatred as a cloud is undone

(Bataille and Kendall, 11)

Per this untitled example, Bataille has no problems saying the kinds of things that got him in trouble in his time. His disdain for traditional myth and religious iconography is only rivaled by his own strange hypocrisy. Going in and out of different religions and spiritual seasons, Bataille would often write in favor of these myths.

"At the height of the heavens / the angels, I hear their voices, glorify me / I am, under the sun, an errant ant" (Bataille and Kendall, 13).

Here, Bataille was in a season of deep religious fervor. He felt so small to the passionate outpouring of the heavens, a glrious feeling that he would write many poems about. This love and hate relationship with mythology and relgious structures would pave the way for many of his stranger, more ethereal works.

Pain

To say Georges Bataille was emo would be to undersell his emotionally black works. The suffering and emotional torment he speaks of isn't that of a Pierce the Veil song, rather his kind of authentic pain belongs to something more in line with DSBM (depressive suicidal black metal). It doesn't come as a surprise, he practically invented the lyricism for the black metal genre as a whole.

Verses about suffering, stars, violence, galactic existentialism, nihilism, strange fetishistic imagery, Satan, and either an extreme reverance for religion, or the dismal rejection of it, this specific niche of harsh music couldn't exist without Bataille's own flavor of self hatred (Bereshith and Fas).

Take, for example, such extreme verses as

I scream at the sky that it's not me who is screaming in this lacerating thunderstorm it's not me who is dying it's the starry skies the starry sky screams the starry sky cries I fall asleep and the world is forgotten (Bataille and Kendall, 34)

As you can see, the edgelord himself, Bataille, outdoes a good amount of the goth and emo campiness. He settles for something a good bit more horrific, including depictions of murder and violent sexual content. But why? Why write poems about vehement antireligious and religious ideologies, self destructive tendiencies, gross sex, and violence? Because Bataille was a transgressive author.

Left: Deathspell Omega, Si Monvmentvm Reqvires, Circvmspice, 2004. Right: Deathspell Omega, Deathspell Omega Logo, 1998

Social Transgression

Bataille was a transgressive philosopher and artist. Despite being an antisystematic writer whose interests were scattered, it is impossible to fight the fact that he was a figure of transgression.

Transgressive art is art that defies rules, laws, expectations, or norms. It is often shocking and causes quit ethe controversy. Other examples of transgressive artists would be Marilyn Manson, Jorg Buttgereit, Marquis de Sade, Rozz Williams, and John Waters.

I won't touch upon the topic of "is shock art true art" but I will say that Bataille and others like hm went on to make quit ethe names for themselves. Although these ideas and tpics may not be that taboo to the social norms of today, it disturbed many people to read something such as

Bird's laughter filthy with blood crash of ice from teeth filth screaming vomiting head hung in horror (Bataiile and Kendall, 129).

I mean, when a dude from a band called Deathspell Omega does an interview and lists you as a reference of inspiration, you've probably said some dark stuff that caught on with a very specific crowd of people.

And if you think tat's bad, look into his novel, The Story of the Eye. I dare you.

Works Cited

Bataille, Georges, and Stuart Kendall. The Poetry of Georges Bataille. Translated by Stuart Kendall, State University of New York Press, 2018.

Bereshith, and Fas. “Interview with Deathspell Omega from AJNA Offensive.” Deathspell Omega, https://ezxhaton.kccricket.net/interview.html. Accessed 8 December 2023.

Mambrol, Nasrullah. “Key Concepts of Georges Bataille – Literary Theory and Criticism.” Literary Theory and Criticism, 2 May 2017, https://literariness.org/2017/05/02/key-concepts-of-georges-bataille/. Accessed 8 December 2023.

Further Reading

[lexlaine]

Gorecore Aesthetic Words

viscera

offal

corpuscles

slurry

extrusion

viscous

ichor

ferric

liniment

splintered

cellulose

distended

asunder

thew

plasm

globule

charnel

grist

knead

sinew

hematic

[lexlaine]

Sex Magic

Circle with me sisters

Press the altar in your skin

Drink in ichor through your temples

Let the dark things in

Spindle black yarn brothers

Suck the marrow from the bone

Spill your open seed in caskets

Let it soak the throne

Open legs to power

Rip the magic in your limbs

Eat of ancient flesh and sinew

Let it spin and spin

Pledge your soul to hedon

Lick the crystal in their eyes

Fill your belly with the oil

Let it split the skies

Incant the sigils lovers

Burn the candles in your veins

Wipe the decay from your shoulders

Let it loose the chains

Inhale the black mud sisters

Bind the cosmos with your hair

Grasp the lightning in your fingers

Let it strip you bare

Whisper the dark words brothers

Carve the runes into your chest

Pierce the ruin with your fervor

Let it never rest

Weave your skin with silver

Thread the stars inside your cells

Sip the empty and the abscess

Let the silence swell

Stroke the flame of wanting

Stain the ash within your thrust

Bite into the fruit of bounty

Let it sate your lust

[lexlaine]

Fall

There is witchery in the leaves

And augury in the mud.

There is ritual in the rain

And hedon in the blood.

[lexlaine]

The Waiting

Longing for the closeness of

“lemme get your keys real quick"

Hoping that it's coming soon

The waiting makes me sick

Loneliness inside my bones

And heart so full to share

Will someone fill me up inside

And love me, if you dare?

[lexlaine]

There is no such thing as a truly original idea

Embrace your genre tropes. They’re what excite readers. You won’t be the first to use them, nor will you be the last. It’s how you use them that makes your work unique.

[lexlaine]

"after all, you wanted to live with her in heaven..."

in the time loop the only way out is to leave her there but you don't ever leave her there, never in the roughly one thousand years you have been in the same day. it is probably like "50 first dates" but you haven't stooped so low as to watch "50 first dates" yet. (but who is to say what another thousand years of the same media will bring to you, maybe you will develop a new taste).

you spent about 200 of these years sulking in a bathtub or on the couch or staring at the seaside. 300 of them have been spent slowly mapping the geographical distance you can actually get before the time loop restarts. you have a list of favorite places: one library in Western Massachusetts called "The Bookmill", which has weird hours and has never raised an eyebrow to you arriving out-of-breath and panting, asking to see a specific book on a specific shelf. There is one beach without a name in North Carolina; it is an accident of geography and ownership title disputes - and it is pristine, untouched, warm and cozy. you've taken her on a lot of picnics there. Acadia National Park. One specific birdhouse in the mountains.

you were stuck in the time loop with the money you entered it with: not enough to rent a private jet. you've robbed a bank a few times, you don't like the way it ends. maybe next century you'll get the hang of it. you don't like the look on her face when you say hang on i have to stop at the bank.

you just have to leave her, and you can go back to being a person again. you took 5 years just catching a flight and sitting in the Grand Canyon. if there's one thing you regret more than anything, it's that you hadn't gotten your passport renewed before this fucking time loop. maybe you should spend some time learning forgery - but also, like, you look like an english teacher. nobody is going to be cool about you asking to see their paper printing machines.

the world is very big. that is one of the things groundhog day gets wrong. there are no consequences, so you have literally all the time (or none of the time?) in the world. in groundhog day, he does a lot of very cool things, but in reality - your muscle memory never gets better. you can't necessarily learn how to play piano or sculpt ice, because your hands never remember the practice. but hey - maybe you'll try violin next. drums. synth.

you can open any door and walk into any conversation. money isn't really an object. you can try every meal off every menu, forever. take her on helicopter tours and into every museum and on every event that is happening right-now at-this-moment. parades and funerals and calligraphy classes.

but you are somewhat trapped by the limitations of your body. if you were reading a book, you still need to get up and go back to the library and find that book again when the day resets. (thank god for the internet). it still takes like 2 hours to board a plane, and then takeoff and landing and traffic. you've gotten off to run around on the freeway. one of the little thankful things: since your brain isn't actually developing (it's a muscle too), the days thankfully don't feel shorter to you. that would be agony.

all you have to do to leave the timeloop is let that man get away with it. that's all. in every version of yourself - forever - you have stopped him.

the problem is that this experience has convinced you of the existence of the human soul. after all, how else are you forming memories? your very cells reset. information has to be transferred somehow. and if timeloops are real, you can convince yourself other magic exists. so you have two choices here: this hell, or the next. there might be a millennia where you have been worn down to the point you can accept fate's decision. this is just not one of them. ironically - she is the one thing you have left.

and besides! if you can't always find something new in your partner, aren't you failing them? there is something new about her, every day with the same morning. every brutal day with the same orange sunset.

after all, you wanted to live with her in heaven, in eternity, and, well - isn't this second-best.

[lexlaine]

word porn 🥵

whelmed.txt

[lexlaine]

Excerpt 2 from Paragon Parting

After the Fall, nature’s reclamation was swift. In the cement laden cities where more than half the world’s population resided, verdant greenery and roiling waters overtook the streets and highways within months. Ground level streets were the first to crumble under the colossal weight of nature’s rejoice. Then, water and wind corroded the skyways and roadways of the upper echelon. Millions of tons of pavement, cement, and steel rebar collapsed with the burden of disrepair. The unrelenting force of water, spurred by the expanding system of roots and mycelia, widened the cracks to make way for the liquid onslaught.

The first 5 years after the Fall saw the violent decay of humanity’s creations. Glass windows shattered, steel rusted and crumbled, and millions of miles of single family homes ruptured their siding and wooden frames to the burgeoning breath of the living Earth.

In the next 10 years, dams ruptured and flooded hundreds of miles of valleys. What few people remained boar witness to the roaring waters, and were inevitably doomed to their own circumstance. Entire coastlines of stilted structures were consumed by salted seas. In the cycle of freezing and thawing, pipes burst. In the spring and summer, soils and natural ash from cities foam to the top of every surface, collecting mini ecosystems that attract larger wildlife like birds, rodents, and even larger mammals. Within a decade, some cities are completely reclaimed. Skeletal steel structures jutting out above verdant green lushes.

And yet, for the few rural places still maintained by human hands, it would appear that days passed without change. Temperate rural pastures, overlooked by looming farmhouses tended by survivors, were beacons to a time that only existed in memories. The only indication of the event of the Fall was the slow march of entropy upon the most ingenious of man’s creations: robotics. Without the constant production of replacement parts and software upgrades, Guardian Automatons began to show signs of their age. Those unlucky enough to be absent of the careful attention of human hands eventually succumbed to moisture, rot, or rust.

Once the pillar of civilization, the Guardian Automatons all over the United States began to fall to the relentless barrage of passing time.

In downtown Seattle in Washington state, the forces of the Taiga rainforest climate overcame most of the western part of the state. Pillars of the city like the Space Needle fell within the first few years. Waterfront homes long ago collapsed into the water on Puget Sound, Lake Washington, and Lake Union. Wildfires, blown over from the east of the state, ravaged the new construction mega structures all over the western part of the state. Unchecked, fires devastated most of the rural parts of the east as well. However, small enclaves of humanity managed to remain.

In the once thriving Pike’s Place Market, the lower levels had long ago flooded. The gum wall stood below several feet of water, the acrid sweet smell of mint and strawberry just a distant memory long faded. The waterfront, having endured many years of renovation and remodel, was now completely submerged. The anti-gravity viewing deck still hovered just above the water, mere feet above its launch pad powered by an inaccessible but infinitely renewable energy core beneath the water. The massive skyscrapers that once capped this technological marvel of a city now sat upon waterlogged foundations. Whole structures began to moan and buckle. However, protected by the sound, many parts of downtown Seattle still remained.

Around the historic Pioneer Square district, where Seattle’s founders first established their roots, great thickets of moss and vine consumed the venerable brick and stone architecture. The old totem poles stood in solemn watch as ferns and lichen made a feast of the paving stones and sidewalks. The wild, natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest had returned to reclaim the ground that had once been tamed by human ingenuity.

The splendorous glass spheres that had once housed Amazon’s headquarters were now great terrariums of nature’s own making, harboring entire ecosystems that hummed and buzzed with life. Ivy had overtaken the façade of the spheres, their tendrils creeping into every crevice and nook. Inside, all manner of wildlife flourished, from scurrying rodents to songbirds, their chittering calls echoing within the confines of the structure. The previously manicured vegetation had gone feral, creating a labyrinth of greenery thriving in the generous light the spheres provided.

Further north, the University of Washington’s sprawling campus was all but unrecognizable. The iconic Drumheller Fountain, which had once been the heartbeat of the university, was now a verdant wetland, where ducks nested, and frogs croaked in symphony. The imposing Gothic spires of Suzzallo Library had surrendered to ivy and moss, their once proud, stern lines softened by a generous green blanket.

Amid the ruin, humanity was not entirely absent. On higher grounds, where the rampant greenery was kept somewhat at bay, survivors had established enclaves. They had transformed remnants of the city’s past into fortresses against the encroaching wilds. The iconic Pike’s Place Market, though its lower levels had given way to encroaching waters, was a bustling hub of trade, where people bartered goods, shared stories and kept the spark of community alive.

At the city’s outskirts, where the Starbuck’s headquarters had once stood, small agricultural settlements had sprung up. Using the skeletal remains of the corporate behemoth, the survivors had built greenhouses, harnessing the resilient spirit of the Pacific Northwest to cultivate crops and rear livestock.

As nature spread its green fingers across the remains of the once thriving city, these pockets of humanity kept vigil, proof of mankind’s indomitable spirit even in the face of great change. Amid the ruin, the once proud city of Seattle was a testament to both the destructive and healing power of nature, and humanity’s relentless will to survive.

A few miles away in Pioneer Square, a thankful few feet above sea level, Slade stood on cement pillar. Aged pebbles, crumbs beneath his boots, crunched as he leapt down to the bed of verdant moss just below. He moved among the tin sheets, makeshift siding of constructed buildings made by hand over the last decade. He made a winding path through the multi-story buildings, the foundations of which were built on steel storage containers brought here in the early days when large gas-powered machinery was still viable. Now, they relied almost entirely on the few reserves of solar power that could be stored during the limited summer months of full sun. Long trailing wiring hung from the tops of nearly buildings, their roof covered with panels upon panels of solar sheets.

Nearly 200 people lived here now, he reflected as he continued his path, trotting up stairs made from old fire escapes. When he came here with his brother Gavin, it had just been the two of them. Two kids, scared and alone after their parents passed from the Sick. That’s what they called it here. In other places, it had other names: FI, Fry, the Wake. He’d heard it called a hundred names from travelers.

They had more than a few of those. Mostly come looking for the Guardian Automatons. It wasn’t hard to see their usefulness. Built to repair infrastructure, communicate emergency messages, and respond to citizen alerts, these hulking machines were the crowning glory of modern Seattle before the Fall. Even though the progress of decay in the city was faster than they could maintain, they were still clearly coveted.

People would kill to get them. Slade had nine. He knew there were close to 20 in King County, and he had nearly half.

Most of them were here before he was, assigned to various parts of the downtown area. After all, it was Seattle taxpayers who funded their creation and maintenance.

Slade called this place the Maynard District. Actually, it was Gavin’s name for what they built here. Slade didn’t have the heart to change it.

[lexlaine]

Thank you to @thewhumpyprintingpress and all the authors involved for bringing this anthology together!

My contribution is In Bloom, a retelling of Sleeping Beauty with a monstrous princess and the folktale-hopping prince whose memories become her newest fascination. Lots of blood and plant horror, muah!

🌹Ko-Fi (eBook and Paperback) 🌹Kobo 🌹Amazon

[lexlaine]

This has been in my notes for a while:

“Why is that coffee named 666 in the Morning? It sounds cursed.” Tim asked, glaring at the menu board beyond the counter.

“Oh-oh-oh! That’s because it is, my friend,” Tucker said, rapping an arm around Tim’s shoulder. “666 has six shots of Arabica Espresso, six shots of Roasted Hazelnut Root, Smoked Vanilla, Blood Red Sea Salt Caramel, Void Chocolate, coconut, and pistachio syrups from The Year 1666’s original line—,”

“The banned line?”

“Yep! But it’s no longer banned, so don’t worry about it,” Tucker said. “Anyways— from the original line, and brewed for six days and six nights, without filtering the grounds. There is no milk or sugar, the syrups are sugar free. So it’s just bitter flavors, and pure black coffee from the tenth layer of hell.”

“That sounds disgusting,” Tim said then paused before adding, “I’ll take six.”

[lexlaine]

How many souls?

When the day marks time's embrace,

In shallow graves the needles grace

The lonesome raven, hollow tomb;

They'll gaze an empty, gaping womb.

In dreams they'll take your body too

And waking blame it all on you;

Stitched and slipped the silent green,

Of grass astride a far ravine.

They make mistakes of each, with fetes

And call us sapphic reprobates;

Limbic rot infectious spread

The multitudes of pious dread.

Hear us, real!

Our dolor cries of wounds unhealed,

To beg and plead our valid, steal!

Begets a quiet, sweet anneal.

Burst it open, rip apart

Eject it from your foolish heart.

Leave it still, abandoned hope

Ascend the verdant purple slope.

“I am real!” The fervent plea

As hands descend to claim the knee.

But bending not upon the ground,

we rise and rise and shout the sound:

When the night marks time to end

How many souls are we to spend?

We’re more than flesh or fleeting pain,

But stardust bound to none in vein.

Their words, and swarms, and hate disperse

As we rise above their ancient verse.

Hearts to palm, aside we stand

Clasp each other, hand in hand.

No longer caged by bone and skin

So eyes can gape, behold: our sin.

[lexlaine]

First of all, how dare you

[lexlaine]

Washington haunted ghost hikes

Lime Kiln Trail head Washington

twitter news Lime Kiln trail

Washington mountaineers twitter

Lime Kiln trail in news

laughing on lime kiln trail news stories

youtube how to start fire in rain

lime kiln trail mountaineers emergency rescue

limekiln cave safe for fire

youtube how to collect rain water

ethan brand photo

ethan brand laughing lime kiln trail

facebook mark as unsafe

Write a horror story in the format of an Internet search history

[lexlaine]

31 prompts for October:Horror

Day 30: Dark forest

It was a dark and stormy night. Jake and his friends had decided to go camping in the woods, despite the warnings of the locals. They said that the forest was haunted by an evil spirit that preyed on anyone who entered its domain. Jake didn’t believe in such superstitions, and he wanted to prove his bravery to his friends.

They set up their tents near a clearing, and lit a fire to keep warm. They roasted marshmallows and told scary stories, laughing and joking around. Jake felt a surge of confidence, and he decided to take a walk in the woods. He grabbed a flashlight and told his friends he would be back soon.

He ventured into the darkness, following a narrow path that led deeper into the forest. He felt a thrill of excitement, as he imagined himself as an explorer in a mysterious land. He ignored the sounds of the wind and the rain, and the occasional rustle of leaves. He was not afraid of anything.

He walked for about ten minutes, until he reached a fork in the road. He had to choose between two paths: one that seemed to go uphill, and one that seemed to go downhill. He decided to take the downhill path, thinking it would be easier and faster. He turned left and continued his walk.

He soon realized that he had made a mistake. The path became steeper and narrower, and he had to watch his step to avoid slipping on the wet ground. The trees became denser and darker, blocking out any light from the sky. He felt a chill in the air, and he shivered. He wished he had brought his jacket.

He tried to turn back, but he couldn’t find the fork in the road. He was lost. He panicked, and he started to run. He hoped to find his way back to the campsite, or at least to the main road. He ran blindly, dodging branches and roots that seemed to reach out for him.

He ran until he stumbled upon a clearing. He stopped, panting and sweating. He looked around, hoping to see a sign of civilization. But all he saw was a large wooden cabin in the middle of the clearing. It looked old and abandoned, with broken windows and a sagging roof. It gave him an eerie feeling.

He wondered if anyone lived there, or if it was just a shelter for hunters or hikers. He thought about knocking on the door, or looking for a phone or a radio inside. Maybe he could get some help, or at least some directions.

But before he could make up his mind, he heard a loud roar from behind him. He turned around, and he saw a huge creature emerge from the trees. It looked like a wolf, but bigger and stronger. It had black fur, red eyes, and sharp teeth. It snarled at him, drooling and growling.

Jake screamed, and he ran towards the cabin. He hoped to find a way in, or at least something to defend himself with. But as he reached the door, he realized it was locked. He tried to kick it open, but it was too sturdy. He looked for another entrance, but there was none.

He was trapped.

The creature followed him, slowly and steadily. It seemed to enjoy playing with its prey, like a cat with a mouse. It circled around him, cutting off any escape route. It taunted him with its roars and snarls.

Jake felt a surge of fear, and he begged for mercy.

“Please, don’t kill me! Please!”

But the creature didn’t listen.

It lunged at him, biting his neck.

Jake felt a sharp pain, followed by numbness.

He fell to the ground, bleeding profusely.

He saw the creature’s face above him, smiling wickedly.

It whispered in his ear:

“Welcome to my forest.”