Ah, the divine duality of man: that he may bend himself so studiously to the lifelong search for enlightenment yet still pass wind and pull his wedged robes from his bottom and in doing so find the very enlightenment he pursues!
[ An eccentric Buddhist monk told me this in a dream and I swear it was very important despite the toilet humor. ]
like a maiden plucking flower petals, so idly did She cast her raiment off striding naked into the pit of the underworld, proud head held high to welcome Her death with a queen’s grace, arms wide and eyes alight
Devotion quarried the stones and raised the temples carved the statues and gilded the icons. Devotion preserved the myths and protected the tombs dusted off the altars and restored the artwork. Devotion carried their gods around the world and devotion carries them into the future.
My fifth zine is now available! Worship the Monsteresses is dedicated to the monsteresses and maligned women of mythology. It explores what we can learn from their stories by tapping into the ugly parts inside us all. This zine features 22 pages of my original prose, poetry, and hand-drawn art.
Hey everyone! My 4th zine is now available for purchase. Courting Shakespeare’s Sister: A Zine of Queer Yearning is full of very gay poetry, prose, and hand-drawn art, making it a perfect companion as we head into pride month.
I’ve also set up a Kofi to sell my zines through! All of my zines are available here in both physical and PDF form. New ones will be coming every couple of weeks. Check it out at the link below!
Perhaps we should have let her burn. Perhaps the flames were a gift, a divine invitation to free ourselves from this obsession with edifice and artifice. Perhaps if she had burned to the ground, we might have seen that sacred space requires no cathedral to exist.
Warriors, why do you let your weapons fall? A battle lost is not yet a battle done! Does the outnumbered wolf bare her throat to await the killing bite? Never! She fights until her very last breath no matter how much blood she’s lost or how her vision darkens! Her snapping jaws are ever at the ready to take one final foe down with her. Pick up your blades, warriors; fight with every heartbeat left!
in my dreams I slit the throats of abusive fathers my nails sharp as harpy talons I drag rapists into the streets by their hair smash their skulls with a silver hammer I ride laughing through dark woods on the back of a great goat I fear nothing and no one in my dreams
Forgive my lack of manners, I just /devour/ poetry can never seem to let it breathe, take a sip roll the vintage along my pallet and discern dimensions of linguistic terroir. I am just so /parched/ you see I swig straight from the bottle like a boor each syllable sweet as honeyed wine divine versification rejuvenation! But then the last stanza’s been swallowed metaphors drying on my tongue and I’m a desert /desperate/ for a drop pining for poetry’s reprieve once more.
Perhaps I have always walked death’s road. After all, my corpse so easily reaches out ‘cross space and time to touch its siblings: to lay in the snow on a stark Russian mountainside (it was not your fault, Igor, you could not have known); to curl up among the masses huddled beneath Pompeii’s tephra burial shroud; to drown in Sendai’s monstrous waves or freeze in the north Atlantic on a clear April night. These deaths, these beloved dead, are clear as my own memories. Is this witchcraft? Is this wyrd? (Is this anything?)