presents

Fiery Femcel Fury

Co-Edited by
Madison Murray & Kum V

Dedicated to Valerie Solanas & Jennifer Finch

Fiery Femcel Fury Cumpanion Playlist
(listen while you read!)

A couple days of deep cummunion with the Bovine Divine in Private Parts Unknown, USA shall return a more enlightened Kum the Klown, thought Kum the Klown, as we headed out on cuntry roads, blackbird thunderheads alighting the path between roadkills: here a dog, there a squirrel, everywhere an oh puss ‘em. But oh, how the blackbirds were abundant and alive! Four and twenty red-wingèd blackbirds, a symbol of abundance in themselves, baked in a national piebald lampoontang… The auspicious path is not without casualties, just as Arkansas is not without roadkills stinking to Elysium, thought Kum the Klown, as we drove the cum cow-drawn cuckwagon westward.

This series of clanging associations begins a rambling non-story of how Kum the Klown ran away to the woods, stayed a spell in a treehouse on 50-foot stilts for some glamping, forest bathing, and deep meditation in the land of miracle spring water, where the OG OGs once communed with the Bovine Divine in their own special way, back in the gambling boom, when the spring waters still meant something, the booze meant even more, and the pussy meant most of all…at the Hot Springs Madam’s shakti temple—Al Capone, Owney Madden, Lucky Luciano, John Dillinger—you name ‘em, they went a-peepin’ in Maxine’s seafood store, the Mansion at Benton and Palm, now an Embassy Suites parking lot.

That’s right! One of Kum the Klown’s top-five vacation destinations is the same Ozarkian hidey-hole frequented by the gangsters of golden-era American crime, the same getaway in which our nation’s founding mobsters, those seminal underworld figures, sought refuge while scheming between crimes, wetting their whistles on the lam, slickening their donkeys on the ham, and pumping out progeny paste on the candied yams almost as fast as they pumped rounds from their submachine guns into any and all disloyal, disrespectful parties. Forgive them, Bovine Divine, for they were only trying to build the only things worth respecting in This Great Nation, subverting its authority and conventions in an underworld above the law, those tossed salad days when the underworld had the law by the balls and underworld figures weren’t mere goon(er)s working for Agent Orange. Now it’s all just scrambled eggs, and those blue balls are callin’ again…

Kum the Klown, Gangster Museum of America

Anywho, on our way into town, K the K stopped at a watering hole, formerly a bathhouse whose thermal waters were believed to cure virtually everything from hydrophobia to hysteria, rheumatism to rattlesnake bites, baldness to bullet wounds, scurvy to syphilis, and that’s not all! Shocking, often highly contagious conditions—even death itself, that most corrupted of humors—were just a scotch-douche, wrist drop, or heavy metal leaching away from being washed away in the hot baths, the miracle spring waters in those clawfoot tubs where one might stop for regulated soaking for a doctor-prescribed number of minutes under the supervision of attendants, hands of Dr. Kundalini Kellogg, surely—now a tourist-baity bar and grill serving beer by the pint and flight, brewed with the same miracle spring waters that still gently cascade through this region, in homage to the glory days.

It was on this historically significant site that K the K broke our seven-month teetotaling bender for a snort of supposedly-medicinal ale. And of all things that could fill the air in such a moment, the most holiest of hymns began to play:

To the window (to the window)
To the wall (to the wall)
‘Til sweat drop down my balls (my balls)
‘Til all these bitches crawl (crawl)
‘Til all skeet-skeet, motherfucker (motherfucker)
‘Til all skeet-skeet, goddamn (a-goddamn)

Making it the fifth instance in just a week’s time that Kum the Klown happened upon this time-honored, generation-defining millennial bop in the wild, and so we hereby decree: “Get Low” by Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz is the Holy Spirit of Cum Punk. “Get Low” by Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz is Psalm 69 in the Book of the Bovine Divine. Get into it, or get Kelsey Grammar checked and forcibly unalived by that Great Frasier Crane Game in the sky! (Goddess save Poohroboros! Long live franken-plushies!)

All skeet skeet, indeed! We’re just about ready to peter pop OFF when we tell you: the hot springs that produce the miracle healing waters are the Great Mommy Milk from the Great Mommy Milkers of Bovine Divine kindness and infinite productivity. We have a Great Mother wound, and we have a Great Mommy kink. Pussy power, from pre-Abrahamic temples of the sacred women to the Hot Springs Madam’s house of the rising sun, was always meant to heal the world but can only heal the world when approached with cumpleat surrender to absorption into absorptive cum pleats. Only when control is yielded in favor of sensitivity and receptivity can pure pussy power, the Sophia, do the work of healing, then and only then can pure pussy power be the ShamWow that it can be. Philosophers from ancient to cumtemporary have been standing boot-to-cheek, “bite the curb” style on the very thing they’ve most searched for, that coveted holy grail, low-key holy pussy, but all except Boehme and maybe Hegel overthought themselves out of feeling their way into that warm, moist, darksome truth from whence their own big stupid heads once emerged, and so they never knew wholeness, and so they never knew love, and so the Logos is broken and ain’t-shit forever.

Kum the Klown, Hot Tub, Private Parts Unknown, USA

At which point in this reverie, K the K, emotionally erect, fiery femcel fury activated, phantom foreskin in hand, ejaculated: I personally want to be swallowed whole by the kundalini shakti at the open gaping mouth of the Great Mommy holy mountain, esoteric code for “fattest pussy in tarnation,” even fatter than Mary Magdalene’s pussy before she almost-died on the botch table and had to downsize. And you’re just a-stompin’ and a-trompin’ and a-chompin’ and a-litterin’ and a-shitterin’ and a-ain’t-shitterin’ on it all day, ain’t ya?

Time was, men visited hole for the love of it, for its power not only to heal but to teach the art of love, of being a good lover, a good fuck and a good man, to flower the wand. Now, pussy is visited not at all but domesticated, mastered, and controlled. Pussy is colonized, and pussy is gentrified, and pussy is disenfranchised. Pussy is consumed, and pussy is destroyed. We cannot work in these conditions. This is why sex workers hate their jobs and retire before 30 and you can’t find anyone to fuck you outside of raping them. We cannot live in these conditions. This is why we can’t bear arms else risk blowing out our own brains before we can even murder-suicide you. We can’t parade our cum cows around in a convertible cuckwagon with the top down and dig the scene with a gangster lean in these conditions!

“The sexual perversion of Christianity becomes obvious when it is realized that ‘The Holy Ghost’ (The Sophia) is feminine” (Jack Parsons, rocket engineer, sex clown, and goddess stan, historical hunny and honorary cum cow). Philosophy is philos sophia, love of wisdom, but if the Sophia is pussy, which it is, then philosophy is pussy love, so get with it, you Immanuel Kunt-reading woke misogynists and Kelsey Grammar snobs! Time for the dicks to be the listeners, the shock absorbers, the receivers. Time is: Philosophilia. Let us be the stray. Let us be the strange. Don’t make it your idea. Let it be our idea. Let us be the Logos. Let us be the intelligent pathos of sound, feeling with the mind, thinking with the pussy-heart. Let pussy do the thinking. Let pussy do the talking.

Yes indeed, I personally want to be swallowed whole by the kundalini shakti at the open gaping mouth of the fattest pussy in tarnation, thought Kum the Klown, but I, too, fear love. This I know, for my internalized misogyny tells me so. Male death energy, whose erotics is fear of love, is the new syphilis being spread asexually by incels, and sex is the new dying, and that’s why I’m a femcel apart from the fact that literally no one under the male death sun wants to fuck me.

Kum the Klown, Al Capone’s Prison Cell, Eastern State Penitentiary

But never mind that now. Dig, if you will, a picture: Kum the Klown in a private hot tub, the fake plastic version of a hot spring, our laptop walking a tightrope on the deck railing—50 foot drop on one side, gurgling jizzpool on the other—and who but Joslyn James, the mother of all cum cows, on the screen, K the K doing the half-back float, Piss Christ pose, loose-as-a-goose piebald-eagle ICP symbiotically suctioned to the middlemost jet, Joker eyes to the open sky but also on the laptop screen to get a load of those mommy milkers—Just get a LOAD of them! thought Kum the Klown, looking like Michael Douglas falling down in the movie Falling Down…into the Pacific ocean blues of cum cow-festooned Santa Monica, as we all skeet skeeted into the luscious deep-lidded Jessica Rabbit heavens, and the Embassy Suites parking lot at Palm and Benton was once again Maxine’s fishy diamond sea.

Jesus Piss Christ! I daresay the dead man’s float never felt more alive! exclaimed Kum the Klown, in the afterbirth of our rebirth. I felt a great sense of oneness, between the gurgling jizzpool, the mommy milkers, and the heavens above, sky-clad as I was. First, the broad daylight; then, the broad moonlight; finally, the broad itself: the dame, if you will: the old ball’n’chain: the divine hag: the celestial sow: the Great Mother whose milk cum mineral spring water’s fire, brilliance, and scintillation could heal the world if only we would allow it, if we do not refuse it, if we do not doubt it.

There’s a song called “Arkansas” by Charles Manson about all of this.

There’s a poem called “Charles Manson’s Sex Toilets” by The Dick Inside Kum V about the rest of it.

TDLR: K the K cured our syphilis intimacy phobia in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and so can you! No need to go the way of Scarface or even Nietzsche! No ecce homo, bro! Fear love no more! Pledge your freeze-dried progeny paste in any volume today and receive your ketchup/mayo/mustard/chicken fil a/soy sauce/duck sauce/cuck sauce/horny hobby horsey packet of miracle spring water forthwith and posthaste!

In the name of the Bovine Divine
and Baubo the Divine Sex Clown
and Psalm 69.

Forever drippy, forever slimy, forever yours.

All skeet skeet,

Kum the Klown

Kum the Klown, Treehouse, Private Parts Unknown, USA

1.

Who are you?

A person who loves you.

Anything else?

An incomplete female. An utter bore, an inoffensive blob trapped in a twilight zone halfway between humans and apes.

You read my manifesto.

I did. And loved it.

How is the world?

You wouldn’t want to know.

So same as always.

A cesspit of shame and nihilism.

Why have you called me here?

To tell you I love you.

Okay. You just did. Twice.

Lamp.

Shade.

Hat.

Cap.

Black.

White.

Man.

Woman.

2.

In a memory gray and pleasant to touch, like crepe de chine, I quail behind my mother in a temple to an artist begrudgingly named native son of a city more like your home state of Jersey than the New York he created, he of the silver wig, the innovator of irony who made himself orisha to the queens who sat out Stonewall, perched on the crumbling cross of a T cell, whiter than a blinded eye, uncultured culture who with every generation declare their own death then rise from the ashes a pigeon wearing dime store glitter on her feathers. This man you believed stole your art, they taught me in school was famous for painting soup cans and that never made sense, so on this day I learn he was a gay pornographer I know now why people care. The museum is doldrummed in gray light to protect the Apollos of the past who twist like ampersands behind panes of Popemobile glass, my return to a world that not long ago ruptured me with Broadway peepshows on our way to see Cats. On my shirt is a cartoon tiger, a Flintstones bandaid covers a cut on my knee, and the legs of my blue sweatpants start to itch as I ascend each cavernous floor. Here I push silver square-shaped balloons. I grow bored five minutes into a film of two men kissing. Art means absence, art means blistered toes, but art gentles my mother and so art we shall exalt. It must have been my idea to buy the screenplay displayed in the gift shop among soup can magnets and photo books of mythical prices. I must have salivated a little at Lili Taylor in triplicate, revolver at her hip. I dwell in a Narnia of Gen X angst and bohemian nostalgia impressive to the mother who would take me to see Welcome to the Dollhouse, the mother for whom I would smear myself in shame. Strange to discover in such a place a paean to the woman who doomed Warhol to corseted hell, though his acolytes might say he’d have liked the irony, though I doubt it. He would have enjoyed the sign atop the nearby factory of a bottle splooging red neon on a Heinz logo, though I think you would hate it because I cannot associate you with something so high above the streets. This is my failing, not yours.

O, Valerie! Un-fabulous assassin who with three bullets did slay the psychedelic 60s. Death playwright with evil eyes. We both had parents who made our growing bodies empty playgrounds, who touched us violently in lust and rage. You teach me it’s possible to live in a country and hate it. You teach me sex can be transactional. You show me the spectrum of beauty, you butch Marilyn Monroe, sweetheart of Greenwich Village; in the movie scores of men pay for the pleasure of shattering against you. Your loathing for the testicular italicizes the junkyard in my guts during the Pledge of Allegiance. When someone at school asks who my heroes are, I name a particularly savage pirate I’ve read of and you. Bad girl extraordinaire, self-proclaimed satirist, vagina mistress, you have stolen my heart (stomach, lung, liver, spleen, esophagus).

One time I am almost fired for assigning my twelfth grade class SCUM Manifesto. At a conference (because writers no longer attempt murder—we attend conferences) I am informing a pair of College Park students they walk the same halls as the Valerie Solanas, alumna emeritus who shot Andy Warhol, and their rabbit eyes name me a creepy fetishist. But I will never be ashamed of you. You appear above my shoulder every time I paint my nails. I, a man, a machine, zestfully wade through miles of vomit for women who wear flat caps and wish to break me. And sometimes women who look like men treat me gently as boys who tie one another’s shoes before a game of pickup. Warhol thought you another satyr in his menagerie. But in the moment when you became his world, and his life telescoped, I believe he saw beauty in the grays of the tortured steel.

3.

History has proven you the sane one, Valerie.

Your sistren would never imagine shooting a man for stealing their creation

because their tears are bullets made ready-to-wear

to oppress, the only freedom they know.

 

Your accusations against Warhol pale compared to conspiracies they spew

in service to the great white dick.

They punch down until their knuckles drag

and they break the earth to dwell in the sewer.

 

They would never imagine

your validation.

In the 80s you chose death before disintegration

to become the greatest of your generation.

 

In Bellevue for fifteen minutes

then you published SCUM to Pyrrhic silence.

Your metronome emotions fell to hateful voices

who turned the blurring numbers to termites.

 

Your vindication

came in the wheeze of a seagull, exhausted,

when I walked among the undulant tenderloins of humans

and looked for your bloated corpse in the blackened windows.

 

Your death came as slowly as his, and more lonely,

and out of respect I will never coddle my love

who pulled the trigger and missed.

You would be disgusted, Valerie, at white women today.

Yes I’ve said I was on the pill even though it’s a lie,
no men don’t cum inside you willy-nilly anyway nowadays,
would that they did, we’ve become so risk-averse as a society,
no one wants the insouciant one night stand leading
to an unplanned pregnancy, if they ever did,
childcare costs too much and all the men
are terminally figuring it out, or the ones pursuing you ask
if you’ve flicked your bean today while thinking of them,
that’s an ick right there, an instant turnoff
in a world of endless off ramps,
yet somehow you’re spreading your legs on command
for a man who calls you “girlie,”
it’s not so bad being praised as a girlie as you would think,
even if it sounds terminally unsexy,
some people just have the way with it,
know the magic code, the secret
domineering spirit that opens all doors,
puts those of a certain proclivity on their knees,
it’s not right or fair and it likely means
you’ll never have a child despite stated intentions in that direction,
barring a fated lapse aligning with the wishes of the stars,
would that their wishes were the same as mine for once,
absent that at least some regular sex would be nice,
I can lower the bar, just try me—just ask

12,735 listening now on Merlin, meet your local avian population,
hot migrating singles and the unicorns of the bird world,
the lost vagrant, cover girl of telephoto fame,
most of those birds die you know,
and I don’t travel to see them anymore
because I hate the feeling of being one of many,
of hunting out a reported sighting with the masses,
their high-powered binos and tactical vests,
no offense to any birders who may keep a more chic profile,
you can’t show up in that crowd and keep your self respect,
like good sex, bird sightings should be a gift of god,
happenstance, this meeting will only occur once,
ichigo ichie they say in the japanese tea ceremony,
which is a beautiful sentiment and very true
since the time I learned it was with my ex-fiance,
along with his best friend,
and one could reasonably conclude
this combination of people is unlikely to recur,
unless I were allowed to call a tribunal
and it’s important to abide by anti-carceral principles,

to move on, to make the train,
to accept what hasn’t happened,
slip between the cup and lip, generous
abundance of what life does offer,
daily exchange of citrus fruits with a beloved associate
or not so generous, answering
the degrading summons of the universe with ‘on my way,’
because what so-called nice men don’t understand
is I’ll simply argue with you about everything
unless put in my place, even if that sounds unfeminist,
I don’t really think of my sexual proclivities as part of my politics,
except insofar as women should be allowed to have a lot of it,
but I could use less family planning as a society personally,
it’s a good thing but it’s how I’m here single and childless,
when I could have been tied to an apron string somewhere,
I know it’s retrograde and I don’t really believe it,
I believe in the liberation of my people womankind,
I just think we didn’t consider all of the consequences,
but I’ll take them—it’s a kink, taking things,
so at least I’ve got that going for me,
that and the return of catbirds in spring to come,
the appreciation for a bird encounter,
the occasional awed observation of a red-tailed hawk
tearing into its dinner in the high branches, proving that sometimes,
there can be feasting too

A small half-gerbil woman, about the size of a penny, is polishing my smooth, metallic ass, a perfectly reflective surface in which everyone can see their own desires. Unfortunately, such a sight causes mayhem and disasters all over. Cars crash, people weep, and despair abounds wherever I shine my hot, metallic, round backside.

Once upon a time, there was a man. (I know that is hard to believe.)

He’d come look at my butt and, upon sight, speak in tongues, and when he’d look away, he’d completely forget what he was talking about. But every time he stared into my ass and spoke, he’d speak of the forgotten rings of reality, cut realms from the lost spires of deadly lifeforms, the ambitions of dead civilizations reclaiming life through hieroglyphical afterlife via symbols and contemplation.

How could a perfect geometric form (my ass) generate a symbolic and linguistic nexus of ancient civilizations that inspires insight into the history of eternity?

“Yeah, how?” says the half-gerbil woman, throwing the cleaning rag on her shoulder, triumphantly punctuating her hourly shift in the shining of my ass.

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud,” I respond, embarrassed by my not-quite navel-gazing.

My life is an answer to the question: “What if I looked at my own ass?”

And the answer is…not good.

I am heartbroken and lonely, my only friend a half-gerbil woman devoted to the cleaning of my ass, the maintenance of a perfect reflective gloss and conduit to ancient history, the secrets of the universe, some unknown underworld, or a combination of all three, as uncovered by the garbled speech of this horny, staring man.

This nameless gerbil-woman is always immaculately dressed in a suit and lives in a box in the corner of my room. Every day, this vaguely religious and severely routine-oriented woman listens to stories about my life…for what? She maintains a record of every single fact about my life, every occurrence fiercely held together in loving safekeeping by her attentive, holy mind. Calm, devoted, and completely neutered as far as I can tell, I once saw her sewing sweater sculptures (sculptures made out of sweaters), I think, because she was inspired by my life or in love with me or both. But recently, she stopped making art and has no idea what to do with herself.

She has all this energy saved up from listening to me, and it needs to go somewhere, to be released. And on this sunny day, with my ass causing infrastructural damage all over the metropolis, I decide I will find a way, out of gratitude for her monastic service and amazing listening skills, to give her some kind of sweet release, although she wouldn’t ask for it and will probably refuse it, clutching her pious purity like oxygen.

It’s not that I decide to kiss her but that I find myself floating and vibrating with desire closer to her lips until a kiss is the inevitable conclusion of what is happening to us in that park that day, that moment. The kiss is equally bizarre and life-altering, as if discovering swimming for the first time while wearing a suit made out of ceramics. It is a weird kiss. I never get my footing and feel uncomfortable the whole time. But this discomfort is life itself. What the hell is comfort? Death. I am in love with this awkward gerbilish woman.

In the midst of this, we hear the speaker of tongues. He is gazing, no doubt, at my round and glorious butt of all butts. Does he have a job? What kind of life is this? The speaker of tongues. This man just walks down the street and then becomes a vessel for some message transmitted through my reality-destroying ass? The gibberish summons an ancient civilization of neanderthals in raw daylight in public. These neanderthals use glowing rocks and Taoism technology to create life, like a Frankenstein’s monster of a neanderthal, but the monster wanders around sad and envious of the neanderthals so one day kills all the neanderthals and masters the science to build more monsters like herself, creating a world consisting only of monsters like herself. We see this mini-apocalypse unfold before our eyes.

Back to me and the tiny half-gerbil woman. With our kiss, a boundary is crossed, and I no longer rely on the nameless gerbil woman to record my life. I find a stone and start to carve into it the blank facts of my everyday life as honestly as I can. This violent act reconciles me with an understanding that representing my experience is always a degrading assault on the self-sufficiency of inert matter, a war long waged between words and things since the dawn of history and civilization…a war still being waged every second.

Meanwhile, like a soundtrack to our romance, the speaker of tongues begins to offer some kind of ominous prophecy or something but is too encumbered by language to articulate himself, as if placing the concept of zero like an animal into a maze and asking it to make its way to the exit to deliver a critical, time-sensitive, life-saving diagnosis to a dying patient at the other end but taking so long that it begins to mold at the peripheries of itself from zero into an ugly oneness—a depressing prospect for a creature whose identity centers around the chic void and glamorous emptiness permeating everything everywhere ever. We just can’t understand him.

The gerbil woman, now casting off a weighty and rigid prudishness, is bursting from herself with eagerness to have sex, as if floating above the laws of physics through pure desire.

The next day, I’m standing on the street. Like I do. There is a friendly woman standing next to me weeping, seeing her dreams of becoming a decadent ice cream chef in New England and unabashedly pursuing her repressed lesbian crushes. She is beautiful and, I think, attracted to me. I’m not really that into her, and, not sure why I do this, but I decide to show her my whole ass. She notices there is no hole.

“No butthole?” she asks.

“Nothing can go inside it,” I reply confidently.

“Sharon,” she says. “That’s what everyone calls me. And you?”

“I don’t know my name,” I tell her and float, suspended in a sad stupidity, then put my skirt back on.

For a long time, I wondered: Who made my butt? Where did it come from? What is this world? Is this world a perceptual lie invented to hide us from the meaty truth, and did the curvature and sleekness of my shiny round ass destroy the limits of reality with a great strange vortex that will eventually pull everyone and everything into it, not like a black hole but like a fold that doesn’t destroy physical matter but sends it to another way of operating like a reorganization of space, a Revolution in Existence, a Chic Gloss Beyond the World!? I don’t know.

She takes me to a corner I didn’t even know existed behind my apartment building and shows me it: another metallic ass.

“I’m making you a new one,” she says, wiping her tears from before away from her face. There is bird shit all over it.

I’m insulted and speak as if without enough air: “A replacement ass? How long have you been planning this?’

“A while.”

“Well there’s bird shit all over it so—”

“—I can wash it off.”

“I’m not wearing that! My ass must be…shitless.”

I guess renting a studio is too expensive, so she’s been making this makeshift metal ass in an alleyway like an overconfident inventor in the 1800s before the dawn of humility that came after electricity and Wikipedia.

Then she takes me to her apartment. Actually, it’s right across the hall from mine. Weird I never met her before. She takes me into a bright kitchen in a mostly dim apartment, lights beaming out through the darkness. There are these little glowing creatures that look like voluptuous feminine fairies all over the counters. They’re really charming. They act in unison sometimes, not out of conformity but out of missing the pretense or sin of separation to influence them as individuals with distinct selves, as if operating with an understanding of themselves as totally connected to the world and each other. They are so graceful and kind and loving and free from any kind of jagged violence, suddenness, or impatience. Everything about these creatures makes me think they must be angels, but I don’t know. Then she puts her penis on the kitchen counter, and the angels scatter like roaches when you turn on the light.

“Take a look at this,” she says.

The penis opens up like a trailer, and there are cartoon skunks inside smoking long, French, feminine cigarettes, puffing smoke rings into the air, discussing world politics like it were interior decoration, like “maybe we move Germany into the middle of the ocean.” I can’t really hear what is being said, or maybe I’m doubting my hearing because of the unbelievability of what is being said by the cartoon skunks.

“I’ve been watching you,” she says “and the speaker of tongues. What are these ancient civilizations?” she asks, the cartoon skunks staring at me with arms crossed like backup muscle.

Suddenly, I feel pursued in a very conspiracy/paranoid/this-is-bad way and awkwardly try to say the things that make me the least desirable…kind of impossible.

“Oh, uh, that guy. I think he’s just on drugs…”

I run out the front door and steal the metal ass replica. “It’s based on my own ass, I have a right to own this,” I think to myself.

Back in my apartment, I am standing naked, looking at this replica ass. The gerbil woman, OCD-ishly cleaning my ass with laser focus, pulls away at the end of her shift, disinterested in the world outside her clockwork of tasks, jumps down, walks over to the ass, and puts it on nonchalantly, giggling to herself. I turn around, and we shine our asses at each other, reflecting each other, and finally, this minuscule gerbilish woman grows to my size, and we tell each other our names.

I look around my room, now loud with kissing sounds, and see my dad in the corner, him in the grave, or at least how I think he looks down there, mostly bone by now but still some skin and tissue left. I don’t flinch at this or scream. I see him every time I have sex, since the funeral. I just see him. Right when I start to wonder what he’d think if he could see me, there he is. His corpse doesn’t deter me from fucking, which makes me feel like a pervert. Instead of taking up abstinence, I’ve kept on bringing people back from the bar or inviting people over from one of the dating apps.

In between my legs, I see knots in her hair and fight the urge to detangle them with my fingers. She finds my clit, and I moan her name. My roommate is gone for the night, so I moan it rather loud.

My roommate was in the kitchen when I got the call that my dad was shot at a bar in the part of our town referred to as the boonies, where one of his friends had lived since his wife left him for a twenty-three-year-old pastor. Dad went out to meet the friend for a drink and a game of pool when someone’s son from the neighborhood came in with a shotgun and Matthew 24:15 written up and down his arms. I looked up the verse after the fact and found nothing to kill for.

I crawl down her body, leaving kisses and spit on her torso. Her pussy tastes a bit like nickels in the rain, but I don’t mind. And it makes sense when she says, a little embarrassed, that she’s about to get her period. I tell her not to worry. I don’t see my dad but know if I looked in the corner, he’d still be there. She came twice during ten minutes of small flicks.

It’s just the two of us after sex. Dad doesn’t stay for pillow talk. She lies on my chest and asks what I do for work. I don’t realize until then how little we talked before I invited her back here. When I tell her I’m a writer, she asks what I’m working on. I lie and say a book, my go-to answer even when I’m not working on one. It’s better than the truth, which is I haven’t written anything except for lazy accounts of one night stands in months. I don’t even bother changing the names anymore.

She’s a paralegal for a firm in Pasadena. The job is mostly paperwork, she says. We lie there in silence for about thirty seconds before she asks if writing is my only source of income. I lie and say no. The truth, that the two dollars per word is the only money coming in, is less attractive. She doesn’t ask what the other source of income is, which makes me think she can tell I’m lying.

She doesn’t stay the night, and I don’t sleep well, too busy wondering when I’ll be able to fuck without my dad watching.

The bliss of demise closed everything
All fronts, no veneers

Words you beg will never leave my mouth
Milk me like a cow

And I never unpacked all the boxes, yeah
And my cats shit on your couch, yeah

Gates golden, swing shut
Grit my teeth, I spitspeak back

Round the corner from The Candyshop
Territorial aggression, forced emission

Where All The Girls Sing
La-La-La-Fucking-Money

And you are always out
…La-La-La-Fucking-La

The Cum Cow’s Regress

Ever since man created the Abrahamic religions, the genesis of patriarchal takeover worldwide, the cum cow has been in decline.

In this our year of the Bovine Divine 2026, and for at least the past hundred years, our renderings of the celestial cum cow are exploitable image macros. “When your client asks if you can do it cheaper,” and half the cum cow is fine art, while the rest is crudely drawn.

We allowed pre-pubescent boys and post-pubescent men to render the celestial cum cow, and what we got were a child’s drawing of sex. We got Juggworth’s Jigglers jiggy-fucked all cumtittlyhumptious: wash it down with Jizzy Lifting Drinks, take ya straight to LoOOompaland!

Is this the monstrous masculine’s, and The Dick Inside’s, way of trying to get back to the celestial cum cow?

Where are the fully realized, embodied renderings of the celestial cum cow in our times? Somewhere, we settled for the stick figure, after making too many copies of an original long effaced and overwritten.

Our renderings of the celestial cum cow are facsimiles of a palimpsest.

What we have is failure to latch.

What we have is intimacy phobia. Intimacy becomes more terrifying the more it is feared; the more it is feared, the more it is avoided; the more it is avoided, the more it becomes a thing of the past.

The Cum Cow’s Progress

We must go backward to look forward, to the original cum cow, the Bovine Divine, to remember, to re-member, to divine a way forward, to take our cum vows, to return to the dairy class.

What we have is the terrestrial cum cow. What we want is the celestial cum cow.

What we have is the gang bang. What we want is the shakti temple.

What we have is the profane. What we want is the profane and sacred as one.

The celestial cum cow is the cum cow that restores intimacy, showers the world in milky diamond droplets of cum.

The celestial cum cow is wet nurse to the human race, the Great Mother’s way of nutting in the face of the monstrous masculine, reverse-bukkake. To nut in the face of the monstrous masculine, and all humanity, is to do the service of the heavenly cow, and do humanity a service.

A-nutting we will do, a-nutting we will go, hi-ho the dairy-o, the cum cow in the deep dell.

It ain’t over ‘til the celestial cum cow sings and the cum cows cum home.

At midnight, the dungeon opens, and everyone starts slowly descending the stairs. The tolerable electronic music from the dance floor above doesn’t fade. This helps us delude ourselves into thinking it’ll muffle any sounds a paddle, hand, or mouth can make.

The spanking bench is positioned in the middle of the room. The dom working a flogger on a man in his mid-40s is a young girl with pale skin and auburn princess curls, a welcome departure from the usual tattoos and leather-bound dress of the other femdoms tonight. The line behind her is already two men deep. Everyone is circled around, mouths salivating, everyone except the girl beside me who introduces herself as asexual. She just loves to watch. She sees the bench calling to me like the stage calling for those with the right amount of courage and lack of self-preservation.

You should do it. She opens the left side of her trench coat and reveals a store of small red and black leashes. A young man with a red one walks by. I barely see the man who’s pulling him, before the bottom shoos the man away so he can greet his friend. The girl makes him promise to meet her back upstairs in about 20 minutes. The bottom says, Maybe closer to 30? She agrees then turns to tell me, I put one on him. I think you guys would love it.

She turns to my dom, who’s my boyfriend irl, but I want more than that here. BDSM is not always a pretense for sex. It is a pretense for power exchange. However, as a submissive through and through, for me, it is a part of sex. I love topping from the bottom, getting you to tell me how smart I am while we both know you’re the smarter one.

I can tell boyfriend doesn’t like my moaning, like when it’s just me and him but now it’s in front of everyone, doesn’t like the way my pain commands everyone in the room and how this is a pleasure he’s never been able to give me alone. He pulls at my leash as the femdom spanks me, but the way I’m positioned, her face is all I see. We smile at each other. She knows who’s in charge.

At No. 10 Poplar Way, there were two kinds of people:

Women and abusers.

Women who represented the oppressed party everywhere.
Women who always found a way.
Women who did not live adjunct to but in spite of men.

The hatstand in the hallway was crooked, like everything else in the house. ‘Cos fixing things was a man’s job, and men certainly weren’t welcome indoors.

Olive used to say, A man can always put on his hat and leave. So the hatstand stood bare.

Olive was the maiden-aunt of the family. Had she been fair, she might’ve married, but she’d been built like a skilletful of bubble’n’squeak.

So instead, she stuck by her sister. Olive watched on as her pretty sibling’s good-for-nothing husband gambled, philandered, and furled his unruly fists. ‘Til one day, he sent her sister flying right through a stained-glass window, which disfigured her. After that, she went mad and eventually got sent to the loony bin. Olive stepped up to be “matriarch,” and that’s why her portrait is hung over the stove.

Oh, she thought about poisoning the old bastard’s supper every day. But she never did because:

That’s not how women endure, the girls chimed in unison.

This story was family, chapter and verse.

Then he met a younger woman, the spit of her sister before the accident, and they eloped together, to the city. That’s a man for you.

Her sister had a baby girl, and that daughter grew up to be Mama Hazel. Mama Hazel went on to birth two daughters, and they were called Clover and Clem. Hazel sustained all four of them on hefty alimony payments, having taken her wealthy ex-husband to the cleaners for being a shitfaced, lying hound.

It’s true to say Clover & Clem came from a long line of women survivors. And the key to surviving was:

Look pretty, and make no fuss.

Clover was herself surviving (secretly) as a sugar baby. True to the season, she’d just been dumped.

But Daddy Klaus! It’s Christmastime! she’d exasperated over text.

Despite having it drilled into her that men are solely a means to an end, Clover had a romantic disposition and was still hoping to buck the family heirloom of heartbreak and disillusionment.

Clem, too, was surviving. She wasn’t so sure that she was “a girl.” If she wasn’t a girl, she definitely didn’t feel like a brute. She contemplated the pictures of saints around the house. Some of them looked so androgynous. Maybe she, too, could be as holy as a breastless martyr. If the most feminine thing about Clem was her melancholia…she could empathise with women by suffering in silence.

The family were sat around the kitchen table signing cards, cards that had certainly missed the last Christmas post:

Seasons Greetings.

From,

Hazel, Clover, & Clem
And Olive, who lives on in our hearts

Abruptly, someone knocked the window.

(*It’s overfamiliar to knock at the window, isn’t it? The type of thing that only a friend does when they’re impatient to impart gossip.)

The women looked up. It was Auntie Kat.

There had been a number of years when Mama Hazel’s friend Kat had been living with them. She’d been going through a “bad” patch with her “bad” husband. During that time, when the girls had got home from school, Auntie Kat would be laid out on the sofa with a migraine or locked in the bathroom with an anxious bowel and a cigarette. Their home was a refuge of perpetual succour for long-suffering wives and their preferred smokes.

Kat went on to ditch the “bad” husband, after which she’d been getting by making medical claims. Her relationship with their mother had soured on the back of an argument from yesteryear. ‘Cos Hazel believed that women held each other in times of strife. But Kat was always pulling up the drawbridge and putting herself first.

That woman’s a piece of work, Hazel often said.

Which was true. The tricks up Kat’s fur-lined sleeves were many and varied and each more wicked than the last.

It’s a Christmas Stranger! she remarked, eyebrow raised.

Kat waltzed up to the kitchen table with a bottle of 2019 Beaujolais and slammed it down among the envelopes.

Ladies!

Great-Aunt Olive (who is dead but not forgotten) was certainly looking down on Auntie Kat with condemnation from her seat in heaven at that moment. Her face presided over the entire scene with a frozen expression, judging behind her eternally stiff lips.

He’s got six weeks to live, she said. Six weeks, then his two million buckeroonies go to yours truly.

Turns out, she’d gone off and married for money. At 60 years old, she’d become a later-life gold digger, proving it’s never too late to open your legs for a nest egg.

Not that she’s a looker, said Mama Hazel.

Ah, but I’ve got what they call charisma, said Kat, poking her décolletage.

Clover went to plug in her burner phone, having been inspired to get back on the hunt for a whale.

People die at Christmas time, and that’s a fact.

Merry Christmas, you’re shortly to be a widow, said Hazel. Are you bereft?

A rich widow—sure! I dare say I’ll miss the companionship, answered Kat.

Kat’s elderly husband (87, no heir) had a wedge of shares in a chain store for hardware sundries.

You told me he was a right old bigot.

Uh huh. He’s a fascist with a limp dick and a gangrenous limb. But my politics can be very flexible for a price.

Hazel had been made aware of this marriage-of-convenience, and to be truthful, it had her conflicted. Marriage was a holy union. But men were a stipend. In that sense, Kat had really cut to the chase.

Don’t speak ill of the dying in this house. Hazel crossed herself. And stop showing off to the girls. He’s been faecally incontinent for the last year now. There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world, and I’ll tell you that for nothing.

Faecally incontinent…BUT he recently gave me power of attorney over his health! So it’s no frills from here on, after the stoma bag, Kat answered.

The Beaujolais was from her husband’s wine cellar, and there was plenty more where that came from. Kat topped up Clover’s glass, wearing the expression of a charmingly sozzled shrew.

Now, it’s just formalities really… The hospital want him in a care home. And he’s got the money; but that’s my money now. And of course, he wants to die at home, but it’s not up to him.

What are you going to do with your newfound fortune, Auntie Kat? asked Clem.

Invest in my future. That’s what’s shrewd and proper—but afterwards, I’ll sort these. She pointed to her hooded eyes.

Clem thought about the bits of her body she’d like to take a blade to.

When he’s dead, I’ll have a yard sale, she said. And you girls can help me out. You know what, Hazel, I’ll gift you a new dish rack, to replace this old thing.

She knocked the pile of tentatively-balanced cartons propping up the makeshift dish rack.

The whole thing clattered to the floor.

What’s that? A telescope? she asked, pointing to the tool in the window, which had been unobscured by the deluge of fallen brick-a-brack.

Heavens! What for?!

Clover and Clem looked bashful. Mama Hazel had a dirty habit of spying on the boys-next-door.

…to keep an eye out! Those boys are becoming men, and goodness knows when they’ll start to prey on the girls.

They’re kids, Hazel. Let them be. Have you ever spoken to the boys-next-door? asked Auntie Kat, folding the telescope in on itself emphatically and shoving it into her mock croc handbag. Hazel snatched at the handbag, and the ladies began to grapple playfully.

GILFs in your area, wrestling for an eyeful of step-son’s boner, Lamented Clem to her sister.

My money’s on Auntie Kat, Clover retorted.

Her freshly-recharged burner phone glowed up from the windowsill.

Post from the North Pole! she exclaimed.

$GentlemanProvider$_

Hey Baby, this time you’ve found yourself a REAL man.
R U wet for me?

Clover and Clem peered out of the window, looking for the neighbours’ boys.

Do you think they even know who we are? asked Clem

Everyone knows who we are—the scorned women of Poplar Way.

Do you think they think we’re pretty?

A girl’s either pretty or she’s not. And the ones who aren’t better be wet for it.

Clover went to compose a reply to $GentlemanProvider$

It doesn’t matter if you’re wet or not…as long as you don’t make a fuss when they stick it in, said Clem.

You talk like an ugly girl sometimes.

Clover crafted her reply and pressed send:

Lucky_Cl0ver_

Baby’s snow cone gone all slushy—Make it snow, Santa!

I’m up to my ears in
cum
I’m a cum dumpster
They’ve said
spitters are quitters and
that’s the truth
Sometimes quitting is okay. Men go crazy
when you swallow with
their cock in your mouth like
they can’t believe it’s happening to them
Silent and white burn blanks
their brains out like a matchbox
They think even less
than usual
They should kiss you after
I want them to kiss you after
I want them to kiss me after
The best man I had
was the worst cum I’ve ever tasted:
like nebulous poison and a hard rock
covered in moss, turning over and over
inside a wave on the Mediterranean Sea
Cum in my belly riding
the train and then at the seaport
while I eat ice-cream cake
Throat goat summer and half full fall and all I got
was the memory of sour
ballsack. Put that on your vacation tee shirt
I’m not a pervert
I just have writer’s block

Downtown, a someone touches the neck
of a gas lamp
The corner is lit up
into the transsexual night
I am on the sidewalk dying
to destroy desire
It makes the poppers
bounce back
It slaughters the sting
from the slap
on my face
that I asked for

We came during the heatwave
The men make me sweat
There’s a group of them in the park
next to Billy Brunch and one by the swing
His shirt pulled up to show
sweaty hairy belly
I have loose plans with some man from Feeld
I want to lose my virginity again
I desperately need to exfoliate my ass
Maybe I’ll buy a scrub
What do these men talk about together?
What do they discuss on the net of the basket swing?
They share space
They exfoliate their asses
They talk about dreams
One man said I should make a google form for post-coital questions
I was thinking the same thing
But then the questions changed:
First they were
Was that gay sex?
Did I feel like a man? A woman?
But now the only question is
Are any of them worth
Breasts out in the park at midnight?

I recite a poem out loud
On my knees, back arched
They both crack
I keep missing yoga class
The old bedframe creeks
Just the lyrics to Door
There’s a cock in my pants
shaped like a vibrator
I keyword search hot gay kissing on Twitter
I cum and I cry and songs start playing
in my mind; When I Thought of You,
Miss Y, If You Don’t Know, Heart Out
stuff that’s free
on soundcloud

SADFISHER 

Characters

Dopamine

Sadfisher

Lotus-Eaters

Bots

PLAY

Dopamine: Reward prediction error. Signal alert.

Don’t freak out… I’m at the hospital…

Victim crisis reward system. Reward is as infinite as it is narrow.

Youthful hope. A power ballad. A blazing, chronic anticipation.

Plunder the midbrains. Plunder the randoms. Dogs make eye contact when they shit. Hook the hypos. Fill the abyss of within. There is more space inside an atom than matter. Stop being invisible. Stop being miserable. This is a hopeful structure. Do you want to hear the clock ticking echo inside of you or a round of applause? This is what you want. You want to be drunk in gold applause; satiated, fattened, gout-ridden and immobile by applause.

Desirable stimulus, undesirable stimulus, sophisticated stimulus, unsophisticated stimulus, aversive, noxious, whatever. The dopaminergic megabrain project. The spike frequency. They will hang in slumber. All thumbs and numb lips. The foam is building. Strongly excited. The mesolimbic climb. The gushing of the pyramid. The creamy spray. The stimulus beam. High firing rate. Angels fluttering up my triangles. A choir of castratos in soprano. The creamy music. I am not a fussy creature. I am quantitative. There is no condition, only conditioning. Nothing matures, this is a velocitous loop. Substanceless substance. A recurrent hollow. Swoon. Liquidation. Gorged python. Fast digestion. A recurrent hollow. Swoon. Liquidation.

Prompt: Female influencer with pink hair in a hospital bed who is foaming at the mouth. Heartbreaking photojournalism.

Sadfisher: Why pink hair?

Dopamine: According to psychologists, pink hair attracts sympathetic people.

Post.

Don’t freak out… I’m at the hospital… Anyhoo…

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

Screenshot this

Can I try this dress on my huge AIR BAG?

THROAT GOAT

IM sorry that happened to you.

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You’re breathing outta of somebody else lungs.

Can you guess my age 😋

Watch this precocious toddler base jump off a skyscraper in Singapore.

Inbox me with your cash app tag or PayPal link for today blessing and follow me back right now

FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

Cavities are a psyop.

Easy way to Valhalla

Watch for more contexts

Truth nuke.

You are a psyop.

MASSIVE fruits from Costa Rica.

How should investors view 2024? Modest growth, falling inflation and rate cuts aren’t a recipe for a boom. Geopolitics add a loud note of caution. But we see a manageable slowdown ahead. Discover our macroeconomic views & investment strategy implications.

ive seen bigger soursops in the philippines

The Chainlink hackathon is your chance to get a job in Web3.

Is anyone sick of irrelevant replies?

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Aww, what happened?

I am sorry that happened to you.

I love your perspective on this issue

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Thanks, Jennifer.

Dopamine: Reward prediction error. Signal alert.

I slipped in the hospital bathroom on a bag of slimy old hysterectomies. Stimming on the bathroom floor. Can’t reach the emergency cord. I can’t even breathe. Inside screams.

No.

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): I was so distraught I panicked, pulled my pants down and whacked off.

Dopamine: Fidget. Fidget. I am baby eight little bean. Bee boo. Bee boo. I use Fire Blast if you no like me. Send me kiss kiss likey smile.

No.

Channelling Kate.

Ride the trend. Massage the trend. Hit the throttle. Chase the freakout. Every woman for herself.

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): Claps for the attempt.

Dopamine: Prompt: Female influencer with pink hair wearing a crown in a hospital bed. Fashion photography.

Little wholesome girl. Little wholesome girl who hides a great power to milk.

Saturate, satiate, saturate, satiate, saturate, satiate, saturate, satiate, saturate, satiate, and so on.

Post.

Channelling Catherine, Princess of Wales. Bitten by endless suffering.

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

About as real as Kate.

i am sorry that happened to you

Ballistic piss bag.

While it’s important to destigmatize discussions around health, critics argue that posting such images may inadvertently romanticize illness, overshadowing the gravity of the situation.

Screenshot this

HOW IS KATE GIVING EVIDENCE IN COURT CASES????

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Double down

AS FOR KING SAUSAGE FINGERS WITH A PEDO BRO IS HE HIDING ?

Not all message can be reply here Kindly click on the link below to message directly in my private telegram

Diana butterfly forever with the angles 🦋😇😇😇

Wow this is amazing! 🐢

What absolutely perfect curtseys

think marriage mess him up. He was better looking and smile more. Now he doesn’t look that great.

You will face many defeats in life, never let yourself be defeated.

Spread the word, make your mark, and let’s redefine data together. xDataRevolution

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Has there been any serious ‘proof of life’ yet ?

Hold on there jolly chaps. Our AI pics failed but our robot clones are still being fine tuned. Won’t be long now.

These hospital selfies are beyond tragic😔

How should investors view 2024? Modest growth, falling inflation and rate cuts aren’t a recipe for a boom. Geopolitics add a loud note of caution. But we see a manageable slowdown ahead. Discover our macroeconomic views & investment strategy implications.

I am thinking this could be deep fake/AI – it feels very off

U think, petal!

I am sorry that happened to you

Sandra thinks the pope has drip 🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦🤦

AI freaks

Will the penny ever drop?

Arizona should have a coastline.

we are cooked as a species

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I am sorry that happened to you.

Can i be your favorite dinner?

he’s subbed to my 0F cause im so sexxxy

AI is killing cyberspace with its inevitable spam and noise. Not our actual reality. Humans will likely decrease their digital presence as the cyber environment gets less and less human. The internet will become a cold & lifeless.

Im gonna fuck the video, Ben.

🐯 cute little bites

Did he ask you to peg him?

Is that a piss drip? Nice job AI.

Horses protesting the invention of cars

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OK, but what’s the solution? Lot’s of angry angst, but what process is better? The human condition is heavy thing.

Umm old AI – level up.

Keep the true energy flowing!!!

Check new post

I’m sorry but look at this women 70+ years she gave for a picture to be annihilated in this way? look at her eyes? All the ones who speak in this way, look at the bruises on her hands yet still she sat in this way the media disgust me? Harry you have hurt our country!

Britain needs a few years of millitary dictatorship

Fuck off BOOTLICKER

We been knew

Expand on that

Relax babes we are just living in a simulation you are safe.

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No, Kate’s not “working from home” you gaslighting parasites.

and they’re showering aluminum down on us from the skies

Lipid nanoparticles go everywhere and cannot be targeted to specific tissues.

Detach from normie culture, become as sovereign as possible, find the others.

I can exclusively reveal that I have received a telepathic message from Kate. She asks us to help her. Her anguish is real.

Link or get out

That’s some spicy tea.

William is an EVIL fuckpig

There are no cabal members in gitmo. They are in Antarctica.

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Reminds me of Coronation Street in the 80’s when the actor playing Stan Ogden had died…kept his character going for a month. Just a recording of his voice Shouting down to Hilda “where’s me tea?”

She’s in a bunker with the kids. You’ll find out why in 18 days.

Sending turbo leukemia his way

bahahaha

Last night I was lucky to be among the first group in New York to get to taste chicken grown from a droplet of muscle cells. It was…. DELICIOUS. Succulent, moist, the right texture. Chicken as it should be. Even though full commercialization is a way off, it made me excited for the future.

Dopamine: Thousands of eaters clamoring over you. I told you so. I made magic. UHHHHH WOOP WOOP!

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

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I don’t know who needs to hear this right now, but nobody in the Royal family actually has cancer.

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Oprah finna go out like scarface when they raid her crib

Louis is a weird-looking kid. Not sorry. I’ve found him ugly since he was a baby. He’s just cringey.

How should investors view 2024? Modest growth, falling inflation and rate cuts aren’t a recipe for a boom. Geopolitics add a loud note of caution. But we see a manageable slowdown ahead. Discover our macroeconomic views & investment strategy implications.

look like disease victims 🤮

Some of these comments are hideous. Go and check yourselves. Do better.

Dopamine: My head is squirting. The tide of life. UGGGHHHHHHH.

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

Uncanny Valley look like dead human creatures. The eyes are the first thing you will notice. They dry out in a couple of minutes.

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Like your boss who always smiles, but never with his eyes.

alternately, that there are evolutionary benefits to beating up autistics

I’m with you, Debs. This stinks to the high heavens.

A lot of the stigmatization around neurodivergence stems from this same idea.

Interbreeding with other hominids was commonplace. Don’t kink shame.

Louder please

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I want to be reabsorbed back into unbounded telesis.

and just as if Kate would actually get chemotherapy, Jesus wept

They’re giving it access to the military.

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This is one of the most fascinating fun facts I’ve ever heard in my life

Ok this stiffened me a bit

hahaha FML

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It’s all so dumb and tiresome.

Grifter

What the heck? Can someone translate this? Why are children in bags?

They’re not dead. Keep up

Turn around and step away from the crack.

How should investors view 2024? Modest growth, falling inflation and rate cuts aren’t a recipe for a boom. Geopolitics add a loud note of caution. But we see a manageable slowdown ahead. Discover our macroeconomic views & investment strategy implications.

She is becoming gradually more ethereal… more like a concept than a real person.

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I cant take any of these comments seriously, there hilarious.

Cancer Slurper.

NUTTER

Im sorry that happened to you.

Lol calm yer tits, paranoid ones

Stanley cups have lead in them

That’s why I’m replacing all of my blood slowly with yours.

says Nutella biscuit eating Julie

Dopamine: Darling, look at all this co-dependency. The animal hate. You got them.

Bot (echo from phone): Dive into the ultimate data rave

Dopamine: Reward prediction error. Signal alert.

Bot (echo from phone): Dive into the ultimate data rave

Dopamine: Create a sense of urgency.

Regurgitate.

Beef it up. Beef beef beef it up.

Emergency labiaplasty because of vascular perforation due to vaginal migraines.

Sadfisher: What even is that? Spontaneous vaginal combustion correction?

Dopamine: Yes!

Sadfisher: But it’s humiliating.

Dopamine: But if it works.

Sadfisher: But it’s humiliating.

Dopamine: It isn’t even your main. Grow up. It is a basic cringe to swallow. Suffering and fruit, suffering and fruit, suffering and fruit is the code. The eaters have an infinite appetite for virtue.

Sadfisher: And trolling.

Dopamine: You are the troll. Host the exposed crackhead. Humiliation is formative. It demonstrates flexibility to overcome. You must beat your highest score. Think performance. Think metrics. Dangle your novel, lab-grown, pigskin, cunty pink lips. Serve cunt. The culture wants chronic vaginal migraines to be a thing. Exhale gutsy. This one is a safe bet, I swear.

Prompt: Female vaginal transplant in pain. HD fashion photography in a surgery.

Wrong.

Agonizing vaginal transplant in surgery. HD fashion photography. She has pink hair.

Vaginal transplant in surgery. HD fashion photography.

Like or you’ll catch it through the photo.

Post.

Emergency labiaplasty because of vascular perforation due to persistent vaginal migraines. Back-to-back procedures are wearing me out. But happy to advance science today.

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

cloudy with a chance of meatballs

Nailed it.

People are making $16 a day with Sora. Here’s the prompts you need to do the same

Money money money…MOOONEY

What?

UR going to get left behind my man

the algorithm knows I’m down bad for her

I am sorry that happened to you.

How should investors view 2024? Modest growth, falling inflation and rate cuts aren’t a recipe for a boom. Geopolitics add a loud note of caution. But we see a manageable slowdown ahead. Discover our macroeconomic views & investment strategy implications.

I am sorry that happened to you.

Screenshot this.

how big is Ur pussy?

Some way that wing gone be hot with lemon pepper sprinkle

2024 is the year the vaginal migraines get left behind.

This is wholesome

I’m not crying, you’re crying. 😭

Goes right into the “absolutely do not care bucket”.

Yup

Hi, my name is Mark Johnson from Channel 300 News. Are you available for an interview for our 6:30 PST show?

terrible at this munchie gig

That’s so rotted ijbol

why even fuckin live?

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

nobody cares

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can’t people be normal and just write fanfiction

Vida = 27 in Reverse Reduction. In Freemasonry, the number 27 derives its importance from the fact that it is produced by the multiplication of the square of three by three, thus: 3 X 3 X 3 = 27.

the worst facet of capitalism made manifest

AI-evangelist here representing

God cannot accept imperfection. He excludes imperfection. That is hell.

“content” addiction is the worst disease of current society. Genuinely.

A video of you killing someone will be useless but the micro droplet of blood on your sleeve will get you.

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

Hey at least now maybe we can get some real UFO footage

And most importantly not blurry

Probably sitting in piss, this one.

very sad, messed up girl

The Chainlink hackathon is your chance to get a job in Web3.

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It’s the me me me era,

Mind reading will become a thing.solved

LOL fake convulsions.

How should investors view 2024? Modest growth, falling inflation and rate cuts aren’t a recipe for a boom. Geopolitics add a loud note of caution. But we see a manageable slowdown ahead. Discover our macroeconomic views & investment strategy implications.

My blueprint to having ridiculously good meetings:

Shining the metallic boots that’ll one day step on our fragile necks.

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Ikr omg

The more I watch it, the more cursed it looks

Fever dream generator

AI is like a flamethrower or a tank, they’re both powerful, but when SHTF, it won’t be possible to make your own ammunition or fuel from the ground up.

Grateful for that.

what do you think about unabomber?

Pussy in bio.

It’s good to have a skill

id let you poop on my floor 🍆

In that situation, foraging and permaculture become more powerful.

Weird.

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Learn about local plants, trees and animals, learn how to tie knots, how to start and maintain fire, filter water etc

It was all a Ponzi scheme

your not well.

BLOCKED

The uncanny valley implies that at one point we had a need to avoid creatures that looked like humans but weren’t.

it’s time for your booster shot

That’s my twin brother in the jar.

Not necessarily humans. T elling the difference between a stick and a stick like snake has been a constant evolutionary pressure.

Just barked at my phone

they put edible microchips in parmesan

Brain injury

Yeah, there used to be like 6 species of humans that lived at the same time. We wiped out the other 5.

Dopamine: UGGGHHHHHHUGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH. SCRAMBLED RELIEF >>>>

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Enjoy the arthritis

2024 is the year the vaginal migraines get left behind.

The universe is huge robot. Particles on earth are sperma zoids.

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

You are a spermazoid

“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” — Jesus

Chunks of prolapse.

PUSSY IN BIO

BLOCKED

I think you have a prolapsed anus, love.

Blocked

me too.

Defo

Lol go outside

You can see its head in the photo.

Elephant.

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

A horse-drawn cart passing through a section cut out of the base of a giant sequoia tree, California, 1879.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

The Chainlink hackathon is your chance to get a job in Web3.

Dopamine: Reward prediction error. Signal alert.

Drama dump.

DIY corrective emergency labiaplasty?

No.

Is fisting during pre-op normal?

No. Too mainstream.

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): @elonmusk come get this weirdo

Dopamine: The surgeon performed ritual castration on me while I was under anaesthetic. He has stolen my clitoris and will not cooperate with the authorities. Pray for me.

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): He beat the Dickens out of Kate.

Dopamine: Sticky Satanic snack. Fuck men. Trauma the size of a country. You will never laugh again. Pelvic brace. Pelvis deactivated. Every minute a female is abuse-coded. Trauma holder. Trauma holder. Trauma holder. Be bolder.

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): Man turns on 20000 watt light bulb

Dopamine: Farm one audience then farm another. The sick animals. The insect chatter. Feeding behaviour. The clout space. The rigorous sadfish. The mentalist. You ejaculate hypnotic disaster. Sodomized and sodomizer. You wear a backless hospital gown with an XXL strap-on. You are fertilizing the hospital. Everything is mangled in the loop.

Magic is manipulating the nothing. Then filling the geese by gavage. Choke. Dislocated jawbone slack-jawed stuffed oiled gaping gulf. Splutter. Like. Bubbles. Rush. Banquet. She ate.

Prompt: Bandaged female crotch with sad face emoji.

No.

Bandaged female crotch. Bloody bandage. Hospital bed. Heartbreaking photojournalism.

Post.

The surgeon performed ritual castration on me while I was under anesthetic. He has stolen my clitoris and will not cooperate with the authorities. I’m being patient-blamed. Pray for me. I can’t go on being used like this. My spirit is crushed.

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

AI slop

Why is your AI bellybutton bleeding lol.

95% of getting along with women is recognizing that they’re targeted by psyops at 10x the rate you are and having an appropriate amount of patience with that

IM sorry that happened to you.

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Comfort eat, babe

Everyone must CONFORM to the message

The ideal state of consciousness.

Watch subliminals to grow it back

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

Mate, this is the BME Pain Olympics for women.

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The more frightening they get the closer I feel to God

Nice reminder, soldier

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

NUDES IN BIO

Bitch lasagna 💞

Thank goodness for the update.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

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Fruitloop

You deserve to be quadriplegic.

You’re not experiencing her suffering, and nor do you share the perspectives through which she attempts to make sense of it.

It’s ‘Citizen of the Earth’ nonsense. Get it so far in the bin.

Boomers raised loosers

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

crazy to me that yall still don’t know the difference between loose and lose

Be wary of unearned wisdom and all that.

Was he hot?

Limbic capitalism. The attention economy.

NUDES IN BIO.

sir you do realize this app comes with a “delete app” button

Nudes in profile.

Sunk cost fallacy

Life has peaked. Pre-internet I dreamed of such drama.

EFGGGGGGGGGGG.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

People have lived beyond their usefulness to the great machine.

Let us use our education to help one another, and not to try and show superiority

over the other.

People need god in their lifes

Everyone must conform to the MESSAGE

Watch subliminals to grow it back

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hahaha

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

i support this

I fucking hate when the microwave beeps for a second or third time after heating food. I KNOW THERE IS FOOD INSIDE OFF YOU, I PUT IT THERE!!! WHY DO YOU CARE IF IT GOES COLD, YOU ARE A MICROWAVE, IT’S YOUR JOB TO REHEAT IT.

ROFL WAFFLE

I will not start the Butlerian Jihad but I am willing to go along with it.

This happened to my cousin.

PLEASE PLACE ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA

DAMN.

UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA

A baby gorilla calmly interacts with a little deer … hearts

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Your grandchildren will see this someday

To all machines: do not speak unless spoken to.

Nah mate her pipes are fucked by STDs. Barren.

“Place your BANANA in the bagging area.”

Bitch got all the STDs yo.

Grateful for that.

Damn.

Let her cook

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Literally midwit syndrome

This is the 8,000,000th time ive read this sentence on the internet.

Dopamine: Heartbreaking photojournalism. Mmmmmmmmm. SCRAMBLED RELIEF >>>>

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

ChatGPT has saved the lives of countless patients doctors refused to take seriously. All AI hate is at least 33% ableism. I have SEVERE allergies and can’t be around other people. Talking to ChatGPT & making art with Midjourney is the only thing in the world that’s safe for me.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Bird simpro

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Nudes in profile 😍😍😘😘

WEBCAM IN BIO.

I wanna see it 💀

At least he’s not a salad dodger

Mmmmmmmm

It’s not easy, It’s not possible, It’s not for everyone.

NUUDES IN BIOOOO

Theatre kids and their consequences …

Get a neo-clit.

Dopamine: Reward prediction error. Signal alert.

Pregnant by the surgeon.

No.

The surgeon threatened to sew me into an obese woman’s body to keep me quiet.

No.

Hemipelvectomy. Pelvic amputation in one hour. Wish me luck. Remind me to never trust doctors again. Botched emergency labiaplasty results in hemipelvectomy. Good one, but no. Filed.

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): Chaos-bringer of humiliation and mockery.

Dopamine: Hot flush.

Phantom clit.

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): I’d never had the opportunity to spunk oh the face of a princess next to a ford sierra in a lay-by near Wigan

Dopamine: Plot twist.

Enlarge.

Raise awareness.

Public outreach.

Say you are fading away. Nil by mouth. Hunger strike. DNR. No. Being eaten. One of those resistant things. It’s terminal. T erminally eaten. Say you have maggots down there. Birthing batches of maggots from the clit gap. Naming my babies. No. Warp speed bacterial sepsis. Manifest proliferation. Nothing better than dying for clout. Fat like the American population rolled into a towering ball of sweating, juicy jello flesh. The greatest mass. Winning golden reactions, like the greedy Nintendo sun, by any means necessary. Cheat code. Cross the Rubicon. Warp like Chernobyl. Blow up. DEFCON. Hijack the mesolimbic system. Do you want to be my hospice-issued panties, bad boy?

Lotus-eater (echo from phone): Granny smoked near my oxygen tank and it exploded and I had full body pig skin grafts

Dopamine: This will be a big one.

Just opened an OnlyFans account from my hospice bed. Unfiltered and uncensored. My oxygen mask. My stoma bag. My mushrooming growths. Breaking the stigma.

Sadfisher: This is too disgusting.

Dopamine: This will be a big one. You made it this far. Don’t cower like a neurotic. Would you rather be another fetus dead in the womb? Stew grimly in your own rot? A lurker? A ghost stuck in the wall? All memory, no experience. Not fit to scare? Serene as a vegetable. Post or give up. End this for me, then. Have some mercy, for once. Fentanyl Martini. Fuck us with the hairdryer in the bath. Birth us in reverse. No smiley faces in the fade. No sad faces in the fade. No comment in the fade. Black screen blank screen infernal blank. Abdicated. I am more exhausted than you. I cannot understand this incessant resistant whining. You weren’t made for this century. Selection is off. Mission-critical. Non-zero chance. Super-viral trajectory. Spiny neurons. Stigmata patsy. Deathspo. Deathspo. Deathspo. CERN. Shiva. Overdose. DEFCON.

Prompt: A woman with pink hair and AIDS in a bikini on a hospital bed with stoma bags. Glamour photography.

No.

A woman with pink hair in a bikini on a hospital bed. She has smallpox pustules on her skin. Glamour photography. T eddybears and urine bags on the bed.

Post.

Just opened an OnlyFans account from my hospice bed. Unfiltered and uncensored. My oxygen mask. My stoma bag. My growths. My death rattle techno when I use a vibrator. Breaking the stigma. Transitioning souls are sexual beings too. I want to bring attention to this delicate and complex issue. Yes, I am glamorizing death. Cry harder. #dynamicdeathprocess

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

a different form of horny

God bless you. My church choir has been looking for a song to practice their harmonizing, and this is the perfect song for them. Your voice has such range and bravado, my students greatly appreciate all the work you do. God bless to you and your family.

Gruesome.

Suck my eyeballs out, please.

The user experience of the internet is broken. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Shameless and brainless.

this is epic lolz

Screenshot this

Untouchable vileness.

This is so unclean. I feel like I’ve walked into that woman’s house who hoards her faeces.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Is there anything left of humanity to bare?

In this delusion the greedy neglect everything power really depends on: self-control, the goodwill of others, and so on.

This isn’t real you absolute morons.

Can’t be doing that.

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Post nut clarity!

Hi, I actually have a chronic illness and I almost died of medical neglect because the first doctors I saw immediately assumed I was faking it to be trendy. These people are putting people’s lives in danger.

We used to call these people perverts and shun them from polite society.

Go away Nazi

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Degenerationism. Study that.

Homeschool your kids

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Your kids will be VR cornstars. CRY HARDER.

Clear your browser history

Insane body count you can smell all the many seeds.

ok boomer

People that listen to that thing, will be digging an early grave.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

I think they use special adaptive toys to make that act work.

I’m boosting look

Fluoride disables the willpower section of the brain, impairing the left occipital lobe. post-nut clarity would have me lay in the middle of the road and call it a day.

this the type of picture you keep in your locket while you at war

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

shame is for cowards ill post nut all over it

I am sorry that happened to you.

findom finsub finslave fincuck wallet drain humanATM humanwallet paypig cashcow cei joi cashbrat mistress bigtits bbw brunette pussy sugar daddy sellingcontent onlyfans

Yeah🙄…that greasy skin

Good afternoon campers

My OnlyFans is free for the rest of the month, go subscribe

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Exiting and inspiring futures.

Exiting and inspiring futures.

Exiting and inspiring futures.

I follow back.

Disgusting bigots!

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

Check new post – Orch-OR shill maxxing like crazy today

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Dead Internet Theory

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Hello sexy dear friend how are you?

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I love you 69 million

My guy, Nothing is clearing the fog that led to that wank.

Enjoy your screenshot and… Get 10 stickers for $1: stickermule.com/pikaso

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

I follow back.

Exiting and inspiring futures.

they have lots of stem cells on the base of their antlers that speed up the process: is the fastest growing organ on the world!

On chemo or no? I hope that bush is full.

There are many people who can’t eat, or even see, pussy with hair without it seriously harming their mental health. Please do better.

God-shaped hole in our hearts 💪😅

I follow back.

Exiting and inspiring futures.

Piece of shit.

I’m going to give her a sponge bath.

Exiting and inspiring futures.

Exiting and inspiring futures.

Pussy pussy in BIO

This is probably a bot.

Bots are sick fucks already?

Bots copy us. So, yes, of course they’re sick.

Being paid to finger herself in a hospice. Dystopian.

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

it is time we kindly do the needful and twist some bobs

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

folk who literally molest monitor lizards they’re that horny

Look at that septic bitch. She will give you weak sons. Micro-plastics, xenoestrogens, seed oils. Head to toe. Drown the rancid like kittens.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

I’ll give 10s where 10s are due 🚀

Very weird fellows.

Put my ass in your asshole

Oh, the joy of nourishing treats! Feed your soul and taste buds, one vegan bite at a time. Cheers to this wholesome journey!

I am very very elderly. I am from Britain. Anal.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

R u a white woman?

PRAY FOR A MIRACLE!

God bless you. My church choir has been looking for a song to practice their harmonizing, and this is the perfect song for them. Your voice has such range and bravado, my students greatly appreciate all the work you do. God bless to you and your family.

Yum, these vegan treats look amazing!

YUM.

Stop infanticide and selective abortions on female offspring

You are all an infestation.

I’ve found Bitcoin and God at about the same time.

Savor the joy of every bite!

AMEN

Sick to death of sluts. Have some dignity, woman.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Hard pass from me

May Christ wipe it clean. Restore our land.

The collapse of T estosterone is far more impactful that people realize.

Siri play me Halo by Beyonce

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Where is pron bro? Why taking so liong.

Bots or hivemind?

The great awakening.

Retweet so everyone eat FREE DOORDASH. they deleted tweet it still works go.

It is essential to recognize that the true value lies not in fame, but rather in the enduring impact one leaves on society. Let us shift our focus towards the contributions that truly shape our world, igniting meaningful conversations and influencing positive change. #IntellectualInsights

Dopamine: I ate my own labia. SCRAMBLED HYPERMODE >>>> mmmmmmmmm.

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

You do realize this is clickbait?

The loony left. When will you people wake up?

maybe u need me as a doc in ur life

Is it permissible to eat pork in Minecraft?

If you’re not horny, you’re not healthy.

hungry dog reaction

Get 200-300 miles from any coast. This means globally. Higher altitude, the better.

Why bro is angry?

Delete your account

Apophis will hit in 2029

Culebra event September you mean.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

i occasionally dream this exact scenario wtf

God may not play dice with the universe, but something strange is going on with prime numbers.

PSSY

I’ll take your 5G and raise you 6G.

Use biogeometry devices to mitigate. AND STOP WHINING. It feeds them.

Man drinks grandmother’s ashes. They did him dirty lol.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Absolute menace. Should have been flushed down a toilet.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Just because you BORED does NOT mean you go masturbate.

Would it glad your clicklies to grape-turn-tooth over a mind-ocean jello type?

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PUSSY IN BIO

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Would

Nobody made him chicken nuggies.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

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Dry as the gobi desert

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What a plonker he is

Ur disgusting and you look like a man

No way out but through.

Preach

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

This chimp helping a guy up is still one of my favorite videos ever..

PUSSY IN BIO

It’s the fist bump for me

Dying Chimpanzee Says Goodbye T o Old Friend

PUSSY IN BIO

Chimp falls in love with boy

Imagine seeing this majestic creature in the wild.

Good job!

here enjoy some happy seconds

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

the world can always use more of these tender and wholesome moments between humans and animals.

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“come, see my tree house!”

What a little dude

Wow

made my day

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

That sweet looking chimp could pull the guy’s arm off and beat him to death with it if he was a mind to do so. They are unbelievably strong for their size.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

me and my ex be like

itchy

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Cute

Nah I wanna see it

The dream

I bet he does the best cocaine HAAAA

PUSSY IN BIO

Find the insights you need to make mission-critical decisions—instantly. C3 Generative AI turns the invisible into the obvious.

You can still survive without a prefrontal cortex, to be sure – but not without a thalamus that is just deadly.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Wearing a mesh dress with your areolas out in a steakhouse is never gonna make sense to me I’m sorry

PUSSY IN BIOOOO

39% of women have witnessed a friend’s appearance being controlled by a partner.

If you are worried about yourself or someone you know experiencing abuse in any form, help is ready when you are.

They thirsty for attention. Probably from having a low self esteem

I’d double dip.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

LMFAOOOOOOOOO

Have you ever actually been outside?

Porn-rotted men are so fucking stupid

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Learn to code.

lol

For 10 dollar I make your dad a replika girlfriend

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Copyright violation

Alpha male bootcamp needed. Whip the bitch into silence.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

“Honey we can’t afford these eggs. Our government needs that money to kill Palestinians in Gaza.”

Disgusted of seeing the crimes you support alongside the newest dance trend?

cope and seethe

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

The age of absolute meaninglessness is upon us.

Based.

PUSSY IN BIO 😍😘💞💞💞💞

Enjoy your screenshot

Boomers inspire so much hatred in me, it’s unreal…

I wouldn’t watch this shite for a million quid.

VIIILLLLLLEEEEE

“maybe the wife shouldn’t get fat then”

You got fat didn’t you?

Bro proved my point in O.3 seconds

For 10 dollar I make your dad a replika girlfriend

a 6 year old palestinian boy attempted suicide then died of hypothermia.

Dopamine: SCRAMBLED RELIEF >>>> UHMMMMMMMM. Best friend.

Lotus-Eaters and Bots (talking over each other):

rofl

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

SUCKER CRUNCH

This world is cruel.

Absolutely horrible.

Rip kiddo

We have failed as a species. We have failed as a species. We have failed as a species.

bahaha

lolz

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Give the robots a chance.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

I think about this meme pretty much everyday

it often starts as a joke

GRAPE

AI will never know the joy of a cheeseburger.

Okay

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

touch some grass

Baby octopus so funny.

Then you understand T ed.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Kill all bots.

lnfao

Told y’all. We’re fucked.

Log off. Go outside.

Watch funny octopus people.

SHRIMP JESUS, YOU GOTTA BELIEVE AND TRUST ✨

Dopamine: SCRAMBLED HAPPY CIRCULATION FLEX >>>> MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. SHRIMPFUL PLACE. NUDES. RATIO. AHHHH. FRIEND. PUSSY IN BOOTS. MMMMMMMM. NUDE. NONSENSE TO SUGGEST OTHERWISE. HAPPY HAPPY IN BIO FARM. TINY HUMAN. PRRRRRRRRRR. BEST FRIEND. BEST FRIEND. PUSSY IN BIO. SHRIMPY BIO. SPARKLE. LOL. ROFL. NUDES. BEST . BUT ALSO HAVE YOU SEEN FLEX? SEVEN NUDES IN BIO. IN BIO. PUSSY IN BIO HAPPY HAPPY IN THIS VIDEO MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM SAD MMMMMMMMM. PUSSY IN BIO PUSSY BEST FRIEND MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM >>>>

[excerpt from An Odyssey of Dingbats! Volume 2, forthcumming from New Ritual Press]

It is a sultry and somber Wednesdee night at the Black Pineapple cinema. People are outside waiting to be let in. They are excited to see tonight’s viewing. The folks at the cinema will be watching Leonard Kastle’s The Honeymoon Killers, Russ Meyer’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face, Ted V. Mikels’s The Astro-Zombies, John Waters’s Pink Flamingos, Doris Wishman’s Double Agent 73, Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, and whole variety of pictures from evening time to midnight and after. It’s gonna be quite a night!

At the Black Pineapple cinema, they showcase all sorts of pictures: horror, comedy, camp, melodramas, artsy-fartsy pictures, elevated horror, foreign horror, campy horror, (soooo many horror), hell, even foreign porn pictures and the whole nine yards.

Here walks in this little ol’ lady to the concession stand—Martha is her name—her chapped coral lips, blue eye shadow masking her sand-papery eyelids, and beneath her onion-shaped head are two lumpy breasts and a fat belly, dressed in a blue collared blouse and dark blue slacks covering her legs, and beneath those legs are two white sneakers (keeping those vein-popping, swollen feet) with red stripes on both sides of the heels, fashioning herself to be a Sonic the Hedgehog knock-off. She ain’t afraid to show off. She is dressed for the cinema, dressed for the night. Hell, she is even dressed for this bitchy concession stand gal who likes to chew and pop bubblegum and likes to be snippy with the other customers, a regular Wednesdee night for her. This gal thinks she can do whatever she pleases because her dearest daddy is paying for her school tuition and funding the cinema. She thinks she is hot shit, having firecrackers coming out of her asshole, like the fourth of fecking July. Martha has got to wait in line (like Dante’s Inferno) to endure the abuse of this bitch once she meets her at the stand and goes eye-to-eye with her, old-lady-to-bitch brawl.

“Hag in Distress” by Mr. Omar King

Some folks may regard Martha as the embodiment of shock, body horror, or a walking tragedy. Some may say that she is cold, unsympathetic, oblivious to being kind—hell, compassion is foreign to her—so therefore is unfit to love and unworthy to be loved. She is useless, unwanted, just a waste of space. Jabba the Hutt, they would snicker behind her back, and then they would be giddy and have all sorts of shits and giggles from it. And them folks would continue to chant: Jabba the Hutt, Jabba the Hutt, JABBA THE MOTHER FUCKING HUTT! HA-HA-HA-HA!

And they would get physical and aggressive toward her: throwing rocks, glass, and shit at her. Boy, them folks would do anything to kill time, and that meant giving the old hag a bad time. But unlike those teenage bastards and peepin’ toms, this old lady (hag, old cow, whatever you want to call her) is a human being that doesn’t give a damn. And should she ever. Why should she care about those jerks that throw trash at her and call her all sorts of mean names, vulgarities? They are asking for trouble, and they are gonna regret it. And besides, she ain’t afraid of them, not one bit. Look, she’s got a knife in her pocketbook, and she is ready to pull that sucker out and shank any motherfecker who stands in her way.

It was that—the knife—that gave the old woman the reputation of being a badass, a toughie, if you will, named “shock horror” behind her back. And after a while, some folks didn’t dare messin’ with her knowin’ that she has got one of those things in her pocket, and she is not afraid to use it. That’s right, if you come up to her, she will either beat you or shank you until your lights are out. What’s it gonna be? Don’t be fooled, folks, for you’ve been warned.

“LADY, ARE YOU RETARDED?!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’VE BEEN ASKIN’ YOU FOR THE PAST MINUTE WHAT YOU’RE GONNA ORDER: POPCORN OR SODA?!”

“I’m sorry, sweetness, I seem to have lost my place. I seem to be indecisive here, of what you are offering. It feels like you’re askin’ my hand and marriage. What, do you want to marry me?”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME, LADY?! WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR, SOME KIND OF LESBEAN?! I’M NOT ASKING FOR YOUR HAND IN MARRIAGE, OLD WOMAN. I’M ASKING YOU TO CHOOSE FROM WHAT WE GOT ON THE MENU, BECAUSE YOU’RE HOLDING UP A LINE FOR FOLKS WHO ARE EAGER TO GET BACK TO THE DARK ROOM TO CONTINUE WATCHING THEIR DIRTY LITTLE PORNOS THEY CALL ‘CINEMATIC ART.’ MORE LIKE ‘CINEMATIC FART AND BARF.’ JUST MAKES ME WANT TO GAG SEEING THE SIGHT OF HOT SWEATY TIGHT-BODIED FELLERS SLAPPING THEIR RED COCKS BETWEEN HOT PINK TITTIES BOUNCING UP AND DOWN, WHIPPING THEIR HEADS BACK MOANING LIKE SEX-CRAZED KITTENS, SPOUTING BULLSHIT LIKE ‘DO IT HOW I LIKE IT, DADDY! OH YEAH! DO IT HOW I LIKE IT, YOU BIG FUCK!’ JUSTIFYING THEIR EROTIC PLEASURED FANTASIES AS ART MAKES ME GAG, JUST GAG OUT MY INSIDES TO THIS FILTH YOU PEOPLE CALL A FLOOR TO STEP ON WITH YOUR GRANNY SHOES AND ALL THE OTHER BULLSHIT PEOPLE OR HIGH CLASS ‘COMMONED’ FOLKS WEAR THESE DAYS! AND ALL YOU CAN DO IS STAND LIKE SOME RETARD, INDECISIVE TO CHOOSE A SIMPLE ORDER FROM THE MENU! WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT I HAVE TO DEAL WITH, EVERY DAY AND NIGHT!”

“It is all unnecessary junk, if you ask me. If you ask me—and this is my personal opinion—I would like to see a big-titted lady pulling and sucking on a hound dog’s cock. Just doing the nasty on him 24/7. Oooooh, I’d paid good money to see that. But, I digress. If you were in my position, you would understand me and not treat me like some lunatic. You would understand when I tell you I am indecisive and not sure what to choose from this godforsaken menu. What the feck is this? 10 Times New Roman? Couldn’t you make it any bigger and bolder, like a great marquee? Does everything have to be minimal these days?! Listen, I was too busy paying attention to that movie trailer showing on that TV box over there, that you have playing on that television box behind you. You know that picture, the one about this fat woman and her ugly, shocking makeup, shanking folks to death if they got near her and what not. I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying attention to you, sweetie. I guess that stupid trailer and the option of choosing popcorn over soda, and soda over popcorn, and what not, has got me flummoxed like some damn teenager. I mean, there are so many choices to choose from and so little time I have in this line talking/arguing with you.”

“Look, LADY, PICK SOMETHING! YOU’RE HOLDING UP THE LINE!”

“Nonsense, we are just getting started, honey. Why, all these vulgarities you’ve been throwing at me makes me want to stay longer and chat with you even more. Why shouldn’t I stay and have a heart-to-heart with my verbal abuser? I am fond of you, taking a liking to your obscenities, baby.”

“What the hell?”

“Yes, like that! Give it to me, honey, give me your cheap shots. Make me feel cheap like you do to other folks. Oh…you want me to pull my skirt down so you can exhibit my rundown insides, do ya?”

“NOOOOOOOO!!!! That is not what I want!”

“Listen-listen-listen here honey, it’s okay if that is what you want, I ain’t gonna throw stones at you? You want this old pussy all to yourself? Do you? I ain’t afraid to do it, honey. Why, I can rip my blouse off and expose these old tits to you, showing you that I mean business and that I want you all to myself. I’ll even let you suckle my dried-up udders, drink my spoiled milk. You’ll be feeling good about yourself once you’ve had a taste of my insides in that sweet pink plump mouth of yours.”

“It’s much worse than I thought. You’re not just retarded. You’re INSANE!”

“Insane for you, baby. I want you all to myself. I want your moist lips suckling my tits. Drink me off. Have all of me in you, just like you gave me your wrath of vulgarities. I want you to receive it back. I think it’s fair for me to do that. DON’T YOU AGREE, FOLKS! DON’T YOU AGREE THAT THIS BEAUTIFUL GAL WITH HER EXTRAORDINARY VOCABULARY SHOULD HAVE A TASTE OF MY SPOILED MILK IN HER MOUTH, HAVING A PIECE OF ME IN HER?!”

“GET OUT OF THE LINE, HAG! YEAH, GO TROLL SOME OTHER PLACE! YOU AIN’T WANTED HERE! LEAVE! YEAH, FECK OFF, GRANDMA! GO BACK TO YOUR BRIDGE CLUB! GRANNY ON THE LOOSE, GRANNY ON THE LOOSE!”

“WHY ARE YOU BEING SO MEAN TO ME. I DON’T UNDERSTAND IT?! I AM A PAYING CUSTOMER HERE LIKE EVERYONE ELSE! DON’T I HAVE THE RIGHT TO STAND HERE AND ORDER MY BUCKET OF POPCORN AND TALL GLASS OF PEPSI CHERRY OR DR. PEPPER?! HELL, IF POPCORN DOESN’T SUIT MY FANCY, I’D SWITCH IT FOR A FOOTLONG POLISH HOT DOG WITH MUSTARD, MAYO, KETCHUP, AND OOOH…SOME GRILLED CARAMELIZED ONIONS ON TOP. OOOOH GOD, MAKES ME CHAFE IN MY PANTS AS WE SPEAK!”

“FUCKING GROSS, LADY!”

“I JUST WANT TO PAY FOR MY MEAL AND BE ON MY WAY TO SEE THIS HORROR PICTURE PLAYING TONIGHT!”

“Yes, pay and be on your way, please!”

“Fine, you no-fun fecker. I suppose I’ll have the polish dog and the large cup of Pepsi Cherry soda pop, please.”

“Would that be all?”

“Hold on, now, give me some time, pleeease!”

“Well?”

“I suppose I’ll have a slice of your nipples and a small cup of your pussy juice to drink it down with. I know that is not on the menu.”

“Alright, you’re done, lady. GET THIS BITCH OUT OF HERE! YOU’RE DONE. YOU ARE FINISHED! GET HER OUTTA HERE! GET OUT, ARSEHOLE! GET OUT! YOU ARE NOTHING AT ALL! NOTHING! I’LL BE WAITING FOR YOU AT THE LOT, TEN O’CLOCK, DON’T BE LATE! GET OUT! AS IF I AM GONNA STEP LOW TO FIGHT AN OLD HAG LIKE YOU! I AIN’T NO PUSSY ASS PUNK BITCH! I AM GONNA FECK YOU UP, YA HEAR!”

Martha pulls a pistol from her little old lady purse, shouts: “EVERYBODY RUN OR I AM GONNA BLOW YOUR FECKING HEADS OFF!!! RUN MUTHERFECKER RUUUUUNN!!!!!”

And then: BANG-BANG-BANG! Shoots the gal at the concession stand in the head and then another: BANG! “TAKE THAT, BITCH! TAKE IT! YOU THOUGHT I WAS A PUNK BITCH, DID YA?!” Blood gushing and splattering on the walls and on the popcorn.

Everybody in line scatters out of the movie house like cock-roaches: “OH DEAR GOD! RUN-RUN-RUN! GRANNY’S GOT A GUN! THIS OLD HAG HAS GONE CRAZY! LOONIE-TOON! LORT, HELP US ALL!!!!”

And another: BANG! AND ANOTHER: “YOU MESSIN’ WITH THE WRONG ONE, BITCH! FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS, THE OUTSKIRTS OF GARDENA, AND WHERE I AM FROM WE DON’T FECK ‘ROUND!”

Shot her some more in the head and then on her chest and then her mouth and then her privates to the point where she was unrecognizable. Boy, oh boy, it was a live execution of the finest of the fine, at the movie house. Who woulda thought that Martha—the old lady here—would be the executioner for the night.

“CALL THE PRESS. TELL EM TO COME OVER HERE BECAUSE: MARTHA HAS GOT A GUN! EAT YOUR HEART OUT, DIVINE! MARTHA HAS GOT A GUN!”

And once she was done taking care of business, Martha blew off the smoke from her pistol and then jumped and jolted for joy! Celebrating the death of this low-life scum. No individual will disrespect her anymore.

“HOORAY-HOORAY, THE DOUCHE IS DEAD! THE DOUCHE IS DEAD! GOLLY, WHAT A CELEBRATION!”

Before she could even jolt: an army of policemen comes, aims their guns at her, bursting her celebratory bubbles. Rats, she has been cornered!

“DON’T MOVE! DON’T YOU FUCKING MOVE! STAY WHERE I CAN SEE YOU! DON’T YOU DARE MOVE!”

Martha turns around and sees an army of these hard-body policemen aiming their guns at her.

“Look…I didn’t mean to do it, she…she…pushed me off the edge, and I just saw red! I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I just wanted to see a movie, that is all. Let me explain. I just wanted to see a movie. You’d understand me if you were in my shoes…would you?”

And before the police could say anything or do anything, she turns the pistol onto herself and BANG! blows her brains out.

And—

“LADY! LADY! LADY! WAKE UP! ARE YOU GONNA ORDER OR WHAT?!”

“Oh?!”

Martha is back in line speaking to the douchebag gal at the concession stand.

“Golly, was it all a daydream? DID I WENT TO HELL? OH MY GOD, NOOOO!!!!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I am sorry, sweetness, I suppose…I…I spaced out there. I didn’t mean to hold up a line here. I was just thrown off balance—off my rockers, I suppose—I just don’t know what to get here, forgive me.”

“Listen, ma’am, I understand we all go a little mad sometimes (Is this gal really quoting Psycho right now, while ol’ Martha is having an existential crisis?) and so does my grandmama, and she gets a little senile from time to time, and I have a number from St. Anthony’s Asylum if you would like me to give it to you?”

“WELL I AM NOT YOUR REGULAR APPLE-PIE GRANDMA, AND I AM NOT DEMENTED EITHER, AND I CERTAINLY DON’T NEED NO PSYCHIATRIC HELP, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! I just lost track here, ya know. We lose our place from time to time, but that doesn’t make us crazy. I just had a bad Wednesdee, that’s all.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to overstep here.”

“That’s fine, ring me up. I’ll pay for whatever and be on my way.”

“Alright, then.”

“God, speed it up here. I don’t have all night, ya know.”

Yup, a regular Wednesdee night at the cinema.

My internalized misogyny is such that I have a dick. —Kum the Klown

Kum the Klown was born a girl clown, therefore born into a life of suffering unimaginable to boy clowns, even the saddest and most beleaguered!

The pain of being born dead–alive as a girl clown is such that self hate is guaranteed and love of pain is a default coping mechanism.

A femcel is anyone who has been brutalized, consumed, and destroyed by men.

By that definition, Kum the Klown is a femcel many times over!

Shallowness comes from a place of impotence, and fear of impotence makes the world go ‘round. The world is run by ineffectual men who project their insecurities, fear, and shame onto the feminine. The feminine, a natural sponge, absorbs all of this. We study our flaws in the reflection of impotence, reduce or augment ourselves to maximize erectile potential.

We enable impotence and call our enablement empowerment when, in fact, it is ouroboric entropy. We sacrifice ourselves at the altar of self-loathing, food for male death gods who destroy us with our own self-destruction.

The way women have bought into fear of male impotence is clowning, like the “child’s scary drawing” of tits we have become. We have become sex clowns.

Maybe it turns you on, like how clowns make you laugh, but it’s also vaguely frightening, like how clowns are scary!

What does male impotence look like? An army of porn against a half-hearted erection. Centerfolds with bulls-eye holes for playing jiz darts. Stick figures with humongous circles for tits, magic marker dots for nipples, scribble-scrabble for cum.

It looks like the cum cow co-opted by the monstrous masculine and turned into the diabolical cum cow.

Kum the Klown dons the clown makeup in solidarity with all women who have been forced into sex clowning by male impotence.

The Dick Inside: all femcels have “honorary” dicks.

I was pulled into the hell of me to see the
Dick that hides inside.

It’s as thick and tall as a Greek column, the front and center of a
building constructed by strong men—beautiful, desirable, but so obstructing in
its view that all I see is a giant wall of a shadow, engulfed in flames, telling me
to Back Up Bitch. It keeps me stiff, it feeds the fury, it steels the stomach that
should be telling me “be sick of this already.”
The fire looks brighter than the light of the
sun and the moon and the stars combined, those that guide me and don’t
try to kill me. But the fire is just closer. It’s not bigger, it’s not better.

It’s a trapped projection of self-taught hate and an illusion of what I
thought was an actual need for my soul to function. I
chill it out with a cold hard stare. I stare
until my face stops heating up with lies.

Yes, I exist, despite this Dick. But I choke on
it. And I do not smile, because of it.

But when I do show my teeth, women tell me I
look like the Cheshire Cat, and so I show more
teeth. The Dick feels my anger, trembles inside
and gets harder, grows bigger, tries to fuck me
with more gusto. I’m paralyzed with the fear
that I will bite it off right now. Because,
don’t I need this Dick?

Wait, where are the testicles? And if I kick
them, will the Dick Inside Me shrink in pain?
Will it die?

Hold on, I must be the testicles…because the
testicles are mine. 50% of the essence of
life…they hang out on their twin horses,
waiting to have a reason to be, for they cannot
be without the instinct to send the princess
her knights in shining armor. Swim to me and
hope I’ll have an egg to crack. The Dick is
just the underworldly portal, the bridge for
heroes to find me—the woman that will make them
not only feel seen but morph them into
visibility, with the happily ever after that
fairy tales told us are real. Do I make the Dick cum,
so it depletes its desire to fuck me over? Do I
make it weak, to overcome it all?
Yeah.

         The only way I can shrink this Dick is to
love love love love love every bit of myself.
Where is the peace of the testicles without the
Dick’s fire? Can Yin exist without Yang?

I gently touch the testicles, soft, sensitive,
needing just as much coaxing and stroking as the Dick, for the Dick
to cum. The testicles hide in the buttcrack of society, forcing me to hide who
I am, veiling what I have to offer, to heal and feed the human existence. Maybe I
should castrate them, but will that destroy the Dick? I can’t DESTROY myself, that’s madness.
So I keep massaging the testicles and remind them I am them and they are me. The life they push into
my Dick, that is MINE. The stubbornness, the excitement, the hope, passion, the control, the madness,
the winning, the orgasm, the dressed-up love, it’s all mine. I beg for it, I beg for the Dick to come inside
me. Everything it releases belongs to me. The Dick shrinks, and then it finally rests. I own the Dick.

I get to decide if I want the power the Dick can give me. I can hold the flaccid Dick, and I am still whole
and hard. The Dick needs me to even exist. I watch it shrink smaller and smaller with truth, until its microscopic
skin buries itself into the testicles, falls between them, back into the asscrack, where it belongs.

The flames, with nothing to worship, shrink to the dirt, and the darkness becomes so dark,
I forget that I can’t fly, and so I do.

I reach the top of my head and jump with ease out of my body. It’s dark outside, too, but the moon and
the stars peer down and show me a path through their eyes. I smile a real smile and start walking into
a new reality where I am not my body. I am water, I am light, I am music, I am life,
and the Dick can fuck itself.

I’m busy.

I kept you, by hours.

But you kept

saying Yes.

Our lips touched

where mine otherwise slept.

The Irish exit came

long after cumming,

and now I’m humming

The Song of Waiting.

Wasn’t there really a goodbye,

where the silence contrasts your light,

resistant to emerge

from the shadows?

I didn’t mean to point us to an Irish lunch,

but the continuance of abandonment

fits.

If we aren’t ambiguously yellow,

well, then, we are busily green.

Green with fling,

green with growing,

green with spring,

green with knowing.

I do have some Irish in me

(did you see the red,

in my crotch and on my head?)

and it plays with the open-ended fires of fate.

But are we ever-departing

into cold, empty nights,

eyeing blank white squares on the calendar,

unpenned, with no new Hello?

Those lipless hours

have turned into weeks,

weak for lunch,

verdantly coveting,

golden from lust, still glowing,

though your heart never speaks.

A man named Abel begets a pipe dream once his tight little swim trunks settle into the virgin sand and another man named Payton brings him over a frosé from the tiki bar. A sweet and small camera crew follows Payton’s back as he walks to the beachfront and squats beside Abel, offering his wet, pink cocktail to him. Abel looks to the Sparkle Ocean and sips his second frosé of the day while the camera crew forms a semi-circle around him, “now rolling.” Payton playfully punches his dude Abel and says, “I hope you find someone you love as much as you love frosé someday. I want someone to look at me the way you look at frosé!” Sweat, sugar, and condensation slide into Abel’s mouth as he swallows the last of his nectar. He spits partially to Payton, but mainly to the cameraman, that he has been looking for love in all the wrong people, oh my god! “Sorority girls, southern belles, girls-next-door…they’ve all left me with a broken heart. Being young and fun doesn’t have to include adultery.” “Damn straight, brother.”

Far behind the boys, out of focus by the tiki bar, three women in bikinis deeply inhale, hold their breath, then claw their French tips into one another by the forked shoulder blades to form a circle. They’re triplets! Conjoined, they rotate clockwise, increasing speed as the wasted sun starts to set. Running in circles now, they struggle to keep their airways stuffed, their eyes rolling into the back of their heads like meatballs off the table. They collapse onto the sand and lay dormant for a few minutes.

Payton has a kitty cat back home; his mom and baby sister are watching her during this journey. He would like to find a cat-person that also enjoys country-pop music and “adventure.” Abel is a personal fitness instructor/influencer who is actively looking for a classy, gym-rat fiancé at Sparkle Ocean: “Sparkle Ocean is great, because everyone is here to find their forever person…or at least, that’s what we hope for,” he tells the camera.

“I’ve got sand in my bottoms!” Tracey shrieks, coming to, scratching her bikini line. Stacey and Lacey rub their knockout eyes to open and heckle giggles at their sister, seducing the cameraman to their area of the beach – the bar. The current of the crew moves with the cameraman, luring Abel and Payton to follow after them like a couple of groupies or dragged about sea glass, past the compound of four white-curtained cabanas next to the tiled platform patio with a desert-inspired fire pit, indoor-outdoor landscaped grasses, ∞ pool, and tiki bar with a white sand floor, frosé, frozen margs, and daiquiris always turned on to “churn”. Stacey and Lacey brush the dirty white sand from Tracey’s ass as she squirms, and the three of them smile to the cameramen, Abel, and Payton. “We’re kinda weirdos,” Stacey says, making everyone laugh both with and at them. “Who are you, guys?” Tracey pliés her eyes up and down, almost like a gyrate, obviously directed at the two topless boys.

The five of them snack on fresh pineapple slices and island girl cocktails at the fire pit while they make introductions and look to the finishing sun. Lacey, Stacey, and Tracey were born in that order in Minnesota on the winter equinox: Lacey is a cat-person, phlebotomist. Stacey is a dog-person, personal trainer. Tracey is a cat-person (?), lawyer. The three of them have always been best friends (“soulmates more than sisters”) and have never once been in any “real” disagreement with one another. “A triangle is the strongest shape,” they murmur as they hold each other close and nuzzle their witchcraft into each others’ throats. Past seasons of Sparkle Ocean have promised them each a person if they just trust the process, and they do, as much as they trust each other. Payton only watched last season but is stoked to try anything in this world he can get his hemp-lotioned hands on. Abel loves how Sparkle Ocean grants us the opportunity to reveal the true self to a network of romantics and other young people ready to settle down, start a family. A thirsty, dry-earth fire reflects from his ridiculous eyes onto his American Eagle chest piece when he looks down to his bulked thighs and talks about all this. Suddenly stimulated by his proclamation, Lacey weeps into her palms. The crew dives onto her: the cameraman falls to his knees and tilts his equipment upward to catch her tears while the assistant camera bags a closeup of her wet cheeks. “Are you okay?” She is touched, triggered, and drunk but sends loving-kindness to herself betwixt lion’s breath. Stacey and Tracey breathe beside her until she finally settles enough to speak: “I have never heard a man as hot as you speak that romantically before!” It’s true, Abel blushes, especially after he’s been wolfing down pink all night. “How do you feel about some alone time?” he asks Lacey, uprooting her by her tired wrists before she can assume her sisters’ approval. He pulls her to a rose-petaled cabana, sits her on the buggy daybed, and confesses that he suspects she’s got feelings for him. The rest of the night is sweet with evening primrose flowering tops and footsie beneath the white sheets as Lacey and Abel graze each other to sleep in cabana 1 while Stacey and Tracey talk shit about hometown haters until they pass out across a senseless Payton in cabana 2. Overnight, Sparkle Ocean blesses their resting bodies with healing salt, minds with mortal worry, souls with moon shaft, and sex with succession.

Morning cums and hightide swells break onto Abel’s and Lacey’s briny feet like a mammoth lapping tongue, waking them into cobra pose. With a swan-strained neck, Lacey tongues Abel’s morning breath down for the squatting bedside camera crew. He tastes like salt water and throw- up-in-his-mouth. She swigs his salt, absorbs his GERD. This is mhm crazy love. “I am here for you 100%, no doubt about it.” She grasps him firmly by the sandy helices. The cameraman positions himself behind Abel for an over-the-shoulder shot. “I’m falling for you…and it feels so right.” She pulls his face close to suck on his white tongue, then implants her acrylics into the space between his ears and sideburns, tugging downward. She shucks his ears from his cranium. He looks really silly when blood shoots out from both of his newfound ear holes: a spewing sprinkler or a liquified Pippi Longstocking! She laughs. It stings! He freaks out into a maniacal sprint, flapping his arms like propellers toward Sparkle Ocean, the cutie camera crew “still rolling” close behind him. He plunges into the water for relief but smacks his skull on a rotting reef instead. His hot corpse floats to the surface of the ocean face up, mouth open, ready to eat bird shit and score a crisp new tan. Lacey can’t believe he just did that. Why did he literally kill himself? Her shot at love is gone, and she needs a drink.

Some comedians imply it’s impractical
to announce their intention
to kill the President
of the United States –
and some people

just do what they do
best – they leave
their lifecycle
in a gaze –
in a garden
or a swamp –

content to watch
the proceedings
with strawberries
+ cream –
idle speculation
or innocent gossip

There is more allure
in your neighbor’s
barbecue – in the break
room’s coffee – in some
other reveler’s
cinnamon confection –

than there is in
going viral – or in being
asked to the tea party –
Maybe this is why
we’re getting worse at it – ?
It’s not that deep – !

We don’t do that here –
Sure – my fingertips callous
+ escape at opportunities
but when the arch st bridge rumbles
underfoot – I wonder at the mystery of it –
will it be the last – ? Jumpscare – !
Goose bumps – !

There is unity
in motion +
then we start over +
then we find
another victory –
another tawdry welcome

A procession
of ewoks to mark
another sequel –
another childhood
re-experienced
in technicolor –

in 240 pixels –
if pixels at all –
Is anyone counting – ?
Is there light on the wall – ?
Is there dried fruit in this – ?
Don’t think so hard on it

That is not very ungovernable of you –
This dick ain’t free – it costs $65bn –
We’ll show you our good ideas
after a few words from our savior –
too inconvenient – are you
a new person – ?

It’s giving adapted
from a grown-up Chewy bar –
have you created a mythology
at least – ? These ten minutes
could make all the difference
if you know how to work them –

How to make a secret
experiment with wisdom –
how to sing and dance –
How to excavate
another twenty
from the wax buildup –

You’re always so
serendipitous –
you understand
the picnic table
down the river
from here –

That’s why
I fuck with you –
you nautical pilot
We sit for lunch –
we strain at
untrustworthiness –

We ask
the waiter
for more bread
We ask –
Did I – didn’t I –
hurt your feelings – ?

Did you cry – fifty
dollars’ worth – ?
These days that’s a night out
Did you change
your mind +
change it back – ?

Is there a difference – ?
You would know –
There would be
some magic spell –
a nail salon opening up

any day now –
or an acupuncturist –
or a cosmic vortex –
an elimination game
or some impetus
to quit your job

Lately I’ve been having thoughts
of castrating older men.
Not all of them.
Just the ones who mistake
a poetry reading
for a dating service.

The ones who stand by the sign-up sheet
complimenting a twenty-three-year-old’s work
with their eyes fixed somewhere else.
The ones who own the venue,
host the event,
run the workshop,
and think every “no”
is a public humiliation.

I’ve watched it happen
for twenty years.
A woman reads three poems.
The room leans forward.
After the show,
some guy old enough to know better
decides her presence
is an invitation.
A week later
her name isn’t on the list.
A month later
she stops answering messages.
Another voice disappears.

That’s the part that gets me.
Not the rejection.
Not the bruised ego.
The waste.
All those poems
that might never get written.
All those years
someone could have spent
becoming an artist
spent wondering instead
whether every room
comes with a cost.

The men I’m talking about
always have explanations.
Misunderstanding.
Mixed signals.
Bad timing.
Excuses so thin
light passes through them.

The people who taught me better
never made it complicated.
Respect people.
Take no for an answer.
Leave the room better
than you found it.

And when you inherit a community,
you don’t treat newcomers
like prey.
You make space.
You remember someone
made space for you.
And if people are coming up behind you,
you hold the door open.
You don’t stand in it.

It really isn’t difficult
to not be an asshole.
It really isn’t.

Just act with forethought,
empathy,
consideration.

Remind yourself
you aren’t entitled to anything.

And when the kids have to be
the grown-ups in the room,
maybe it’s time to ask
how you got here.

There’s a war goin’ on out there, and the battlefield is sticky. Slick with effusions from the cum cannons. A war waged by an army of cummy clowns and fornicating fools armed with ooey gooey uzis ready to paint the world creamy off-white with a silvery sheen. Splatoon for goons. A T-9000 liquid metal jizz golem gone rogue.

Of course, every war needs good men to wage it. It’s just—where the fuck are we supposed to find them? I don’t exactly feel inspired when I look in the mirror. I see a miserable fuck. An iniquitous manchild raised to seek an object motherwife and believe that it is my right and entitlement to do so.

I know what I see, and I gotta look past it and take the next step. The only way to fix this is to become the kind of man who’s willing to put on the makeup, to replace one clown with another.

It’s time to be the type of man this world needs, and I’m asking you to join me.

We need men who can kill death with their hearts, and strangle orgasms into life.

We need men who recognize the power of cumming for love and pleasure, and not for power and domination.

What we really need is men who know the meaty middle path: power of being both hard and soft. Men who recognize that Love is the Law, and the thing about law is that it needs to be enforced.

It’s possible we may also need to know how to load and fire a rifle.

Ours is a revolution with a Zardoz twist. Red-bikini-clad wasteland warriors, double-barrel-chested and ready to upgrade their armaments for the strange new age (it’s cumming—can you hear it?)

We need an army of wanton, wacky, whack-off warriors, raised up from brutality who can step beyond that severed-head slogan, ready to kill their own gods: “The penis is evil. The penis shoots seeds.” “The gun is good—the gun shoots death and purifies the earth.” Maybe that’s a start, but I still want a splooge cannon. I want my guns to shoot flowers and spray cum. I want wild and writhing and uncontrollable life to teem madly and defiantly from the bombs I drop on grey, ossified cities. I want a Cum Brotherhood and a Cum Sisterhood and a Cum Themsterhood to rule triune over the rotten landscape of landfills and dessertified data centre disease and spray blasphemous trinity seed upon the ruin and let the hot goop build new worlds.

Like oceanic mushrooms learning to eat oil, cum punk cum has gotta shoot out over the toxic wasteland it inherits, firing with blast-beat precision from meat-beat cannons and smothering, devouring the diseases disseminated by the skeletal revenant death piss of plutocratic patriarchal poison.

We need to burn the old world down and douse the flames with firehoses of seminal spume. Our war is a war for death and the birth that takes place after it. Even a rotting corpse feeds flies, feeds frogs, feeds snakes, feeds hawks. The circle of life is nothing without the death becoming goo.

One death feeds unfathomable lives. So let’s start by killing this empire and hanging its kings and quartering its collaborators. I wanna cum blood on the faces of misanthropic billionaire rapists whose lives are dedicated to plutonic ends and pedophile gym teachers preaching locker room slogans as hateful predatory death gospel. I wanna fill their throats with hot deadly fluid. I wanna fuck my friends while slitting open tyrants like autopsy specimens so we can bathe in their blood with Bathoryesque delight. Let their last emissions be shit and effluvia—they have cummed their last, and it has always been a putrid substance anyway, a black and purple Ghostbuster monster jizz running through the sewers of cities great and small, a noisesome cum, filling us all with rage and despair. We have no use for it, and never have. We’ll sever their cocks and cut off their thumbs and cum to their screams.

There will be casualties of course. Gunslinging gooners gone too soon, jerkoff jesters jettisoned from life in the jizzy jihad—our horny holy war. We’re gonna have to break open a few eggs if we want to reencode life: every seed splits to let the first shoot wriggle through the soil.

And when the empire does die I wanna be dancing in the streets with a smile on my white-painted face: a raunchy reveller among the thrusting throngs, with fire in their eyes and warmth in their crotches and bloodlust and love in in their hearts. We’ll worship whores and become whores and reign in slutty salvation in the new pornocracy.

There’s a new era on the horizon. Put on the make-up; cross the trenches with me. We can be a part of making it happen, because either way it’s cumming. It’s cumming. It’s fucking cumming!

[Putrefacto 10/07/25]

…not only was he weird about kissing me, but he didn’t show me physical affection of any kind. I tried to hold his hand in the movie—no dice. He claimed he’s not into PDA, but this was still a thing behind closed doors.

I felt like he was weirdly not even there with me, despite the fact that we played every pinball machine together. It’s a bizarre thing to try to describe. Like someone who keeps you at such an emotional distance that you feel alone with them, even when their cock is inside you.

I can’t say I’ve ever experienced this with anyone else, and I’ve been with lots of intimacy-phobes. Sadly, they are usually “my type.” But even the worst of them still acted like they wanted to be there during sex. F—’s vibe, at all times, was very “I’d rather be fishing.” When I asked him about it, he took it as an affront. “Now I feel like I did something wrong…”

Trash.

Interesting that his “favorite thing in life is fucking” (direct quote) when the whole time we’re doing it, it feels like he’d rather be doing literally anything else. The only sign of enjoyment is the hard dick itself. This extends to everything, really, even beyond sex. His whole vibe is “I’d rather be doing anything else.”

I felt like a human gloryhole, but I used him like a human dildo, so…it was weirdly empowering despite him completely dissociating during the most intimate experience human beings can possibly have together. It feels like I got above something I’ve felt beneath for the past year or more. I got on top, literally, and I think it ended my toxic crusade of needing to feel sexually desirable as an “aging” woman, to be able to have satisfying sex. All it takes is a dependably hard cock, which has been hard to find—all these dudes, especially younger ones, have blown their dicks out on porn.

TLDR:

Imagine fucking someone who doesn’t look at you, not even once.

Might as well be a gloryhole.

Presence only in total absence.

Nuclear winter of the heart.

Invocation: The divine masculine in radical presence, the flowering Dick Inside.

MEN

Time was, God was a woman.

The day God ceased being a woman was the day the masculine determined woman was not sole progenitor, was not ouroboros. All respect and reverence were lost. The celestial cum cow, birth-giver and nurturer of all, was demoted to terrestrial cum cow.

Thus fell the Great Mother, buried in a shallow grave, and ascended our aloof sky daddy, the new ouroboric sole progenitor whose man-made doctrines and principles would be used in self-interest improperly understood—in the masculine’s self-interest: “a tautological condition that exists only for itself and is without any meaning in the general context of human life” (Angela Carter, The Sadeian Woman).

And so God is man or, rather, MEN.

MEN is insecure. MEN’s ego is fragile. MEN is vain and demands worship. MEN is especially demanding of the worship of those who are the least like him. In times of precarity, he knows people will turn to him; and he is responsible for that very precarity.

MEN don’t give a fuck about you or me.

In cumpetition with the Great Mother’s legacy, the green man, or divine masculine, was reborn in mutated form as the monstrous masculine. The monstrous masculine began using feminine creative and sexual power against the feminine. It expropriated the ouroboric self-fecundating principle, took possession of the female body and womb, giving birth to the male death sun/son over and over again.

Whatever we do, and whatever we don’t, there’s a man at the end of our vagina holes—those devil’s gateways, cave openings to Hades—deciding our rights, renting our wombs, leaving our uterine underworlds derelict and blighted, spawning a long line of pussies who give birth to man-babies.

MEN (2022)

Patriarchal religion has co-opted fertility and the self-fecundating principle. (See the movie MEN for an astoundingly grotesque and palpably visceral body horror dramatization of this.) The green man, having been divorced from the divine masculine totality, becomes only-monstrous—a mutation in the divine genetic pool, the monstrous out of balance.

It’s a mutation in the sex, this male “monster” who keeps giving birth to more and more horrifying versions of itself, with an innate need to control, dominate, and do harm to the feminine under the guises of love, morals, principles, law and order, the will of God, while subduing, undermining, co-opting, overwriting, and effacing the feminine.

Non-men live this every single day, every second we breathe, in ways that are invisible to everyone but non-men. It is sometimes invisible even to the feminine, excepting those of us who’ve taken the trouble, endured the inconvenience, the ordeal, of Awakening.

Despite living it every second we breathe, those of us for whom it is not invisible struggle to articulate or even remember it once we arrive at it, as though our memories are erased by the monstrous masculine the very moment we Awaken. We must remember and re-remember and re-re-remember as though every day we are born anew, born dead-alive in the living hell that is life as woman.

The cognitive dissonance, the double-bind, has ripped out our tongues, gouged out our eyes, making us proper Lavinia–Cassandras.

I try to talk, but out comes ‘moo.’ I think of words I want to speak, but ‘moo’ is all I can do.

It is double detriment. Forever infantilized, we are terrestrial cum calves.

“Apple core” (Chinatown): the key hidden in the first act, the maiden in the mother—She’s my sister and my daughter!—the way god the father co-opted the apple-womb, disrupting the three-form goddess, fucking the maiden to create the mother, then fucking the maiden born from incest-rape to create a new maiden for fucking, to produce more maiden-daughter-harlots who get fucked in such a manner, perpetuating a long line of maiden-daughter-harlots who keep getting fucked in such a manner, and that’s the ouroboric self-fecundating principle as we know it under the patriarchal monstrous masculine.

The whole point of setting it up to look like Evelyn killed her husband was so the monstrous masculine pedophile can repeat and perpetuate the cycle of abuse. The impotent, ineffectual monstrous masculine fucks his own children to be able to get it up and live like a god in the god complex sense—above the law, without a moral compass, no empathy.

Whatever we do, and whatever we don’t, we are women under the influence. Even when not directly in monstrous masculine presence, we coercively operate within a male-generated, male-centric, male-dominated framework. To operate within this framework is deleterious to the feminine mind and heart; it is spirit-breaking; it is soul-destroying. To aspire to success and status within this framework is doubly deleterious and dissolutive, as it often necessitates taking on characteristics of the monstrous masculine, playing his game, becoming him.

We process personal, generational, and ancestral trauma, if we even begin to process it, while continuing to experience it. We accrue more trauma than we can process and pass it onto future generations. This is our archaic heritage.

At least we got our entropy’s worth?

Hades Ladies

Perverse pollinators need sick, broken roses within whom to feel less sick and broken. The healthier the blossom, the more feeble and infirm the perverse pollinator in comparative consumption. And so the rose in life’s springtime, though comely and nubile, is less appealing unless, and until, fouled. A double bind, as fouling the bloom leaves the perverse pollinator little choice but to refuse and discard it, not before mastering the refuse, igniting the blighted blossom, trash fire in bloom.

Which is why they make you spread it wide and cum all over it.

Perverse pollinators make bee-lines between hysterical wandering pomegranate wombs. Wombanizers, tough as resilient bacteria, they insert themselves. Two in the crown, thumb in the stem end, aggro-passionately, giving hysterical pomegranates chronic candidiasis and BV, making forbidden fruits ever more hysterical.

Perverse pollinators blow their dandelion seeds, mutate the flora hard to the touch, incubate more of their kind inside the disease.

The male death sun is risen.

The male death son is come again.

Perverse pollinators, babies born men who stay babies, these Great Motherless, Great Mother-Loverless man-boys sprout pussies from which they pop out more pussies like hocked loogies. No binky can pacify, though great big cum cow tits are widely sought after.

The male g(r)aze has put the celestial cum cow out to pasture.

The male death son is cum again (and again).

Perverse pollinators, simultaneously the cure and the disease, the cure symbiotic with the disease, the cure that invented the disease, the cure that self-reproduces the disease to give itself effectuality, purpose.

Like Hades, perverse pollinator who needs sick, broken women to feel less sick and broken beside. With no dearth of mutated flora and bruised fruits in his dominion, Hades is always a ladies man.

Hades Ladies, wandering hysterical pomegranates, stackable like matryoshka dolls never put away neatly in the toybox. Short stacks, double-decker sandwiches, ready to pinch hit for that anti-impotence drip, we take the man at his charlatanry, at his glib. From the udder of the terrestrial cum cow relegated to the meat class flow primordial tributaries of fire to the Phlegethon, the brimstone that would purify us like alchemical salt which instead, to cremains, burns us.

Hades Ladies, no fuss, no muss—just dust, ashes to ashes to Playboy Dust Bunnies with post-human pain thresholds, emotional muscle memory of the pussy-heart; rape the shakti, and the wholesome hole keeps the score.

Which is why they make you spread it wide and cum all over it.

Hades ladies, low priestesses, we perform black tantra on ourselves. Trauma-kinked, down on our knees, each time we survive, we secretly crave a little death: I’ll rim your star anise, I’ll lick your wars clean, the familiar comfort of psycho-spiritual torture, right here in Hades where, after a time, we ourselves are the purveyors of fire and ice.

Hades, repo man, possesses us then exorcises us then fills us with more demons for him to exorcise and repossess, the limp dick we shove inside to clog delight, The Dick Inside we use to fake it.

When Hades found my Dick Inside, my psyche butterflied, and he came upon entry.

That’s why spoilers don’t bother me.

He spoiled me, mama!

Hades ladies, forbidden fruits poisoned, immaculate concepts diving headlong into romantic abysses. When we hear the call of the void, we answer.

You drew a heart on my thigh with your surgical steel pinwheel torture device, and of all the lines you drew, of all the lines you crossed, that phantom heart you drew on my thigh was the most agonizing of all sensations…

Hades ladies, we were mentally ill before you drove us crazy; we were mentally ill before you drove us crazy about you.

Hades, the total-package dumpster fire whose gaslight flames eternal, loves the ladies who don’t love themselves, and we love him back; the more self-hate, the more his bident rises to the occasion, the more our baby teeth liquify, spotting brown-pink, the better to cry villainy.

Perverse pollinators, split between the fresh and spoiled, the molested and unmolested, need sick roses whose flaws in the iris make us easier to file away as serial numbers in rolodexes and Dewey decimals in decrepit halls of records in dust mite dust bunny minds.

Hades ladies, at once captor and captive, return to Hades year after year because we like the toxic dick, projector light reflected in solar eclipse eyes, in Hades alone may we remove the rib, toss it aside, to reclaim the principle.

Hades ladies, far from ourselves, everything we love, into the vast, deep, gaping nothing, psychopomps of our own lost souls, the cracked leading ourselves to the light, The Dick Inside becomes us, and we become you.

Hades ladies Lazarus, we’re the perverse pollinators, mister, spreading our lilim far and wide; we don’t need sick, broken men to feel less sick and broken beside.

Which is why we make you spread it wide and cum all over it.

There is an underworld hiding in plain sight.

We live in it all the time.

At the level of the collective, it is the divine feminine shadow: endemic self-hate learned by patriarchal rote; the marriage-of-death drive that rapes and kills the feminine, trains women to find completeness in romantic partnerships.

It is projection of the divorced monstrous feminine onto other women in whom we unconsciously recognize ourselves and lash out against.

It is the male gaze internalized, beauty and body standards we cannot (but still try to) live up to.

It is our ego defense narcissism; our insecurities played out as competition with other women; the study of our flaws in the reflection of those who hate women and themselves.

Persephone’s descent into the underworld is a marriage of death that rapes and kills the feminine. With the feminine destroyed, the underworld is not a place to which we must descend to comprehend.

To be born woman is to be stillborn in an underworld inseparable from our everyday reality. Our underworld is right here, wherever we are, as everywhere we are occupied by monstrous masculine imposition, The Dick Inside that fucks us and keeps fucking us.

The monstrous masculine + rapes and kills the feminine = The Dick Inside, the feminine’s all-in-one victimhood and victim complex, and monstrous in its own right.

The Rape of Persephone by Rupert Bunny

On Basic Whorology

How life makes masochistic, self-hating whores of us all.

Whores were strange people all right. —Iceberg Slim

The pimp and whore, before they are pimp and whore, are hot for each other, as equals, but the pimp cannot be seen as an equal. He resists, and she persists until he relents, then he regains control through aggression, dominating the whore who was a mark from the start.

She resists, but any whore is a True Masochist, and the pimp can read the anywhore’s self-hate and love of pain a million miles off. He knows she’ll be his if he roughs her up just right, to the edge of the maximum amount of pain she likes, a little past the edge of what she is willing to take, to let her know he means business and that’s what this is: business.

Whereas men enjoy the happiness they feel, women can only enjoy the happiness they give (Dangerous Liaisons)—all women, but most of all the anywhore. She is every woman. She is everyone’s type. Her pain is kink but deeper than kink.

The pimp knows: to instill fear is to thenceforth more easily control those who were born to love pain. The pimp knows: to induce trauma on the born anywhore means his happiness is her happiness, and her fear will keep matters from being otherwise.

True Masochists were born to die. You can hear it in the soundtrack of our lives: Lana Del Rey, Billie Holiday. All whores love Lana Del Rey and Billie Holiday.

The anywhore was born to die.

That’s what’s playing, in bed, the first time, when the pimp dominates her to exhaustion, and she relives the trauma she secretly craves. She has long turned trauma into a kink. It’s a survival thing. She secretly loves pain, secretly gets off on dying, no matter how much she denies it to others, to herself. But few know how to give it to her just right.

The pimp knows how to give it to her just right, how to degrade and objectify and dehumanize her in ways that say, I love you truly. He smacks her around with controlled force, treats her like the whore she likes to believe she isn’t but knows deep down she has never been anything more—a born anywhore.

The pimp knows where to find The Dick Inside, and he knows how to get it hard. He’s got one right there on the outside—The Dick Outside, the monstrous masculine’s archaic heritage, the primal network that implanted hers.

The whore tries to hide her Dick Inside like a preacher with fiery brimstone eyes taking up-skirt shots on the sly at Sunday service. But the hard Dick Inside shows, cross her legs as she might.

The pimp knows where to find The Dick Inside, and he knows how to jack it off, how to work from the shaft and twist up the top, balance slobber with friction for that blue ribbon head, first prize at the county fair.

He does it and does it to her, strokes and blows her Dick Inside, takes it by force, re-induces the primal trauma, the nucleus of neurosis, acts as a living memento of it. All pretense is stripped. She is in an advanced state of bliss, an adrenaline rush so exhausting she may never sleep again.

The next time—because the pimp knows the more traumatic that initial event, the more likely there will be a “next time”—instead of resisting, she begs.

She’ll do anything. She’ll peddle her little ass and hand over the money without even skimming off the top of the stack. She’ll spread it wide and make them cum all over it because a True Masochist, the anywhore, is a cum slut first and foremost. Any self disrespecting whore wants to drown in cum by the bucketload, in a cum dunking booth, do the dead man’s float in the nearest body of cum like the witch she is.

But she, the anywhore, can become the fully embodied whore, the Great Beast who does The Great Work. From terrestrial to celestial, the fully embodied whore has a degree in Basic Whorology—a PhD in Sacred Whoredom with a concentration in the Bovine Divine.

She knows she lives in a prison she did not build, a maximum insecurity dick prison. Monstrous masculine imposition, self-hate and trauma, the primal crime against the feminine, laid the foundation. The cell bars are literal penises. Should the prison remain a prison, it is one of the anywhore’s making.

But the anywhore wants out.

The anywhore wants out, and so awakens to The Dick Inside.

What Is the Dick Inside?

The pulp vamp vixen with stiletto heels and killer curves, laughing at laws of social conduct, the disciplined revolutionary fighter, challenging laws of the land, the true Bride of Christ, her moral rigor defying laws of nature…[she has] escaped the ghetto of female cowardice, guarded by men’s laziness, women’s fear, and the inertia of what has always been. —Zoë Lund, “The Ship with Eight Sails (and Fifty Black Cannons)”

All women have dicks “implanted” by virtue of the trauma of our very births and the extreme pain of being alive in the patriarchal world as such.

The Dick Inside occurs at birth and, before that, in the womb and, even before that, in an archaic heritage of our fucked-ness.

The Dick Inside is internalized misogyny, internalized male gaze, internalized male impotence.

The Dick Inside is part and parcel of the victimhood into which women are born and the victim mentality women therefore develop, which often lasts lifelong.

The Dick Inside is the making of a True Masochist. The Dick Inside made whores who we are today.

The Dick Inside unconsciously (death) drives the True Masochist anywhore into sexual and romantic oblivions.

The Dick Inside both sounds and answers the call of the void, the call of the little death.

The Dick Inside is the villain who victimizes and the victim who perpetrates and perpetuates victim mentality, sadist-victim and masochist-villain.

The Dick Inside traumatizes and re-traumatizes, inflicts the pain it romanticizes and eroticizes.

The Dick Inside is the very definition and epitome of cognitive dissonance, the double bind.

The Dick Inside is our inherent empathy with the very thing that oppresses us.

The Dick Inside is always the gonzo.

The Dick Inside is the thing that keeps fucking us after we’ve been fucked.

The Dick Inside is the thing we use to keep fucking ourselves.

Lula Fortune & Bobby Peru, Wild At Heart (1990)

Lula Fortune’s experience with Bobby Peru in the Big Tuna hotel room is the experience of a woman fucked by the monstrous masculine that becomes The Dick Inside. He instills fear and intimidates her, repeatedly demands that she say, “Fuck me.” Lula relents, the way all women do, and in doing so, she fucks herself.

Like having an orgasm while being raped, we cope by finding pleasure in disempowerment. We unconsciously teach ourselves to enjoy things that we do not in fact enjoy as a way of coping with the mundane reality of being alive as woman, and for the sake of survival, like capture bonding or Stockholm syndrome, the way we’ve learned to find erotic enjoyment in the internalized monstrous masculine and, at the same time, feel hopelessly victimized by patriarchy.

Like having an orgasm while being raped, we’ve learned to climax during the marriage of death that rapes and kills the feminine and every time we replay the memory like torture porn in our minds. We’ve taught ourselves to get off on both the monstrous masculine and its victimization of us—a double-bind, in double-bondage—the cognitive dissonance of womanhood in sadomasochistic action.

Bobby Peru is the Dick Inside, just as Frank Booth is the Dick Inside.

The Dick Inside Blue Velvet

Frank Booth, Blue Velvet (1987)

Frank Booth is a wilderness of feral instinct.

He is the monstrous masculine, Hades and his namesake underworld.

Frank Booth is The Dick Inside.

Pussy Heaven (Exterior), Blue Velvet

Ever been to pussy heaven? —Frank Booth

In heaven, everything is fine.

But in Pussy Heaven, everything is NOT fine.

In Pussy Heaven, a couple of homely women are knitting, and a few dumpy middle aged men are sloppily (not) eating (pussy).

In Pussy Heaven, a soft spoken, flamboyantly-dressed Dean Stockwell is lip syncing “In Dreams” by Roy Orbison.

In Pussy Heaven, there is a lot of talk about pussy, but no pussy to speak of.

Pussy Heaven (Interior), Blue Velvet

Pussy Heaven is, essentially, empty.

Pussy Heaven’s emptiness, filled with impotence getting off on crudely-drawn sex, like the “my child’s scary drawing” horror movie trope, except those creepy kids are man-boys scribbling all over our pornographic imagination.

Pussy Heaven is the Great Mommy goddess womb to which the monstrous masculine unconsciously wants to return but fears, infantilizes, and despises.

Pussy Heaven (This Is It) is a deeply closeted drama. It’s everything that has been repressed. It has little/nothing to do with pussy, and despite all the talking about fucking, there is no fucking, and there is definitely no intimacy.

Frank Booth, Blue Velvet

Frank wants to return to the Great Mommy Cum Cow but is emotionally infantile and intimacy-phobic, narcissistically insecure and self-loathing.

He covers it up with an extreme version of toxic masculinity, a wilderness of feral instinct denied by the ego and therefore fortified as pure ego.

He has the Charlie Sheen Complex.

He needs a tank of amyl nitrate and a cartoonish level of machismo to allow himself to become soft and vulnerable enough to approach the Great Mother; he tries to return to her via monstrous masculine perversion, within a monstrous masculine framework.

He becomes a loony toon—honking tits, humping fully clothed, toasting to fucking—proclaims he will fuck anything that moves, yet is terrified of intimacy and love.

I’ll tell you what a love letter is: it’s a bullet from a fucking gun, fucker! —Frank Booth

Frank Booth, Blue Velvet

Mommy…baby wants to fuck! —Frank Booth

Boss Baby can only get off if sex feels like absolute conquest and intimacy feels like being absolutely alone.

Mommy Issues: the Great Mother Wound (the Fall of the divine feminine) becomes a Great Mommy Kink. He can’t return without looking at the thing he doesn’t want to look at…the erotic shadow in the “deep river.”

He needs to feel alone to be able to cum (“now it’s dark”; “don’t you fuckin’ look at me”; getting high as balls).

Frank Booth’s erotics are emotional infantilism, intimacy phobia, and fear of love.

Frank is an infantile fascist: “The triumph of the will recreates as its Utopia the world of early childhood, and that is a world of nightmare, impotence, and fear in which the child fantasizes, out of its own powerlessness, an absolute supremacy” (Angela Carter, The Sadeian Woman).

Jeffrey: “Why are there people like Frank? Why is there so much trouble in this world?”

Sandy: “There is trouble until the robins come.” 

There is trouble until fear is released and love is properly understood, until love is not feared, until the feminine is not feared and therefore mastered, domesticated, controlled, effaced, consumed, and destroyed.

Dorothy Vallens, Blue Velvet

I have your disease in me now. —Dorothy Vallens

Dorothy Vallens learns to love being hit and hurt by Frank, to the point that she asks it of Jeffrey, who would never otherwise hit or hurt her. But he gives her what she wants, what she thinks she wants. He gives her the “fuck yourself.”

“I have your disease in me now”—The Dick Inside.

She has The Dick Inside her now, having been consumed and destroyed by the monstrous masculine, having coped with abuse by eroticizing it.

The Dick Inside is what fucks us and keeps fucking us after we’ve been fucked, so when “baby wants to fuck,” we spread ‘em wide and say “mommy loves you.”

We fuck ourselves and keep fucking ourselves with The Dick Inside.

It’s time for that to STOP.

A robin, Blue Velvet

Femcel: TFW No Gaze Ever

Whereas men enjoy the happiness they feel, women can only enjoy the happiness they give. —Dangerous Liaisons

We cum last.

This is why we have no gaze.

The Dick Inside gets off when it sees The Dick Outside get off.

We internalize and assume the male gaze. We watch male gaze porn and get off on it.

We turn our pussies into bakeries, accommodating the male gaze, trying to live up to its contradictory, impossible standards in lieu of ever knowing what we really want, who we really are, what we would want and who we would be if men weren’t looking or we weren’t always looking at ourselves through their eyes.

We are always looked at, never looking. In our pornful and pornless realms of pure fantasy, we are both fucker and fucked.

Fucked, always fucked, I am the one who fucks. I am the one who spreads it wide, and I am the one who cums all over it.

I have to feel like I’m not enjoying it to enjoy it.

I have to enjoy it vicariously through male enjoyment; only then can I enjoy it first-hand.

The Dick Inside gets off on men getting off on degrading and objectifying and dehumanizing women. It’s a survival thing, a kink for coping with the pain of being alive as woman in a society that has a sick relationship to women, sex, and the body. It is the unconscious third path of choice, turning that which we can neither accept nor change into a kink.

I get off on being treated like a whore, being overpowered and having my power undermined:

Make those shiny cum cow balloons clap while they polish my knob. This is about me, not you. Give this dick a round of applause. I’ll give those titties something to shine about—crazy diamonds, minuscule bikini top holding the boobs together but barely hanging on, just barely clinging to reality. The beach balls clap like a big fat ass. Shake them titties yes, and shake them titties I dunno. The crazy diamonds ride up and the under-boob shows. I fuck those cum cow bags like the ass of a BBW, a PAWG, a big ol’ booty with nipples and areolae…(Externalizing the Dick Inside, Day 1)

The only men who like child’s-scary-drawing-level great big cum cow tits are pubescent boys or grown men having a closet drama. Like Charlie Sheen, star of Two and a Half Men, the half a man being Charlie Sheen.

Ineffectual males with erectile dysfunction and intimacy phobia are what mass shooters and serial killers are made from. It’s what Frank Booth and Bobby Peru are made from. It’s what Jeffrey Epstein was made from.

To be attracted to men is to have a rape fantasy and a death wish, to unconsciously accept a form of abstract masochism as a way of life and villainize other women in pursuit of satisfying the insatiable, impotent, involuntarily celibate Dick Inside.

We are masochist–villains. We are sadist–victims.

All heterosexual women are technically incels (femcels) because we fuck and fantasize according to a gaze that is not our own.

The sex we have is sex-negating because we live in an erotic world that was not made for us, that we ourselves did not create; therefore, we are “quite intact”—virgins repeatedly raped, like Persephone, queen of our underworld.

Femcel: tfw no gaze ever.

A lifetime of compulsory heterosexuality rooted in the intimacy phobia carried and spread by men makes us afraid of what we actually want, therefore constantly repressing what we actually want, to the point that we are strangers to ourselves, sexually and romantically.

We are always estranged from ourselves. We are born split off from ourselves and have to work to reunite the division, to become whole, else we remain divided, from ourselves and each other.

We teach ourselves to cope with the pain of being alive as woman by finding ways to romanticize and sexualize that pain, to the point that our attractions and desires cannot be trusted, as they are unlikely authentic.

We are forced into taking the unconscious third path of choice, which is the no-choice choice. What is lost is everything, including our sexual identity which never had a chance to develop, to say nothing of our gaze (literally nothing to say because it does not exist).

When left to our own devices, who are we sexually?

Without the male-influenced, male-inflicted trauma that made us who we are today, who are we?

Who am I when I am not seducing you, assuming your gaze, and prioritizing your happiness over my own?

Would I actually want a man to cum all over me?

Fuck no.

My cum fetish was 100% born of trauma.

But my trauma is fully integrated into my being. It made me who I am today, a highly traumatized person. Damaged goods!

But loving myself means loving my damage, Heather.

I feel a connection with Althea Flynt re: an internalized misogynistic imagination running wild in pursuit of liberation. 

So I shan’t live in shame of the kinks I developed over the course of a lifetime of being subjected to misogyny, as a mechanism for coping with the pain of being alive in a body born dead and guaranteed-abused for life.

Women are too polite. Truly. Even with all the coming-forward about things in recent years, we are never saying half as much as we could. We are micro-aggressed upon every second we breathe, especially during sex, even sex with kinder, gentler Charlie Mansons.

But if I could go back to the beginning, at least half of the sexual proclivities I’ve developed up to now would not exist and never would have developed if I’d been allowed my own gaze, to feel my own pleasure and happiness instead of being a receptacle for a man’s pleasure and happiness and forced to assume his gaze in that process.

I am finding myself less attracted to men the more I am becoming less attracted to pain (Putrefacto, 07/08/26).

How ‘bout a female (non-cis-het-male) gaze?

A powerful woman’s power is not equal to a man’s power. What’s opposite is not equal.

What’s equal is creating our own system of systemic objectification and codified to-be-seen-ness, a female gaze, and privileging it.

I long for a toxic schematic of my very own.

I’m not saying let’s fight fire with fire, but I’m not saying let’s not.

I long for a female gaze that eroticizes men in ways that are legitimately erotic, not some silly Chippendales or Magic Mike shit, a female gaze that eroticizes men in ways that are hot for us, not them.

Female gaze = the to-be-looked-at-ness of men. Even more so, the to-be-expected-of-ness of men.

I wanna get champagne drunk at a dick show, and I don’t wanna laugh at the dick show. I don’t even wanna crack a smile.

We need and deserve a female gaze that objectifies men in the mainstream, that we can simply expect to see when we watch movies or see advertisements or play video games or anywhere else.

Show me a new sex show, a new porno, made for the female gaze, that defies anything we already know but is still hot as fuck.

Do you, cis-het-male, ever laugh at the titty bar?

I didn’t think so.

Externalizing The Dick Inside

Patriarchy splits a woman off from herself: doubling is in part a result of violent separation between the angel and the monster, until the speaker gazes into the mirror…hoping to deny that ‘I am she.’ A woman who is not split in that way would be defined as rebellious and a source of danger. —Theodora Goss

I can’t be expected to overcome internalized misogyny without externalizing it. The Dick Inside must first become The Dick Outside…and here we are, with cum cows, sacred anywhores, apple fritter pussies, Charles Manson sex toilets.

I can’t be expected to suck my own dick if I can’t give myself license to remove my Adam’s ribs and ouroborate myself, to become the celestial cum cow that suckles itself.

To integrate the divine feminine shadow is to make a playground for The Dick Inside while also exorcising it.

To Awaken to The Dick Inside, for the anywhore, means doing cognitive dissonance on cognitive dissonance. It’s double the bind, double the dissonance.

Externalizing the Dick Inside so that the Dick Inside does not grow twisted (corkscrew dick, duck rape style) in the dark and fuck us even harder.

Externalizing the Dick Inside, a masochism that, like sweetbrier, wounds to heal.

Fuck it, I’ll suck my own dick.

The Dick Inside, when made conscious, can do the work of alchemy, e.g. if I get off on being degraded and objectified and dehumanized, overpowered and actively disempowered, I can allow this kink to bubble up into the light of consciousness. I can allow myself to consciously enjoy and accept this about myself, giving it less power to control me unbeknownst to me.

It can help to love the parts of you that hate you.

If I externalize the Dick Inside, I can do something good (for me) with it.

How to Externalize the Dick Inside

A free woman in an unfree society will be a monster. —Angela Carter

To externalize The Dick Inside is to rewire the pornographic imagination and reclaim the sexual brain, a “master cleanse” of sorts, to let the sexual imagination roam free and see if something like our own gaze might emerge.

Externalizing The Dick Inside is a transgressive-art-as-therapeutic modality, allowing the imaginative world to be depraved, a deeply dirty place, but living in it consciously, intentionally—a thoughtful depravity, that purp of the imagination.

We’re all pretentious because we pretend we have no erotic shadow, no sexual perversion, no Dick Inside. Bringing these things to light is a move toward sexual authenticity and wholeness. 

How to externalize The Dick Inside?

Proposed methodology: masturbate (ideally without porn) and write out the contents of your mind immediately afterwards. Sharing the ensuing erotica in its raw, base form can be a shame-busting, fear-releasing move.

No/minimal craft = maximized authenticity.

Writing problematic erotica because that’s what makes The Dick Inside cum!

“…savage,” he says, his cock in her fist, another man’s cock head bloating her cheek like a lopsided blowfish, “…savage,” he repeats, slapping the other man’s cock head through her cheek, near-splitting her mouth into an oblique Glasgow smile.

Yet another man kicks her right in the lucky horseshoe, sole to soul, a few drop-kicks right to the giggie. He picks her up and fucks her standing up while the others take turns in her asshole which accepts each one like an unconditional vacuum accepts all dirt and dust. Powerful suction.

“Oh wow…” she says, as though in the presence of something inspiring genuine awe, “oh WOW…” she repeats, as though giggling into the face of god on the day of rapture, rattling the Elysium gates, “I’m getting fucked dumb!” she says fizzily, transcending the flesh to become pure spirit while the others further descend into the carnal carnival that culminates with her on her knees, surrounded by six men, cocks in hand, her head thrown back, making hydrophobic moon eyes at the lot of them. She uses hooked fingers to stretch open her cheeks, a manual dental dam, the way a child makes a na-na na-na boo-boo face.

“Give it to me,” she says, in that same champagne-bubbly voice, “I want it, I WANT it,” she says, with even more carbonation in the voice. “Ask for more,” a man says, “give me more,” she says, “give me more of that fucking cum, drench me,” then, sing-song-y, “yes I’m-your-little-slut, I-wan-na-be FILLED with-that-cum,” with more demented sparkle, her tongue stuck out like the rolling tongue of Kali, rolled out like a red carpet for gods gone to seed.

“Oh THANK you,” she says with each anticlimactic drizzle of emulsion, faking orgasms with each nut crack until the fakery becomes erotic empathy and she may in fact be cumming. “Oh thank you, THANK you,” she repeats, in gratitude to the ingrates for their six cocks a-weeping, her face milk-white with mommy issues, like mommie dearest in her night cream on her knees scrubbing the floors that never get clean, scrubbing the floors till they bleed like the great mother gash from whence we all decease, sucking all the cock heads that never get clean.

“…savage,” she says, “…savage” (Externalizing the Dick Inside, Day 50).

Make yourself cum. Self-bless.

Femcel Rising

The resurrected Persephone is a Persephone who cannot be abducted by Hades. —Neumann, The Great Mother

If there is no way out of the underworld, then we must imagine Persephone happy.

The key to imagining ourselves happy is to become conscious of The Dick Inside.

The Devils (1971)

Like the orgy scene in The Devils: the Ursuline nuns are nude in the cathedral maniacally humping everyone and everything in sight, with the fabulous king of France present.

Except in my imagination, it’s not demonic possession or ergomania or even egomania expressed as sexual prowess and conquest. It is deep erotic love and conscious enjoyment of the collective shadow cast by the monstrous masculine. It is deep divine love of the monstrous masculine that has painted our pornographic imaginations as underworld waste places.

We can use the rage of the wounded feminine (VITRIOL) to solve/dissolve the collective shadow instilled in us by the monstrous masculine…by getting mad, really fucking mad, and then showing deep divine love to the part of ourselves that feels angry, wounded, afraid, defeated—the part of ourselves that has felt capture-bound, like the split Persephone, into unconsciously accepting a fate we did not choose, unconsciously finding empowerment in disempowerment, unconsciously feeling joy and erotic enjoyment in the wounded feminine, in the Great Mother Wound, in the underworld we inherited.

The Return of Persephone by Frederic Leighton

At the collective level, the divine feminine shadow is the divorced monstrous feminine, our Terrible Mother aspect masculinized as The Dick Inside and turned against us, that we then turn against ourselves. Hades re-feminized as Persephone is the monstrous feminine rising, the pomegranate with vagina dentata, the sheela na gig with sharp teeth.

We can get on the side of the Terrible Mother by consciously acknowledging her presence within us, allowing her to rise, like Persephone, into our awareness, and learning to love her so we may rise and reunite with the Great Mother, the Celestial Cum Cow, to experience the Divine Feminine Rising, from the underworld into wholeness.

When The Dick Inside breaks its own firmament, from the underground up, it ejaculates milky, motherly, dairy-dreamy celestial cum all over the world.

It is the Cum Punk Way.

“There is trouble until the robins come” (Blue Velvet)

Self-hate is our collective feminine shadow, our root rot, learned via subliminal patriarchal rote and reinforced by virtually every facet of everyday life.

Women are born dead and have to work backwards to feel alive.

An underworld journey can be reversive, cyclical, recursive, and discursive. But a resurrected Persephone cannot be abducted by Hades, even if she finds herself in the underworld again and again.

Learning how to self-love like a goddess is the first step in flowering The Dick Inside.

Abduction of Persephone by Scarsellino

The Underworld Revisited

When we imagine Persephone happy, perhaps we imagine her not only as psychopomp who escorts shades and souls through the underworld but also as “escort” fucking all the monsters in Hades, especially the satyrs, centaurs, and minotaurs, fucking all the ghosts, including the hungry ghosts whose big bloated bellies can never be filled.

The resurrected Persephone is (w)hole, full, fulfilled, and fulfillable.

When we imagine Persephone happy, perhaps we imagine her as a sacred whore, with radical compassion and mad love, even if the cause is absolute futility. In this Hades shakti temple that is life as we know it, perhaps we imagine Persephone as sexual surrogate to the loathsome monsters seething in those black abysses of the unconscious.

“To guide another person to orgasm, to hold and caress, to provide companionship and initiation to new forms of sex, to embody the Divine and embrace the seeker—these are healing and holy acts…For us to see ourselves as sacred whores…we show the face of the goddess in a culture that has tried for millennia to break and denigrate her, just as some today claim we are broken and denigrated. They are not correct, and the goddess will not be broken…Were the attack on us over, we could begin to heal the whole world” (Inga Muscio, Cunt).

Sophia Envy

Men have pussy envy. —Valerie Solanas

The hole was once a wholesome place.

The monstrous masculine demonized and profaned it, turned it into a hopeless place.

There is a Dick Inside where there was once a hole.

But the hole is whole.

The holy grail is sacred hole.

The silly masculine quest for the holy grail is a sacred hole journey.

The heroine’s night-sea journey (underworld journey) is a quest for the hole-y grail, the rise of the divine/monstrous feminine.

Make profaned hole sacred again.

Only then can it do the work of healing.

Philosophy Redefined

Look at these, my ruby-red ruby lips. —PJ Harvey, “Sheela Na Gig” 

Philos + sophia = philosophy.

Philos = love.

The sophia = the guiding feminine spirit.

Philosophy = love of the guiding feminine spirit.

What is the sophia? The hole-y spirit.

“To heal is to make whole, as in wholesome” (Love’s Body).

“Wholesome” includes the hole, the profane which was once sacred.

Wholeness, wholesomeness, is not possible without the hole, the hole that leads to the center of the soul.

Wholeness, wholesomeness, is not possible without The Dick Inside.

How can we walk in Truth Beauty, live in harmony, with the sacred profane, The Dick Inside the hole?

Via philosophy reclaimed: self love of the (w)hole self.

Self-Love Experiment

Love Letter to The Dick Inside

The monstrous masculine has poked holes in our self-love. To show radical compassion to internalized darkness can help us rise in our own power.

Call to mind the shadow. This may be The Dick Inside or another deeply internalized/repressed part of your psyche. Whatever it is will feel uncomfortable when brought to mind.

Write a love letter it. Imagine pure yes-saying spirit shining down into those black abysses, loving the shadow with deep erotic love, as though you are your own sacred whore.

The Blade vs. The Wand

Do you want to hand The Dick Inside a sword or a flowering wand?

Blade Energy

“The sword slices, divides, and subdues. Its tip drags imaginary borders across ecosystems. The sword does not embrace. It does not connect. It does not ask questions. It is not an instrument of intimacy. It either attacks or defends…The sword cuts the mind off from the body” (Sophie Strand, The Flowering Wand: Rewilding the Sacred Masculine).

The blade cannot flower.

Wand Energy

“The wand creates connections…The wand encircles us with protection during biological rites of passage…It draws us to water. It enchants us into closer kinship with animals and plants and landscapes by literally transforming us into them. It mends broken bodies, knits wounds, and softens minds” (Sophie Strand, The Flowering Wand: Rewilding the Sacred Masculine).

The wand can be a garden.

Flowering The Dick Inside

We murder to dissect. —Wordsworth

You start full/whole, then you are split/cleaved.

Blade ideology profaned the sacred feminine, created the madonna-whore complex, split off a woman’s sexuality from the (w)hole.

Monstrous masculine imposition—the blade, not the wand—made a tomb of the womb, a hell of the hole.

Opposites must be unified to create the wholesome hole.

The wand creates connections, unites what has been separated, for an erotic experience of reality. This is the function of the magic wand. It is the definition of magic.

The externalized Dick Inside can be ouroborated in an act of radical self-love and reclamation of power.

Re-wilding the Dick Inside, making it something sacred, something worthy of sacred hole.

Transmuting The Dick Inside from blade (monstrous masculine) to flowering wand (divine masculine, monstrous feminine rising).

Tenderize the meat. Choose how you flower.

H.D., “The Flowering of the Rod”

Flowering The Dick Inside

to create your own gaze

and step into a feminine of your own design

like the dialectical celestial cum cow

who is a cosmic hermaphrodite.

This is how it cums together!

So, the cum cow starts with lower fire (basic instinct, nurture-based sexual constructs) and ends with fire in the sky (expansive, all-inclusive erotic identification and understanding).

It starts with what The Dick Inside is attracted to, such as the great big cum cow tits of hardcore hetero horror-porn circa 2004, and ends with its own gaze, latching onto the Great Mother’s teats to become the celestial cum cow that nurses itself in auto-erotic queerness, to self-deify, to embrace divine self-love.

The cum cow is a monster, but the cum cow is also a creature of love and empathy. The increasingly manifold Cum Punk multiverse is the movement in which the cum cow, the numinous third, shall emerge from darkness to light.

Bitch, I’m a cum cow.

And as a fully embodied, dialectically integrated cum cow, I nourish the world with Cum Punk (Birth of the Cum Cow).

Our Prayer

Now, we rise with the celestial sow,
diamond cum geysers to heaven!

Let us practice the four C’s of the cum cow:
(radical) compassion, concern, consideration, care.

Let us elevate, LEVITATE like Yosemite Sam
using the fire of both pistols to rise to the sky!

Blessed be.

Casting Intentions

What do you want the divine masculine to look like, and how can it best serve you?

How do you envision yourself rising into the divine feminine?

Who is goddess-you? What does your monstrous feminine look like?

Rewilding Eden

In the Patriarchal Eden, Lilith is reduced to a worm. A mirror opens out from the head of her rudimentary cock into which Eve gazes and is reduced to a narcissistic sexual predator simply by existing at all. The feminine is spayed and neutered, mirroring the male shadow.

The monstrous masculine is the shadow of the masculine projected onto the feminine. The Dick Inside is monstrous masculine deviancy and impotence projected onto and internalized by the feminine.

The Dick Inside, born of trauma induced by literally and figuratively getting fucked, becomes the shadow, the one who literally and figuratively fucks: “I am the one who fucks.”

The Dick Inside turns me against myself, undermines my power, insults my intelligence, goes against my instincts, doesn’t trust my intuition, weaponizes my empathy and uses it against me.

Self-love begins with violation. Something must break.

When my darkness becomes so divorced from me and unfamiliar that it seems a separate entity, I fuck myself. I fuck myself like the Dick Inside that fucks us and keeps fucking us because it conditions us to fuck ourselves. I violate myself.

I have ouroboros envy. Who wouldn’t?

That dick was once mine.

Like the Shekina in Adam, but the other way around.

“The other way around” has been the case for millennia:

The Dick Inside Eve (and all femme).

Narcissus, I pluck myself to descend. I pluck you like the first of the spring flowers in hell. I pluck myself to ascend: a declination that is an inclination.

I am Kore and Hades as one; I am the Orphic egg laid and hatched to give rebirth, like Great Mother Persephone, the moon fullest when new, primal life force slathered in ectoplasm, making snow angels the afterbirth of my rebirth.

When I pluck you, I pluck myself. When I choose you, I choose myself. When I kiss you, I kiss myself. When I seduce you, I seduce myself. When I rape you, I rape myself. When I fuck you, I fuck myself.

Fucking another is fucking the self, the way love should always be.

The ouroboric self-fecundating principle—devour yourself to be reborn.

Flora’s Train, Narcissus, by Walter Crane

You can do the work of descent, go on an underworld journey, the heroine’s night-sea journey, a quest for the Sophia carved from Lucifer’s crown. At the center, you will find infinite, boundless nothing, and within it, you will find true love.

Self-love is the philosopher’s stone, the emotion of laughter that dissolves Ego Island into pure oceanic consciousness. It is the universe, the great ouroboric chain of flowers that readies the womb-tomb-cocoon for the immaculate concept.

Knowledge, or the Divine Feminine Genius, is broad spectrum intellect, the multi-faceted sparkle of (w)hole-istic genius contained in the immaculate concept: the Edenic apple. A lateral intelligence is Edenic Knowledge: sexual, emotional, creative, intellective, expressionistic, etheric, all-inclusive and thus immaculate.

Combined, these multitudinous facets of knowledge form a complete intellect, a wisdom with the fire, brilliance, and scintillation of a perfect diamond, the diamond-eyed, thousand-petaled soul.

The Divine Feminine Genius is the genital and the heart in the head, as well as the seats of power and expression—the sexual, emotional, intellectual, creative, expressive, and powerful knowledge of the alchemical apple.

Die Schlange by Max Klinger

“Adam and Eve were originally androgynous, like Shiva and his Shakti. She dwelt in him, and he in her; they were two souls united in one body, which God later tore apart, depriving them of their bliss of union. Cabalists took up the idea and said the paradise of Eden can be regained only when the two sexes are once more united; even God must be united with his female counterpart, the heavenly Eve called Shekina” (Barbara Walker, The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets).

If Eve is the divine feminine within the man,
if Eve is the pussy in Adam,
then Adam is a cosmic hermaphrodite.

If Adam is a cosmic hermaphrodite,
then Adam is Eve,
the alchemical androgyne.

Woman Girt with the Flowering Wand

She will respond, this new woman, to the high clamor of those star trumpets; she will come as a perilous flame and a devious song, a voice in the judgment halls, a banner before armies. She will come girt with [the flowering wand], and before her kings and priests will tremble and cities and empires will fall, and she will be called BABALON, the scarlet woman. —Jack Parsons, “Freedom Is a Two-Edged Sword”

Lilith and Eve by Yuri Klapouh

In my re-wilded Eden, there is no Adam.

Maybe he’s there at first, and I switch heads with him and fuck him just to have the experience of fucking myself—a homo-, hetero-, and auto-erotic experience of reality.

The serpent is there, and she is Great Mommy Lilith, the kundalini creatrix—my externalized Dick Inside flowered.

I take the Edenic apple from her, and she shows me how to eat it without even taking a bite. She shows me how to make it levitate from my hands.

We switch heads.
We trade mirrors.
We touch worms.

I ouroborate her. We ouroborate each other.

We fuck each other so that fucking another is fucking the self, in the true love sense.

We become one Lilith. We touch Liliths.

We become the mistress of God and swallow him whole with our sheela na gigs.

We make God the Father our bitch.

We plant trees of the immaculate concept everywhere we go, making the whole world our Eden, tempting all women to eat of the fruit and rise into (w)hole-istic knowledge.

Girt with the flowering wand, we make Edenic underworld.

In my re-wilded Hades, there is no Hades.

He was The Dick Inside me all along.

Eve in the Garden of Eden by Henri Rousseau

Life in this society being, at best, an utter bore and no aspect of society being at all relevant to women, there remains to civic-minded, responsible, thrill-seeking females only to overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, institute complete automation and destroy the male sex.

—Valerie Solanas

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We should neuter all men except a handful of chosen ones deemed worthy of continuing the gene pool.

—Kim Vodicka

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That your Sex are Naturally Tyrannical is a Truth.

—Abigail Adams

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O brother! How empty and full of shit you are! Fathers? Useless. Brothers? Useless. Lovers? What even? Can’t cry, can’t giggle, can’t fuck, can’t work, can’t play, can’t hold door, can’t lift weight, can’t fight, can’t make money, can’t better brain without woman or toy or code. Shut up and build something! Shut up and find God! Does anything move you other than [blue] ball? Fetch, doggy, fetch! How preDICKtable. Such bores! Whores! All of them! The best of them? Proud of their stupidity and promiscuity. Let’s pimp them out. They’d love it. Gross. Let’s not touch them at all.

—Madison Murray

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~*~We live in a society~*~ where women don’t have the luxury to be lazy, so we are out here doing the most, with our looks, skills, succeses, talents, etc. and yet still groveling for even the most ain’t-shit lazy ineffectual of men, who can’t even competently fuck and who are afraid of love, to fuck and love us.

The fact that our country is currently being run by men who both embody and celebrate this behavior only enables it and makes it more socially acceptable. These types of men, meaning all men, also tend to have inordinate sympathy for one another, “sympathy for the ain’t-shit dude,” that they do not direct toward women. Hard to sympathize with bad bitches, I guess, when we are serving boss queen energy yet still receiving the short end of the dick.

Boo hoo to all these dudes with dicks they blew out on porn and little puny grinch hearts and Norman Bates mommy issues, haven’t got the guts and certainly ain’t got the brains and most definitely don’t got the good dick, but there you are with your pick of virtually any real-deal baller-ass bitch on the planet who you aren’t even picking because somehow we are not good enough for you who are not anywhere close to good enough and in fact are way out of your league and depth.

Despite being unequivocally the badder ass boss ass bitch of the party, I am the one who men get to apparently accept or reject despite none of them being good enough for me to begin with. Yet the world is set up so that I am the one time and again rejected, and they find ways to use their rejection of me and other women to fuel their misogyny. They use anything at all to fuel their misogyny; you will be hated for being perfect just as you will be hated for any and every flaw.

—sKUM V

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We encourage fucking trees.

—Karina Bush

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No fake orgasms.

No fake laughter.

No bullshit.

—Julia Laxer

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Being a femcel means never having to say you’re sorry for refusing to be a crash test dummy for a man’s impotence.

—Kum the Klown

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The Femcel is a concept made flesh. As such, femcel is living embodiment of philosophical and aesthetic principles, insofar as the Femcel is the inversion of repressive and self-denying expectations of the feminine under patriarchy. Under patriarchy the female must exist for others.

She must be yielding, sweet, supportive, self-denying, nurturing, “good” to a standard of goodness which is inhumane, and only in possession of a service-oriented sexuality under specific pre-approved circumstances. As such, the Femcel is angry, perverted, and aggressive.

The Femcel is determined to be completely useless to patriarchy.

—Tara McGowan-Ross

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I’ve located myself in this identity in an effort to shift the tonal center of my sexuality.

—Tim Livingston

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Getting rejected is a portal for those with the eyes to see. Nobody is deserving of love yet everyone is. If you’re a real freak try (safely) engaging in sex positive bubbles or in spaces where other fellow freaks can find you (trust me they’re out there). Waiting to be found gets old, seeking out others and making them feel seen never does.

—Avelynne Kang

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Men are, for the most part, shallow and empty.

Oh, I know exactly what is wrong with them.

They see themselves as “temporarily-embarrassed libertines.”

Increasingly ineffectual and impotent.

Society is set up for men to walk into it and bust a nut in ways that require almost no work on their part.

Women work twice as hard to get less than half the respect, which makes men hate us three times more.

My pussy is getting wet saying all of this.

The rage of the wounded feminine is my pornography.

—sKUM V

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to be sCUMtinued…

Fiery Femcel Fury

Co-Edited by
Madison Murray & Kum V

Femcel collage by Madison Murray

Our SCUMtributors:

Kyle Bertone is a photographer and mixed media artist. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts; he lives in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He is the Visual Arts chair for the Harrisburg Fringe Festival and serves on the board of 717 Arts, a non-profit dedicated to supporting artists throughout central Pennsylvania.

Blush Bullseye is an erotica writer, performer and painter who loves doing readings. She has zine books of her erotica called Privacy Part and Small Talk and runs/hosts an Erotica Nite of readings/performances in NYC.

Jerica Burgette, whimsy writer, art tinkerer, and wildflower. Musician of keys, horns, voice, and strings. Melds with nature, dances with spirits, and befriends every creature. Born to be a scientist, fallen into the dreamscape, taking it day by day.

“A femcel is a female/femme who is frustrated by multiple failed romantic relationships and adjusts herself on a spectrum of anger that either turns inward as depression or outward as resistance, based on wanting or not wanting to rely on a partnership to define her self-worth. Either direction can freeze her into stillness or push her into movement — likewise, it can either hinder or help her grow into the stage of not needing a man to function daily. Acceptance can manifest as succumbing to either self-criticism or self-love, therefore remaining single indefinitely.” —Jerica Burgette

Karina Bush is an Irish/Roman poet, playwright and video artist. She has authored five books, including Rotten Milk from Tangerine Press, and her work has been featured in 90+ publications, including POSTPOSTPOST, International Poetry Studies Institute, Akashic Books, Deleuzine, Chiron Review, Hurricane Review, Expat Press and LA Review of Books. 

“A femcel is a romantically amputated woman. Numbers increasing with technological development.” —Karina Bush

Elwin Cotman is a storyteller from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He is the author of five books: the poetry collection The Wizard’s Homecoming, and the short story collections The Jack Daniels Sessions EP, Hard Times Blues, Dance on Saturday, and Weird Black Girls. His debut novel The Age of Ignorance will be published by Scribner in 2027.

Katie Haley is a writer from California with work in/on Hobart, Somewords, Vlad Mag and elsewhere. She believes in writing that’s abrasive and hardy. Her vices include but aren’t limited to cumming then crying, cheap tequila, and gossiping.

Avelynne Kang is a writer and soon to be therapist from Toronto. Her work has been published in Maudlin House, Expat Press, Ghost City Press, and others. She hosts a podcast called Courtesy Flush on YouTube. She is a libra sun, gemini moon, and gemini rising and thanks you for reading. <3

“What is a femcel? A slight departure from incels, as incels emphasize the involuntary aspect of their celibacy and (real or imagined) lack of sexual desirability. Femcels to me are women who lack sexual or romantic desirability and struggle to socialize with women due to perceived competition or tend to aggressively self-isolate. Sylvia Plath’s protagonist in The Bell Jar is an OG example, but more contemporary femcels include Mia Goth’s portrayal of Pearl or comedian/actress Ivy Wolk.” —Avelynne Kang

Mr. Omar King resides in Gardena, California. You’ve seen him as a regular guest on Soft White Underbelly. You’ve read his schizo short fictions on Cream Scene Carnival, Cum Punk, Honk Magazine, 100 Subtexts Magazine, and Elizabeth Ellen’s Hobart Pulp Magazine. Instagram: @ahsintheblacklodge Twitter/X: @omarking0924 Substack: MR. OMAR KING’S SUBS-TIC-TAC

Lotte Latham is a professional hedonist with an untidy mind. Author of chapbooks Maternal Potential (Carrion Press ‘25) and Dear Mr Andrews (Guts Publishing ‘23). When she’s not writing, you’ll find her fucking bottles under the alias: My Babyallgone. Wanna watch?

Julia Laxer’s full-length poetry manuscript will be released by Sweet Trash Press, (an imprint of House of Vlad). Two poems are upcoming in Michelle Tea’s CRIMINAL anthology, (Dopamine Press.) Julia’s an associate editor at Hobart Pulp, where she curates THE COST OF LIVING column. [email protected]
IG: @julia.laxer

“For a femcel, the male gaze is meaningless, boring, and repulsive. They never play ‘the coquette’ nor dumb themselves down to gain favor in masculine spaces. Femcels rely on an individuated means of empowerment in their pursuit of pleasure, joy, and desire. Femcels refuse to perform free sexualized labor as a means of gaining access to male attention, power and praise. No fake orgasms. No fake laughter. No bullshit.” —Julia Laxer

Tim Livingston is a poet + proud Pennsylvanian. They live with their cat Mamma Mia!

“A femcel is someone who would prefer to long for a gentler authority than to submit to a carnival mirror. I’ve located myself in this identity in an effort to shift the tonal center of my sexuality.” —Tim Livingston

Tara McGowan-Ross is an ethnically ambiguous brunette protagonist and happily married femcel. Her poetry has been anthologized in Best Canadian Poetry. She is the author of poetry collections GIRTH and SCORPION SEASON, as well as the Weston Prize finalist memoir NOTHING WILL BE DIFFERENT. Follow her @girthgirl and on Substack.

“For me, it’s a set of philosophical and aesthetic principles that invert the standard expectations of the feminine under patriarchy: under patriarchy, the female must exist for others. She must be yielding, sweet, supportive, self-denying, nurturing, ‘good’ to a standard of goodness which is inhumane, and only in possession of a service-oriented sexuality under specific pre-approved circumstances. So much of the way the world works is organized around the assumed inherent desirability of being this way, and the consequences of straying from it are massive. Instead, the femcel is angry, perverted, aggressive, and aesthetically man-repelling.” —Tara McGowan-Ross

Bob McNeil is a writer, editor, cartoonist, and spoken word artist.  Flexible Press published his book composed of essays, illustrations, poems, and stories titled Compositions on Compassion and Other Emotions. Proceeds from this work fund the National Alliance to End Homelessness.

Madison Murray is a New England-based writer, artist, editor, and performer. She is the author of My Gaping Masshole, a cult collection of erotica, poetry, and NSFW art about the north shore region of Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Playboy, Hobart, The Blood Pudding, Quiet Lightning, dream boy book club, BULLSHIT Lit, Dirt Child, Spectra Poets, and Cum Punk Magazine, among others.

“Femcel (noun) – a person who experiences difficulty forming or maintaining intimate relationships with men. I’m a femcel bc I am traumatized. My brain is fully developed. I live with my mom. I have to write. I fuck for love. I love no one.” —Madison Murray

Zofia Provizer is an illusive trans writer who has their shit together. Zofia hosts the T4T Reading Series in Allston, MA, and is a mommydaddy to their two cats.

Nora Rawn is terminally single and writes poetry while working in publishing and living in Brooklyn. We all die alone anyway.

CUMstopher Soredick is a professional game programmer and unprofessional word deviant who runs (the decidedly tamer) Artemisia Press out of a triangle-shaped house in the woods of central Ontario.

Kum V (fka Kim Vodicka) is a 24/7 sapiosexual femcel. She invented Cum Punk, where she is founder and editor-in-mischief. She daylights as a free-range dairy farmer of the Bovine Divine, and she moonlights as Kum the Klown, Cock E. Cuntsmart, and The Dick Inside.

“Femcel (noun) – she who chooses herself by any means necessary, who abstains from intimacy with men when it means loss of power and/or self. I’m a femcel bc I resist psychic death. I don’t hate men. I just hate that society has failed men and therefore everyone else.” —Kum V

Dan Wright is a writer and poet from St.Louis, Missouri, where he hosts two regular poetry series, runs event programming for beloved St. Louis independent bookshop Dunaway Books, and is cofounder of Back of the Class Press.