presents
Fiery Femcel Fury
Co-Edited by
Madison Murray & Kum V
Dedicated to Jennifer Finch
Fiery Femcel Fury Cumpanion Playlist
(listen while you read!)
Dedicated to 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
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!
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!
Kum the Klown dons the clown makeup in solidarity with all women who have been forced into sex clowning by the impotent Dick Inside.
All femcels have “honorary” dicks.
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 coming—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 coming. It’s coming. It’s fucking coming!
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 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.
Dopamine
Sadfisher
Lotus-Eaters
Bots
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 😍😘💞💞💞💞
Enjoy your screenshot and… Get 10 stickers for $1: stickermule.com/pikaso
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.
Enjoy your screenshot and… Get 10 stickers for $1: stickermule.com/pikaso
“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 >>>>
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.
Femcel collage by Madison Murray
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.
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.
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
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
Tim Livingston is a poet + proud Pennsylvanian. They live with their cat Mamma Mia!
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.
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.
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.
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.
