#Blueprint Poetry

[billherbert23]

(from The Iconostasis of Anxiety)

By an extraordinary coincidence, just as we’re about to launch this pamphlet, another icon missing for centuries has turned up, mysteriously accompanied by the text below.

Focussed on Saint Peter, it offers a neat complement to to the icon celebrating the Saint to which the original chapel was dedicated, Thomas. One famously doubted Jesus, while the other denied him three times before the cock crowed.

Although it is not historically possible for this to be the same cockerel Alexander the Great took with him in his glass submersible to tell the time, there is nevertheless a persistent tradition that this is who it is.

Sometimes when a little too much raki

has passed beneath the peachy portcullis

of my unzulänglichkeit thruppenny thrapple

I wake in the dehydrated space before dawn

caught in the mosquito net as though in the web of an ex-spider

the shape and size of an elephant’s liver

or more properly in these parts that of a pygmy mammoth

and count how many times I have betrayed Christ

according to the asthmatic cockerel down the hill

the one who seems more interested in

proclaiming his enthusiasm for rock and roll

than the cry traditional to such fowl

since without a second’s thought we have already betrayed Him

daily waking in our weakness, having all night wanted

to shirk our shoulders’ share, and have failed even at this

and I reflect that He did indeed say unto Peter

You are my genre of disaffected popular music

and out of this cradle of your denial

we will build a chapel of doubt and the beautiful flaw

that our Father loves more than any virtue we invented in His name

the holiest chapel of failure and loss and swaying shame

Unzulänglichkeit - inadequate

[annabelle--cane]

I would love to hear you talk about the overlooked history of vampire literature.....

the "vampires in gothic literature" episode of the podcast you're dead to me is the most comprehensive and accessible single look at the topic I've been able to find, but the thing that always annoys me the most in surveys of the history of vampire literature is that basically everyone forgets about all the poetry. there were a bunch of notable and popular english language poems featuring vampires before that famous lake geneva ghost story competition where byron spitballed the start of a vampire story that john polidori later expanded upon and published, and some of the big hitters include "thalaba the destroyer" (1801), "the vampyre" (1810), and "the giaour" (1813). also of note are "lenore" (1773) and "christabel" (1797), as even though neither explicitly contains vampires they both went on to be extremely influential on dracula and carmilla, respectively.

I believe there were also several notable early vampire poems in german, but my area of study is specifically british literature so that is a bit out of my wheelhouse, hence my focus on just english language stuff.

[separatist-apologist]

Wait babes for the time travel fic does arina go back with elain from our time or is she already there?? I assumed she was there already but now it sounds like she and elain are besties who traveled together? And are now wreaking havoc on the boys?

They go together!

“Prove you’re not a prostitute,” Eris said, clearly willing to provoke an angry woman. Lucien didn’t move, still curious as the blonde offered him a deceptively sweet smile.

“Come and see for yourself,” she offered. Lucien wouldn’t have dared—he knew an armed opponent when he saw one. Eris should have known better and yet he crossed the stone floor and reached out a hand, perhaps curious about the mass of blonde hair tangled around her face.

“Arina—” the brunette tried to stop her friend, but the woman bit Eris hard enough that Lucien saw the blood before he heard Eris’s furious curse.

With bloody lips, the blonde looked up at him and said, “Biting is bad for business.”

Eris turned to look at Lucien, mouth agape.

“This whole thing is merely a misunderstanding,” the brunette told him. “If you let us go—”

“Where would I release you to? A husband? Father?” Lucien questioned.

Both women exchanged a glance. “I…”

Liars, the pair of them.

[iridescentis]

having a conversation with my friends about dating just reminds me how i desperately need demi/aroace/lesbian friends bc wtf is this shit😭

looking at me like im the crazy one bc i don't want to approach an aesthetically pleasing girl to ask her out and instead want to form a devastatingly co-dependant and ambiguous relationship with her under the guise of being best friends like no you're the weird ones

[trickstersaint]

asexuality // september 2022

[at0mbehaiku]

Driving with one song

Playing over and over

And it's No Surprise

[lokidotir]

Part 3/5

Purple for when you are alone

How doubts creep in through silent home

Emotion is false and feeling is hard

So you turn to the page and become a bard

[rizka-san]

Can't this man keep taking over lands? Better yet, get historical, call me Genghis Khan. Running on nothing but total domination. Here's something to digest, food-for-thought? One too many people around me act falsehoods. Guard your poise, gaudiness exploits your boys. No voice to these toys, go pick another choice. But even after calling your bluff, it's all good right? Shine the lights in your dark club rooms. Aren't most of you Muslims, headed into those rinks. Flooded with ice, blood is mixed with life, obviously. I'm drawing the lines, I just refuse to head in raw and behind. Fuse your music with your outfits, overbearing and cliché. These days their hands are open to grab anything, cash pays. These stashes says a lot about how they got their position. Submissions of souls, admission fees, need your whole family too. It's no longer a domination, it's a complete overhaul of the land. Until the bell tolls, my hands balled into a fist, kiss the rings. Sing this then, The Old Get Older While The Young Get Stronger. The dumb last longer, the gold gets folded in boxes, for what? Knowledge is hard to come by, that's why I packaged it in message. If you can't read, then you'd hear, if you can't hear, you'd feel it then. Vibrations sends dangerous signs, proceed with precautious minds. I love this time, when those old ones can't rap like they used to. Call me ruthless, but I used this moment to hold them hostage. I applaud each man, their gauzy pens don't mean nothing. I've been headbutting since adolescence, from Kid to Billy. Represent your states, I represent my state of mind, ask Nas. Act blessed and heaven-sent, when you sent yourself to the game. When I rap, press your pens and study it, I'm bringing the game. Nothing's pre-determined here, all of it on the spot, shoot the game. This is for past and current ones, the future ones, you get half a bar.

Rizka’s Mongolian Domination

[billherbert23]

(from The Iconostasis of Anxiety)

Certain images from this unusual iconostasis were removed at some point in history and have been lost for centuries - either that or they didn’t fit in the pamphlet, available now from Blueprint Poetry and so are being recycled here as part of an intrusive media push - you decide. This panel is depicts the somewhat unorthodox Patriarch, Ossian.

In the old days by Dunkeld and especially around Fortingall horses were born at dawn of the first rays and were so tiny that Grainne or Deirdre or some such wise wifie could catch them in nets and liquidise them for smoothies for Diarmid or Nechtan or merely Connor MacFungus of the Clan MacFungus but if you left them by noon they would grow hands or by hands and be as high as a shrub on Shetland but if you wanted to get anywhere you had to leave it till teatime for which we had powsowdie, poached salmon and nuts, whole hazelnuts, sou’s lugs, and sair heids, unless it was cloudy - wasn’t it always cloudy, asked Goethe - it was, maist drumlie, and those mournfu days gave birth tae pterosaurs, transparent during the hours of daylight and nae bigger than a coffee table, but jubilant as craws on the battlefield at dusk - and what if it rained, asked Ramírez, for I hear the climate ish that way inclined, then the horses wad turn to kelpies and many men were drownded from ferrying the streams on kelpies - unless they were selkies themselves said Borges, who knew a thing or two about the hielans and also the helados, that is true, answered the aged aged man, many’s the night I’ve lain on a rock happit in the sodden plaid of dulse wi a turf for a pillow tae evade the redcoats and listened tae the sang of them that were lassies on the land and worse things at sea that went hi gee up ma cuddie and gin you didna have a ride on a kelpie they would grow large as an auld tin kirk and at midnight they would brust and in the dawn there would only be a penny ride of Champion the Wonder Horse and that would need plugged intae the electric and if Pilate was here he would tell you himself, I’m sitting right here said Pilate

[leonbasinwriter]

Humanity's Future with Machines: A Poetic Vision

@leonbasinwriter Where Code Meets Consciousness, and Memory Becomes Currency We stand in a neon-lit procession,faces half-human, half-code,carrying the weight of generations in luminous orbs above our heads. Are these our ancestors?Or are they echoes of the past,preserved in the circuitry of time? The Digital Age is No Longer an Abstraction It breathes. It watches. It remembers. The…

[pattytacuri]

poetry: confession

I wrote this poem in December of 2023. just a girl enjoying her sandwich I listen to the universe without a hint of defianceI listen carefully and with intentionto understand my next blessingand the message is, continue to be vulnerablewith the worldyou’re leaving a blueprint for the next onekeep leaning into your craziest and most authentic selfthere’s someone somewhere who’s paying…

[dachmanarts]

Earth's Blueprint beckons,

Visions of a planet's soul,

Thoughts and talks ignite.

"Earth's Blueprint, An Architectural Vision" invites you to explore a visionary planetary design crafted to ignite thought and spark engaging conversations. Link in bio.

[ralph-with-coffee]

Blueprint

measure twice, cut once.I should have followed the advice.what is it then,that pulled me to jump head-firstinto this unknown?when I came out at the end of the finish line,all I see is a foot steps of a blind mannot seeing the obvious path.yet, I would tell myself,learning from the past broadens our horizon,but it’s the courage to venture into the unknownthat demands beyond the wise man’s two…

[deadrobinthoughts]

†  "do you love me?" : various.

♦ request: drafted request ♦ beta’d: nope ♦ a/n: none

"𝑫𝒐 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑴𝒆?"

The question lingers, soft and certain, slipping into the silence between you. It should be easy to answer, simple, light, nothing to choke on—and yet, it never is. Because love is weight. It is sharp edges and quiet fears. It is vulnerability, raw and aching, wrapped up in something none of them were ever taught how to hold.

𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 —

Tim does not freeze, does not flinch, does not give himself away. His expression remains carefully neutral, perfectly measured, because that is what he does. He processes, he calculates, he dissects every angle before he speaks. But inside - inside, it hits him like a sudden plunge into cold water; sharp and suffocating.

Love has never been something he’s had the luxury to dwell on. It is there, of course - woven into the fabric of his existence, buried beneath exhaustion and coffee-stained blueprints. He shows it in the small things, in the way he reminds you to rest, in the way he remembers how you take your tea, in the way he always, always waits for you to step inside before locking the door. But words are another thing. Words solidify things. Words make them real. And real things - real things can break.

He exhales slowly, setting his coffee down with precision, buying himself the extra second he needs to make sure his voice is steady when he answers.

“Of course I do.” It is not a grand declaration. Not poetry. But it is the truth, and it is his.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 —

Jason’s first instinct is to brush it off. Not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he doesn’t know how to give it to you.

Love is something that has always come with a price, a condition, a leash. It is a thing that has been ripped from him, handed back in pieces, stitched together with guilt and loss. It is not safe. It is not something he lets himself hold onto, not for long.

But here you are, asking him for it, like he has anything soft left to give. And he hates that you’re asking, hates that you don’t already know, hates that a part of you needs to hear it out loud. His chest tightens, something ugly clawing its way up his throat, because if he says it - if he lets himself say it - then it’s real. And real things get taken away.

His fingers flex at his sides, a tell, a crack in the armor. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, rougher, edged with something that is not quite anger, not quite fear—but something close. "Why?" The word comes out rough, edged, defensive. "You looking for reassurance or something?"

And then, softer, quieter—“Yeah, I do... but you already knew that.”

𝐃𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 —

For a moment, he just looks at you. His first instinct is to smile, to tease, to ease the weight of it, because that’s what he does. He keeps things light. He makes things easy. But this - this is not something that should be laughed off.

Because love, to him, has never been a question. It is just there. It is something he gives freely, without hesitation, without fear. And yet, when you ask, something in his chest pulls tight, because what if he has not been showing it enough? What if all the lingering touches, all the warmth, all the ways he folds you into his life like you’ve always belonged - what if it hasn’t been enough?

His throat works around something unsaid before he speaks, reaching for your hand with an ease so familiar it’s second nature. He doesn’t squeeze too tightly, doesn’t pull too hard, but he lets you feel it. The steady press of his fingers against yours, the warmth of his palm, the unspoken promise resting between them. “Of course I love you,” he murmurs, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just that. Just the truth.

And when you relax, when you smile just slightly, when your shoulders finally drop the weight they’ve been carrying - he knows how much you needed to hear it.

𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 —

His book snaps shut.

It is not loud, not forceful, but the movement is too precise, too calculated, too much of a deflection. His shoulders square, his posture too stiff, his expression unreadable, and for a long moment, he does not speak. He does not even blink.

Love is a battlefield, a weakness, a liability. It is a thing he was taught to sharpen into a weapon, to twist into something useful, something he can wield - but never something he can hold.

You have asked him many things before. But this - this is different.

His fingers tighten around the book, knuckles pale, and then slowly, deliberately, he sets it aside. His movements are too precise, his control too careful, but when he finally meets your gaze, his voice is not.

“I do,” he says, no hesitation, no doubt. Because love is not a thing he takes lightly. And if it is given, then it is absolute. It is a vow.

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧 —

She hears the question, but she does not answer. Not with words.

Instead, she watches you. Studies you. Not for weakness, not for tells, not for deception—but because she wants to know what you are really asking.

Love has always been something felt, something carried in movement, in weight, in presence. She does not need words to know it, to understand it, to see it. But you—you are different. You need the words. You need them to exist outside of a glance, outside of a touch, outside of the quiet ways she lets you in.

So she reaches for you, fingers wrapping around your wrist, guiding your palm to her chest. The steady, slow rhythm beneath it, her heartbeat, warm beneath your skin. She holds it there, holds you there, lets you feel it.

And then - then she nods.

It is not loud, not grand, not a declaration. But it is a confirmation.

And it is enough.

[ckret2]

A leaked list of some of the exciting upcoming content from The Book of Bill:

The pyramids of Giza ranked from most to least sexy.

Winning lottery numbers. He does not say which game they're for.

Three pages of Bill practicing blackletter calligraphy so that he can write the fancy-looking "The Book of Bill" on the cover. (Meant to tear those pages out before submitting book to publisher.)

A section where he implies that all your headcanons about him are stupid. Yes, your headcanons specifically. If you compare your copy of the book to a friend's, these sections will have different text. He insults all headcanons equally, even the ones that contradict each other.

A long, rambling story about a funny thing that he saw at a party in the Nightmare Realm, but he keeps getting distracted gossiping about the embarrassing love affairs and crimes against reality the partygoers have committed. Not a single one of these characters has ever been mentioned before or ever will be again. He gets so distracted he never finishes the original funny story. He was clearly drunk when he wrote this section.

A pet care sheet on how to keep a pet axolotl. All of the information is extremely wrong.

Some of the other dimensions he's tried and failed to conquer. He keeps insisting that all the failures were somebody else's fault. It's extremely obvious that they're his fault.

A photograph of a vivisected elephant, for some reason.

A phone number written on a cocktail napkin that Bill insists would be really funny for all the readers to prank call. It leads to the desk phone of the director of the CIA. 

Bill claims he definitely totally knew that Stan was disguised as Ford the whole time, he only played along to trick the Pines back, and then he quickly changes the topic.

A page of Bill's original poetry. It's all unintelligible symbols. It will take 27 years for somebody to crack the code. They're all gory but juvenile limericks.

A cocktail recipe. It will kill you.

Bill's original version of the portal blueprints that he copied to give Ford, with Bill's handwritten annotations. One part of the blueprints is labeled "component that will accidentally destroy the universe. REMEMBER NOT TO INCLUDE THIS COMPONENT IN SIXER'S COPY!!" He underlined this twice. If this page is compared to the portal blueprints in Journal 3, it's clear that Bill included that component in Ford's copy.

A personality quiz to help you meet your ideal sleep paralysis demon.

Bill's baby pictures. He looks exactly the same, except his bow tie and top hat are too big.

Bill reveals that he thought the llama symbol on the zodiac wheel referred to that farmer guy on the edge of town, and he was super confused to see Pacifica there.

Multiple pages scattered through the book about Bill's amazing powers, his brilliant and fun plans for our dimension, and all the cool favors he's willing and able to do for his friends and followers. All these pages end with a passive-aggressive aside about how somebody would have to be REALLY stupid to turn down an invitation to join Bill's crew, Stanford Pines—

A page labeled "My loyal servants and slaves!" filled with several hideous, oozing, nightmare-inducing Lovecraftian monsters, and one Mickey Mouse.

A self-portrait depicting Bill riding a rocket ship playing an electric guitar while rainbow lightning flashes all around him and money rains down from the sky.

A cynical, sneering tirade about how love is evolution's idiotic way of tricking primitive species into reproducing and how only simple-minded mortals who can't separate their true thoughts from their hormones fall for it. In the margins he's drawn a heart around the words "Bill Cipher +" a scribbled-out blot. The blot is completely unreadable. Despite this, the fandom will spend years debating the name underneath based on the size of the blot.

Extremely stupid "explanations" about various unsolved mysteries and crimes. In six years the world will discover one of them is accidentally correct and Alex Hirsch will get investigated by the FBI.

The book will be divided into four sections. Each section will begin with a big illuminated letter. In order, the four illuminated letters spell "F" "U" "C" "K".