#also hope you all like the poem :)

[inkskinned]

"it's so embarrassing you like that popular thing" "oh ew that geeky/strange thing is so cringe lol" "oh it's kind of weird you get excited about that harmless shit"

dude i love how ironic and jaded you are and that's so cool and sexy of you. and i am so so glad to tell you - you won!! we all had a meeting and we decided that you won, and we are writing your name on the inside of a burger king crown. the marker smeared, sorry, but we knew any form of real effort is ugly to you. but anyway. congrats! you are officially the coolest, most ironic, most jaded person in-the-world-right-now. we would throw you a party but you would think it was totally boring - and besides, we're weird so we wouldn't have been coming. we would have brought our love of beetles and of baking and of little canapes. we would have brought our artsy videogames and pages of writing. we would have written a poem with you, our hands covered in ink, and spread out a canvas to dance on, the night so lurid and pink.

but do not worry. we will not throw the party. we will just get you a ringlight and that crown i mentioned. it is a nice crown, except for where one of us dropped it.

the vote was a really hard one because we had so many cool ironic people to pick off the shelves. all of you have hands that rot fruit, how strange is that - you can't look at something without destroying it for other people. you like it when you can squeeze a person into a pinpoint - all us small ones scampering our little feet around our ugly joys. the vote was also a hard one because we kept our voices down because you don't like it when we talk too loud. you were on your phone at the time, talking to people other than us. you are a ghoul of every moment - half in, half out, you resent us for being here without shame or embarrassment.

so good news! we have invented an island for people like you. you get to go there and speak into the air things like if you still like watching harmless twitch streamers in 2023 you're fucking boring. you will say things like liveplay podcasts are fucking ugly and it's kind of awkward they try to make everything gay. on the island we made you, all of your words will have weight. they will form in the air like icicles, large white behemoth letters that will crumple in anvils around your feet. maybe we will send someone there once in a while to sweep, but honestly you might be there for a while, alone, waiting. we are busy being outside looking for mushrooms and flapping our hands and humming. we are busy kicking our little heels while we watch cringey tv. we are busy - sorry! as an apology, we have pre-filled the island with every bland, mediocre, unscented thing we could find. the island has the texture of american cheese. the island has an ocean that never gets angry. the island is perfect for you, trust me. you will be so happy there - as happy as you can be, ironically.

we want to say we are sorry for doing harmless things that you find annoying, childish, or unappealing - but we are not sorry. we thought we could help you, because we don't mind laughing at ourselves, but it turns out you are allergic to color and noise and atmosphere, so this is the best that we can do for now. we are all making a big shirt that says i voted in the ironic monarchy. we got you one that is just a fast fashion buttondown. i am so excited for you and this island and the big life you have won. you have a cool jaded grey life and miles of irony to roam. i love you! be well.

now leave us alone.

[aurorangen]

Time will heal the wounds Held deep in my heart But still leave the scars That are tearing me apart

[moralcandy]

fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:

number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.

number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.

number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.

number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.

number five. your niece.

number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.

number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.

number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.

number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.

ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.

eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.

twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.

thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.

fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.

fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.

[badlyblurry]

Phvvdjh Plvuhdg

Doo PfTxhhq vdz wkdw idwhixo qljkw Zdv klv iulhqg glvdsshdulqj lq d iodvk ri oljkw Doo Grrohb nqhz lq wkdw prphqw: Klv Eluwkgdb Fhoheudwlrq kdg idfhg pruh srvwsrqhphqw

Sooo… all of this dialogue is from the end of the Baits Motel case in case you couldn’t tell. Literally no changes except for the fact that Dooley is in the Gravity Falls public pool (before it reopened) instead of the pool in the Darkside.

This is pretty much the prologue to my DSD x GF crossover where Dooley arrives at Gravity Falls on Summerween (because spooky and stuff). Also Dooley doesn’t meet Geoff and gets to keep his souvenir hat.

I REALLY enjoyed making this even though it was more “redraw scenes from DSD” instead of “DSD characters interact with GF characters” but it’s coming :)

[setevulpo]

feeling very green and yellow light in this dungeon tonight

angústia, florbela espanca (translated by me)

interview with the vampire, s02e05: "don't be afraid, just start the tape"

i lock you in an american sonnet that is part prison, terrance hayes

island of the sequined love nun, christopher moore

beautiful short loser, ocean vuong

kinnporsche, s01e11

red doc>, anne carson

[eyrieofsynapses]

good evening, all. it is May the 25th. our lilacs are blooming, just as the ones at the Watch House did. and I am thinking about remembrance of the fallen, and GNU, and the love in commemoration.

y'know, I read Night Watch… oh, maybe a year ago and some months ago. and the lilac symbolism, the remembrance of the Watch, has always struck me with the depth of the emotion of it, the tangibility of it in the flowers. but I wasn't aware that today was the day until I saw commemorative posts, all that gorgeous artwork and more, on my dash.

I was also not aware, until now, that fans commemorated the day not only because of the book reference, but in support of Terry Pratchett and of those with Alzheimer's. which knocked me over a bit because of course, of course the group that would use GNU to honor him would do that. and… I've been thinking about GNU a lot, lately, and this caught me again.

I read Going Postal a bit ago, and reread it recently. both times, the parts about GNU made me tear up. this idea of the names, the memories, the lives of the clacks workers who dedicated themselves to ensuring that people heard each other's voices—all those names spoken again and again and again by that which they poured their souls into, winging along in the air as they could not, an eternal reminder that they were loved—how could that not touch a person's heart?

when I found out that fans online used it to memorialize him, I damn well cried. hell, I still tear up just thinking about it. do you know, there's a code for an HTTP header "X-Clacks-Overhead: GNU Terry Pratchett" written by Reddit users to put in webpages, where it goes unseen by the average user? and in 2015, when Netcraft took a survey, there were eighty-four thousand websites using it? it's eight years later—how many thousands upon thousands of websites have this now, do you think? how many little cables of light has his name flown along, now? how many times?

that alone is absurdly and unimaginably lovely in its own right, but… there's something else to it. there's something about remembering with the lilac sprigs every year, just as Vimes and those who were there remembered their dead. something about how, when we take up our lilac sprigs, we carry a little piece of the characters in our hearts, too. I kept trying to put my finger on why that makes me tear up the way it does. the conclusion I came to is this:

what greater way to honor a writer is there, but to honor them the way they did the characters they poured their heart and soul into? what better way to say we know you and you are not forgotten and your work and words and gifts to the world are held in our hearts forever than to remember them by their own words, their own vision? how else could we say you embodied all the good you believed in and wished to see in the world, but to memorialize them after the little pieces of their soul they wrapped in ink and put upon the page?

it is a knowing of the writer, to remember them in their way. it is not a worn-out faceless platitude, but a reminder that their work has been read and will continue to be, that the characters and world they loved enough to bring to life last just as their name does. such remembrance is warm and loving and delights in their memory even as it grieves.

and now Pratchett's name has been written in his tradition, over and over and over, across the vast plane of the Internet, where it will—with any luck—continue to fly for generations to come.

there is no way to truly express the beauty of that… but perhaps we can catch a glimpse of it in the lilacs, both ours and the Watch's.

[faaun]

procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@zeebreezin raven's your shaw

[theywontletmebeprincipal]

hey i’m proud of you for being open about your desires, sadomasochism is healthy and when done safely it is fun and hot and a great way to do fetish stuff! i hope you find someone safe to explore that stuff with <3 !

thank you anon I love you anon. really I think a lot of My Issues with navigating sadomasochism aren’t about the kink itself or even that it’s a kink that I have, they’re more with the fact that my being into it feels like a bit of a betrayal, yeah? like I’ve loved scary shit my whole entire life, I’ve made some of my best friends in the world bonding over scary shit. n naturally that comes with people harassing you n your friends, often when you’re too young to even know what they’re talking about, because the way you dress or the music you listen to or the movies you like are all somehow an indicator that you’re some sort of Sex Murderer being barely restrained by the bounds of polite society. I’ve had friends bullied off the internet very very early in our teenage years for allegedly being into kinks they’d never even heard of. so of course when I get older n I start discovering this part of myself it’s really alarming — not because I believe all the crazy shit that’s being said about hardcore kinksters, but because I can no longer say “hey, it’s ok, none of us are sex freaks here.” because now it feels a bit like I’m selling my friends n really my scene as a whole out by being the Fucked Up One even though I Know that’s total bullshit, n I know there’s plenty of us, n that there’s nothing even inherently wrong with being a sex freak in the first place. but even with those complicated feelings I’ve realized like, I can’t talk a big game about being pro kink unless I stop being a little loser baby about my own kinks yknow. I can’t keep being so accepting towards others while simultaneously being so hard on myself. the only way out for me is to unlearn all that, n that starts with oversharing in my tumblr dot com tags I guess _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):_

[crossbackpoke-check]

Hello, im wehaveagathering from my main blog, im kind of obsessed with your hockey poetry edits and I think your blog is great! I guess I kind of have a dumb question, where do you find the images you use for your edits? Did you say Getty in your tags?? I’ve gotten into making icons recently (and i have ideas for poetry edits hrrrghhh) but it’s hard to find high res images. Thanks for your time and I hope you have a nice day :)

first of all thank you so much 🥹 and second that’s absolutely not a dumb question!! i do pull a lot of images from getty and i’ll also download pictures from sports articles (i got a lot of the hugheses pictures from online access articles, for example), or sometimes from instagram/facebook/twitter if an account is public. freely admitting that i am not technologically advanced? inclined? in the slightest here, but the image editing software that you use and how you import/export photos with it makes a difference in the quality of them as well!

if you haven’t seen them yet, i would also recommend checking out @simmyfrobby @national-hockey-lesbian @hauntedppgpaints @tapedsleeves @starscelly and @captainbradmarchand’s blogs just off the top of my head!!! they might know more places to get high res images and also i love their work 💕🫶

[trickstersaint]

where are you guys finding some of these poems in my notes lately lmao. be so honest who scrolled all the way back to the plain text poems

[softly-and-suddenly]

Shout out to the girl in one of my classes in undergrad who called the Iliad “Military propaganda.” I think about you daily

[technicolorxsn]

love how there are pretentious video essays that just repeat the book and meander and ramble about house of leaves. it's what zampanó would have wanted. it is not, however, what I want

[broke-on-books]

May I ask about your beef with T.S. Elliott? I don't know much about him, but I'm curious as to your opinions on him.

Um well I don't like Eliot for many reasons (I wrote a whole blog post on this for school haha) so I'll try to make it quick but it really breaks down to three subjects for me

1. His personal life

2. His actual body of work

3. His reception and legacy

In terms of personal life, he of course really sucked, like (this is from memory so there may be mistakes) he institutionalized his wife and didn't visit her for a decade (and she died in the institution), he also was publically antisemitic, and very, very good friends (like besties) with Ezra Pound, the poet whose most famous poem is his 800 page lament on the fall of Mussolini and spent all of wwii betraying his country and making + promoting axis propaganda, so that's just like a whole can of worms there to unpack.

With his like actual work stuff, this is probably where I give him the most leeway bc he has a few lines that genuinely go really fucking hard. Like there are some lines where I 100% understand why he is a behemoth in the world of poetry. Like "this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper" and "do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decision and revisions which a minute can reverse" and "I will show you fear in a handful of dust" all go so hard. They do. This is true. But the rest of his work is just really nonsensical to me (and I've read his most famous pieces many times) and requires heavy academic investment to try and understand. I'm talking like intense knowledge of classical and medieval works, at least 3 languages besides English, etc.

Like there's more deciphering involved than actual poetry (I think in the book for the Waste Land there literally is more end notes than poem. And that poem is Long). And like this feeds into the third point I have which is the reception of his stuff and how I hate that T S Eliot is put up as like "total genius, greatest of all time, PINNACLE of poetry" by some people. Because I very think it starts falling into an elitist attitude of "getting" Eliot and seeing like deciphering these pieces as some sort of accomplishment on its own in a way that doesn't feel genuine to me.

Like there's just something off there about the vibes to me. That for some people they care more abt "understanding" Eliot then engaging w the themes of the poems themselves and then just brag about reading Eliot a lot (and likely Pound too and much of the imagist movement) in a way that again I just don't like.

And I think doing this and lifting Eliot up so high when his poetry is in the style it is actually hurt poetry a bit as an art form because like. It is what poetry haters accuse poetry of being like it's inaccessible, complicated, hard to read, and people get snobby about it. And I think people see that and get the wrong idea or confirm wrong ideas they had about poetry as a whole from his work which breaks me heart.

TLDR Eliot has a couple lines I think are absolute fire, but I dislike most of work. I don't like the imprint him and his reputation have had in regard to poetry, and I think he was a horrible human being.

& Every once and a while I'll read some of his more popular poems to check that they're still bad and pay a visit to the one line I like hidden within 60 bad ones

[lonesome-pear]

So I saw a video about the epic of Gilgamesh, saying that it contains the phrase in those distant days. Well, I thought that could be a good theme for a poem so I decided to write one. I turned on some Minecraft music (not sure why but it ended up working out) and got writing. It ended up being about missing the past. I kind of wanted to share it so here it is

In those days, those distant days

I would sit there for hours, placing things in new ways

Stuck in a creative haze, in those distant days

In those distant days, I would be with friends

People I loved, people I no longer know

Sitting in the basement, by a warm fire glow

In those distant days, I would find a new thing

Something that was little, but also somehow big

A planet of sorts, where it seemed like I had wings

Flying through the memories of those distant days

In those distant days, I had childlike wonder

Before all I knew was torn asunder

Little me, scared of thunder, was comforted in the moments of those distant days

How I miss those distant days, where there was joy and whimsy

A time where memories made were of good quality

But I cant go back to those distant days

I must relive them in different ways

Find whimsy with new people, in new places

Find joy in new games, with new faces

But I will enjoy this days now

The present can be pleasant anyhow

But even when it's not, I keep going somehow

Those distant days are far away

But I carry on, I find a way

Because I might be looking towards them, those distant days

[agrimmbrothersgrimmestgoose]

I am out of the med that regulates my pain (and the soonest I might get it is tonight if I'm lucky)

I haven't slept well in like a week

I log on to The Webbed Site and find that one of the peeps I enjoyed (through her interactions with several other wonderful queers on my dash) has been permabanned by the CEO, loosing her 4th account and her name is being used as a bludgeon to kill other queers, most often Trans Women who've already dealt with repeated baseless account wipes

I am so full of pain,

Tumblr is one of the extremely few places where I can be Queer and interact fully with others like me. It's the only place I have where I can speak and feel like I can actually say all I want to without the same level of worry that I have in my In Person life. I am blessed to have protection in the form of a Roommate dedicated to privacy protection and absolutely locking our Internet down. Even then, in the place I feel most comfortable to be Queer, I consciously make sure to not id my name, my siblings names, where I live or lived, because I *know* it takes one SINGLE person deciding to label me as a threat, to add me to a list, to ensure that I receive every bit of what Avery has shouldered for years. It's the reality of being Queer.

Trans Women and Men and People, the queers they are and they are friends with know to their core the reality of existence. We know that this is not fair, just, kind or in any way reasonable and yet when we stand in Solidarity and continue to point out how deeply this hurts! How deeply it guts the members of Tumblr who have defined it so completely they had the gall to say it was The Queerst Place, to be banned, to be targeted, to say the millions of dollars in ad revenue is worthless cause you're a goddamn tranny,

It simply results in the CEO doubling down, in scores of users sticking their head in the sand...

Well...

I can't do much, sitting here, in pain, feeling the loss of Avery and Nebulaaa and I am absolutely certain dozens of others,

But I don't intend to shut the fuck up,

We protect each other. And when Tumblr finally burns itself to the ground, whether 30 days or 3 years from know, I know I will find an internet home with all of you again,

Get fucked Tumblr, I hope this site gets hit by an exploding hammer car