#poem void

[angel-void]

Dying Star ♱ Ethel Cain & Ashnikko

[notyourmusebby]

no rizz just brown sparkly loving eyes and a soft smile

[katerinaaqu]

No one absolutely no one:

Athena and Diomedes in Iliad:

[a-ramblinrose]

― Louise Glück, from ‘Mitosis’        Poems 1962-2012

[mylifeinpixels]

[feroluce]

When talking about Boothill's drink order in 2.6, like. Hoyo could have just glossed it over and described it as "a few" or "several" drinks. They didn't bother to program in the actual glasses or anything- it's not like any of us were gonna count them and notice if they put in the wrong amount.

But they specifically chose the number seven, and if it IS just coincidence, it is a very very fun one.

Hsr is also known to make tarot card references- we had the online event shortly before Penacony's release, I'm pretty sure there's at least a couple simulated universe occurrences and a curio, and then Black Swan's Everything.

The Seven of Cups is a card about dreams and making choices when you have multiple options it front of you. It represents resisting self-deception and false dreams, and not letting yourself be charmed by hallucinations. It is a warning to carefully consider what is real vs what is not, which is very important in Penacony as a whole, being the land of sweet dreams, and it becomes relevant to Boothill later, when Primon starts to fuck with his head.

It can also represent someone who is "deep in their cups," which is a more polite way to refer to someone who uses alcohol as a coping mechanism to an unhealthy amount.

I hate that this could be a serious comment on Boothill being an alcoholic to cope with how much horrifying trauma he's experienced...and I have to discuss it looking at Primon's ridiculous fucking face fjkdslajldk

The overall message of the card is to stand fast, keep a clear head, and make your decision. Which suits Boothill beautifully even outside of this patch, since he is the very picture of ruthlessness and straightforwardness- he is able to see that bright clear line between action and result, and he follows it doggedly! Everything he does, he does wholeheartedly and decisively! And we see it especially well when he fights through the partial regression Primon leads him into!

Straight and clear and sure as a bullet, baby!!!

[isaacthedruid]

I still think it’s funny that I’m a self published poet with a BUDDIE POEM IN MY FIRST EVER POETRY BOOK?? 😭

like buddie is forever immortalized in this book PLEASE THATS SO FUNNY

[emsterrxo]

I can feel it coming, the emptiness taking over, that void demanding it’s due.

[noturvoid]

you can pretend to be whole, hide those fractures in your psyche, but you will always have stitches. pieces of you were left to rot under the floors of the house you died in grew up in. the rest of you was mangled into wounds that bleed out over everything you try to love.

- i still visit that house in my memories, i cant stop the bleeding.

[kindlythevoid]

Y’all, I totally forgot that when Aragorn + co. enter the Paths of the Dead, they initially come across a corpse in some sick threads clawing at a closed door, only for Aragorn to say “shit, that’s rough. Not for us tho, we’re dipping.” And then the three of them just go in another direction and he’s never brought up again to the best of my knowledge??

[angel-void]

Ocean Vuong: Time is a Mother

[phantoids]

i got through this year - a little poem again. last one of the year i think.

[katerinaaqu]

Friendly reminder that Athena and Hera rebelled against Zeus in a full fucking coup and defied him again in the Iliad and still live in all honors in Olympus. Zeus never went further than empty threats with either of them.

Let that sink in

[mia-ugly]

Cardiac

Epicardium

The outermost layer of the heart, mesothelial cells and fat, a cushion of protection with TOM written on it in sharpie. He joined my class in Grade 6, chisel-tipped and quiet and an easy choice when asked which Boy I Liked. Which Boy I had a Crush on. That was the year my mom drew eyelashes on me with thick black pencil before a play where I was meant to be  beautiful. I wasn’t, but I tried to make myself fit into a beautiful shape, just as I tried to fit the indent in your couch cushions, the foot of your bed, the pillows on the floor, a burrowing owl who would say the right names, make the right choices, pretend I knew who was Hot and who was Not, pretend I knew which house was Tom’s, that I walked past it on my way home from school with my heart like an electric peach, so bright he could see it from his bedroom window.

Brian was the Backstreet Boy I chose from thin air, bad answer, should’ve picked Nick, but at least I didn’t say Kevin, sorry Kevin, he seems like a pretty great dad these days, maybe we all chose wrong.

You would peel apples and read the future in the shape they left on the floor: what is the first letter of your husband’s first name? Light candles and ask the ouija board ‘does he like me? Does he love me? Is he the one?’ Commune with the spirits just to beg them for love stories, and spin a globe and close your eyes and put your fingers down to find out where we’d meet the man-of-our-dreams.

But I wasn’t dreaming about anyone.

My dreams were glass and silver, like the colour of the only eyeshadow my mother owned, brushed powdery and stale up to my eyebrows in a play where I had to sing and a prince had to fall ruinously in love with me in front of everyone I knew. I shone pale blue with shame, and that night, I was the only one at your house who didn’t know the macarena - sat in your basement, watched you dancing, like I was looking into an aquarium filled with strange fish. Later, you’d teach me the steps, like you taught me to fold paper into those fortune-telling finger games, salt-cellar, snapdragon, pick a colour, pick a number, 1-2-3, who will I marry, who will I marry, who will I marry. You put on “Kissing You” by Des’ree, told us to listen in silence and think about the boys we loved, and I wore my longing like a mask that didn’t know it was a mask. Thank you Tom, thank you Brian and Robert and Adam, thank you every boy who let me hold his name in my mouth like an ice cube. The letters burnt my tongue, but at least my mouth wasn’t empty. 

Myocardium

The thickest of all three layers, muscle that makes the heart contract, lets it beat beat beat like a kickdrum. I told my first girlfriend that I’d been in love with my best friend growing up, but it wasn’t true, it was just a rhythm I wanted to replicate, to awkwardly dance to. I’d seen the movies and I thought all gay kids had to say it, like it was a shared purple ache in the flesh of us, a thumbprint on a plum. I wanted to feel that bruising early love like everyone told me I should, but it wasn’t like that with us. I wasn’t lying awake looking at the hair on your face, the fascinating black sideburns that you shaved off, like you shaved off the hair on your arms, like I did too.  It wasn’t like that, and the night we said we would travel the world together after college, wouldn’t get married or have children, was also the night you said you were glad you didn’t have any gay friends, and remember that book we found at the second-hand store? The air was drowned with dust and Loving Someone Gay shocked us out of papery silence, made you laugh so much that I laughed too, and then I took that book and rolled it up and shoved it down my throat, got paper cuts under my skin, shredded my trachea like tissue paper wrapped around a present.

I wasn’t carrying any torches. Not even a candle or a match.

Your fingers were never in my hair as you pinned it back, you never leaned in and pressed an eyelash to my cheek so that I could wish on it. I wouldn’t have let you touch me. My face my hands my hair, I hated being touched, cringed away from it like a shameplant, and the not-wanting felt almost worse than not-being-wanted. Felt lonely, always the first person awake in your silent basement, bodies scattered like petals on the floor all around me. There was nothing I could do but wait, wait and read your parents’ headache-coloured paperbacks, Louis L’Amour and Danielle Steele, Christ, I hated them, but I would still sit there, paging through Haunted fucking Mesa or whatever, counting down the minutes on the clock, waiting waiting. Sometimes I would hear your father praying in the kitchen but it never woke you up, and I wanted to ache like Courtney Love ached, wanted to feel anything at all except bored and choking on paper, I wanted a drumbeat underneath my skin but it was all silence and darkness and purple muscle, and your father kept praying, ringing bells like they were birds, and I kept waiting to hear music.

Endocardium

Before the world ended, you pressed play on a discman and flooded my life with the Cranberries.

Before the world ended, I looked up at the ceiling and found it strung with hanging lights, each one of them a city in between us. Before the world ended, I asked you if people could yearn in their thirties, if that was allowed, and I didn’t know the steps to this dance but maybe you could teach them to me. Suddenly there was an electric peach in my mouth and it was shining through the spaces between my clenched teeth, anyone could see it, even you. I thought my skin was too thin, my bones too brittle, thought anything I felt would tear through me or grind me down, and maybe it still will but I’d let you press our hips together, iliac crest to iliac crest, let you paint Valentines in red against my lips and mermaids on my cheekbones, let you braid my unbraided hair. Even if it meant you had to touch me

I would let you make me over. 

Sometimes the distance feels less like miles, more like inches. Like it could be the space separating your eyelashes from the tip of my nose, could be a hand’s width on a sleeping bag where I’m still awake because you’re lying next to me (and we watched an awful movie with Drew Barrymore in it.)  Before the world ended, everything was cold metal and antiseptic, we were hunkering down for the longest winter, planning, preparing, frantic, scared, surviving, sick and I was still the first person awake in a strange basement but suddenly finally now of all the goddamn times I was waking up watermelon-flavoured. My mouth was hard candy, glossy-sweet, and suddenly finally now I was the girl with the most cake, I was peony season, I was Nick Drake and the whole moon shining and the whole sun rising I was pink pink Pink PInk PINK.

[iersei]

all the things left unsaid

~

alternate caption: hello i just caught up to dndads and

WHAT THE FUCK

[piastrination]

failed avoidance of the body in a poem