Rec
🍎
I could live better if I tried
My sink would have fewer dishes
The thought of eating would not cause my body to feel tired and weak
I dream of the taste of fresh fruit but all I can manage are fried pre packaged frozen disks of various substances
Fruit never stays
It deflates in my refrigerator
What was six apples becomes three, becomes piles of fruity flesh
Carcasses rotting like innocence in the glow of a small white bulb
Watching the life leave, confined to a cheap plastic cubicle
The spirit was never there to begin with
All I am ever allowed is dead
Brought from the store to my refrigerator like from an accident to a morgue
To stay cold
Dec 29, 2024
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Rec
🌳I am rotting.
I am haunted by an echoing pulse of once verdant requiems,
morbidly veiling my vision with whispering fungal blooms.
They chatter and chit,
until withering into skeletal thorns that sink beneath my skin and burrow into my cadaverous tissue.
I am overgrown with lingering epitaphs,
as if they were carved into me,
the memory of those I loved secluded in my vessel of a body,
nestled between my tendons and sinew,
Nervebound.
There is a rift between the seraphic nature of the dead and beloved,
and the morbid and discordant kiss of death that blesses me even in life.
Though I yearn in my anguished turmoil to either blossom or wilt for a final time,
the will for my fractured heart to return it's abyssal pieces from the void
is a pointless, forsaken task.
For all my decomposing pieces have been exiled into the earth,
distant and estranged from the Sun.
I will soon be bound by roots,
and I only hope my sap will be bountiful.
A solitary tree, hollowed by silence and a chambered wildfire.
My bark shall ossify into marrow and cartilage,
and a volatile mix of dendral viscera,
wood and resin and pine.
I am fated to decay,
until I embrace the sky,
resurging into a cathartic rebirth.
My crimson liquor within my veins will become liquid amber,
feeding you with sweetness and the phantom flavor of my flesh.
Jun 28, 2025
Rec
🍑1
There was a time
only certainty gave me
any joy. Imagine —
certainty, a dead thing.
2
And then the world,
the experiment.
The obscene mouth
famished with love —
it is like love:
the abrupt, hard
certainty of the end —
3
In the center of the mind,
the hard pit,
the conclusion. As though
the fruit itself
never existed, only
the end, the point
midway between
anticipation and nostalgia —
4
So much fear.
So much terror of the physical world.
The mind frantic
guarding the body from
the passing, the temporary,
the body straining against it —
5
A peach on the kitchen table.
A replica. It is the earth,
the same
disappearing sweetness
surrounding the stone end,
and like the earth
available —
6
An opportunity
for happiness: earth
we cannot possess
only experience — And now
sensation: the mind
silenced by fruit —
7
They are not
reconciled. The body
here, the mind
separate, not
merely a warden:
it has separate joys.
It is the night sky,
the fiercest stars are its immaculate distinctions–
8
Can it survive? Is there
light that survives the end
in which the mind’s enterprise
continues to live: though
darting about the room,
above the bowl of fruit–
9
Fifty years. the night sky
filled with shooting stars.
Light, music
from far away — I must be
nearly gone. I must be
stone, since the earth
surrounds me —
10
There was
a peach in a wicker basket.
There was a bowl of fruit.
Fifty years. Such a long walk
from the door to the table.
__
From The Seven Ages (Ecco/Harper Collins, 2001)
Jun 11, 2025
Rec
My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
Top Recs from @a2den
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📺Meta-irony is the fantastical pallet in which I choose to paint my world.
I find myself following confusing paths to strange allusions.
Sentences that switch back on themselves and examine the writer for meaning,
And truly burn them during a burial at sea to sink beneath waves of witticisms and filler words
Like, it’s, okay, um, well, god; physical eye rolls careen over bodies of the learned
And silence is resented.
Seek visual silence and youre staring into space
I seek the stimulation of little scrolling stories and their sixty second arcs
The recaps of art I will only ever see from this side of the fence
Obscured by toggles and buttons. UX and UI blurring my experience and sharpening my understanding
Trapped in a cage of something else’s design, in someone else’s device
What I hold is not my own. It is not of me, it has grown attached to me.
A leech I love so dearly we share skin. A parasite I make space for.
My mind has holes where morals should be. Blasted out by years of prank videos
Of multi-channel networks, family vlogging channels, relationship advice gurus, discord moderators
I am the seed sown by excitement for lazer collections, gmod idiot box, and home made stop motion lego Star Wars parody music videos
Perverted in bad faith at the hands of a digital monster let loose by its creator
To put the potential for profitability through exploitation in the hands of the proletariat too occupied by dreams of influence to see how they are being led to the altar by the collar.
Asked to sacrifice time or spirit or soul to be left hollowed out by the house before it inevitably wins
The will is no match for the cold, mechanical force of algorithms whose nature is dictated by watch times
One sided engagement over engaged interaction
I watched too much YouTube as a kid and now I know everything
Rec
🍬My mind is made of bubbles
Synapses pop here and there
Take me in different directions
Through alleyways and down steep stairs
My emotions come and go like the mornings
receding tide
Shift like piss swift dribbling down drainage pipes and play-place slides
My words are drool upon your feet
My eyes are hung like frozen coals
Or snot that freezes and puddles
In jacket arms, on brand new clothes
The mirror is a needle but these ropes are all the same
I built my house on a rock in sands so that I can be displaced by strange rogue waves
Sometimes screaming doesn’t help
Today I can’t talk at all
Self harm gets only a couple chuckles when friends come round to call
My loves tears taste like cinnamon
I can’t swallow without spitting up
Ones once loved don’t talk to me because my medicine makes me less fun
I cry every other night over folks I chose to hang around
My room is set on fire every time I say something and don’t like how it sounds
Good grief, bang the drum all day