Sound of the Underland – Page 11 – River and Celia Underland

FAce-lIft Continuation XIII: Henry Darger

I made paintings. Tech advanced I let the algorithm chew on them. fAce-lIft™ is what happened when I asked AI to distort, not dictate — to echo, not replace. The result? Something almost beautiful, slightly haunted, and very much still mine. If that makes you uncomfortable… good. Come look anyway.

FAce-lIft Continuation XII

Socks, Sandals, and the Sun We Stole

A searing poetic critique of modern tourism, Flatbreads and Fags explores how paradise becomes parody under the weight of entitlement. From chip-stacked buffets to bikini-clad colonisers, this visceral piece pulls no punches. A street-level lament for stolen culture, served with brown sauce and shame.

Dispatches from the Void. V. V

A strange kind of paradise — this week we reflect on the tension between beauty and performance in Marmaris. Between sun-drenched mornings and staged culture, we’re caught in a tourist dreamscape that leaves us missing home, our cats, and a quieter kind of magic.

Kulak Değil, Kalp Gerek

She arrived on the knife’s edge of a summer storm, the sea crashing against the rocks like it remembered her. The mountain cottage stood quiet, holding its breath. Inside, only dust and memory stirred—until she found it: the conch, waiting on the table where her grandmother once sat. And when it spoke, it did not speak in words alone, but in whispers layered with voices, salt, and time.

Now, Ilayda walks through the ruins of tradition and tourism, past the shouts and spilled beer, her grandmother’s voice pulsing faintly from the shell.
“Kulak değil, kalp gerek.”
Not the ear, but the heart is needed.

The Hollow Gospel Of Paper Lies.

They called it freedom once,

a democratic right.

Now.

Broken.

The land of the free –

Always,

But for the blacks or the women

Or the poor, sure.

But that’s by the by.

FAce-lIft Continuation XI

Dispatches from the Void. V.IV

Underland Dispatch: New Shop, Old Chickens, and Imminent Escape

We opened a cursed little shop. We’re packing for Turkey. The chicken keeps coming in the kitchen. The cats are suspicious. There’s a Discord now. Also: zine launch, stray diplomacy, mild existentialism, and biscuits. Come for the queer chaos, stay for the literary crumbs.