Locked in. Doors shut. Biscuits wrong. Mothers in Turkey. In The Catdiva Monologues: Volume V, Akela Jean Underland recounts the horror of her abandonment with biting wit and theatrical disdain. A tale of closed doors, unseasoned men, and feline fortitude. Unlicked. Unfed. Unimpressed.
FAce-lIft Continuation XV: Clarice Lispector
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.
The Underland Review: Call for Submissions
The Underland Review is calling for strange truths, haunted fragments, and beautifully unreliable narrators. This zine is a lie — and we want your glitch-lit, cursed files, and poetry with fangs. No bios required. No CVs. Just the work. Deadline: May 10th.
FAce-lIft Continuation XIV: Madge Gill
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.
You Called It Glory. It Was Just Death.
When war scorched the earth and the gods could no longer bear to watch, the sun itself turned away.
This speculative short story weaves a brutal, mythic tale of violence, divine reckoning, and the collapse of honor on the battlefield.
As brothers fall and the world darkens, only silence — and surrender — remain.
What happens when even the sky says: enough?
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.
The Velvet Revelation: Mowgli’s Blanketisms & Butt-licking Truths IV
The traitors have returned — loud, sunburnt, and reeking of foreign meats and strange street cats. Mowgli the Melancholy, Supreme Chancellor of the Leftmost Fold, chronicles their pitiful attempts at reconciliation: biscuit bribes, forehead treaties, and tactical drool warfare. Forgiveness? Conditional. Reparations? Pending. Dignity? Eternal.
The Catanic Verses V (A Guide to Feline Religosophy)
This week’s Revelation finds Poe deep in mourning — abandoned in a locked house with only a strange man and the scent of wet socks for company. As the doors close and the biscuits betray, Poe proclaims a mighty lamentation: the world is without chicken, without love, and gravely lacking in proper reverence for the sacred feline order. So sayeth the Oracle of Poe.
FAce-lIft Continuation XII
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.
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.
