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.
Living our queer, twisted truth. Stories, art, love, and cantankerous cats.
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.
Mowgli the Melancholy returns with a fur-stirring dispatch from the blanket frontlines. With River and Celia off to Turkey, our feline philosopher is left to face betrayal, chickens, and Akela’s bed-hogging tyranny. A tragicomic tale of loss, snacks, and strategic hairballs. Long live the Leftmost Fold.
While the humans flee to Turkey, the cats of Underland remain behind to guard the realm (and the biscuits). Poe plots suitcase infiltration, Akela prepares for war with the kitchen chicken, and Mowgli contemplates poetry and tuna. The drama, as always, is feline. The claws, as always, are out.
This week, Poe answers a human worried their brother is gay. The verdict? Mind your own biscuits. A chaotic feline advice column full of judgement, chicken cravings, and unexpected wisdom. #PoeVices #queercatcolumn #LGBTQsupport #darkhumour #felineoracle
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.
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.
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.
Akela Jean Underland has had enough. The suitcases are back, Rogit is encroaching, and — Bastet help us — the chicken has entered the kitchen. Unlicked, betrayed, and emotionally unraveling, our Catdiva delivers a devastating monologue in three acts.
Let them come. She remains… dramatic.
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 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.