This week brought cobbled streets, cursed arcades, and a ceramic cat at the till. But beneath the joy—rage. We write about Gaza, grief, and why we’re building an unapologetically human, justice-fuelled flash anthology called Salt in the Wound. Because silence is complicity. And we are not quiet people.
Tag Archives: art
FAce-lIft Gaza: Hassan Majdi Abu Warda
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.
Salt in The Wound
Salt in the Wound is a new anthology calling for poetry, prose, and nonfiction on justice, equality, and resistance. We want work that burns—writing that refuses to scab over. No bios, no fluff. Just the truth. Submissions open until 16th June 2025.
FAce-lIft Gaza: Motaz Azaiza
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 VII
Mowgli writes once more to Bastet, Patron Saint of Deserted Pillows. The suitcase has returned. The lap has not.
In this week’s journal, he reflects on absence, performative starvation, and the bitter poetry of a slow blink at an unopened letter. There is no salmon. There is no trust. There is only surveillance—and the dramatic art of emotional withholding.
He has not forgiven. But he has repositioned himself.
FAce-lIft Continuation XXV: Ewa Juszkiewicz
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 Catanic Verses VII (A Guide to Feline Religosophy)
She left again. The suitcase zipped. The trust, unzipped.
In Scroll 16, the cats of Underland contemplate vanishing acts, unreliable affection, and the sacred betrayal of a closed door.
Love, they remind us, should not require a return ticket.
If she comes back without chicken—look away. Slowly. With purpose.
Poe ‘Vices
This week in Poe’vices, democracy is a concept, Beyoncé is a celestial being, and Poe is here to remind us that snacks are sacred and immunity is a vibe.
Accompanied by the release of the Diplomatic Immunity™ Chicken Dip Plate Set, Poe offers spicy wisdom, poultry-based policy, and unsolicited legal commentary.
The verdict?
Shut up. Sit down. Eat chickens.
You’re not Beyoncé.
Dispatches from the Void. X.I
Rain, rabies, and ridiculous returns. This week’s mood? Bureaucratic despair with a side of soggy capitalism. But hey—we’re still packing, still protesting, and still clinging to the dream (and maybe a cat).
Volume IX: The Suitcase. The Sorrow. The Smothering.
There is a suitcase in the hallway.
Rodgit has vanished. Poe is acting… cuddly.
Akela Jean Underland does not approve.
In this week’s Catdiva Monologue, she processes the scent of betrayal, the encroachment of affection, and the growing threat of something called “Thailand.”
Elegance endures. Trust does not.
