Place your bets. Watch the egos combust.
From cult leaders to crypto crybabies, Narcissist Derby™ is the only game where everyone loses and the audience wins. This week’s top contenders? The orange one and the rocket man. May the worst man implode first.
Tag Archives: #cats
Dispatches from the Void. X.II
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).
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.
The Velvet Revelation: Mowgli’s Blanketisms & Butt-licking Truths VIII
A velvet elegy from Mowgli the Melancholy to his younger, fluffier self. On betrayal, biscuits, and the devastating revelation that the red dot is a lie.
Poe ‘Vices
Sick of fragile fascists and orange outrage? SPLAT-A-TACO™ is the deeply satisfying presidential effigy experience you didn’t know you needed. Complete with biodegradable tomato splats, legal loophole tissue, and a taco that’s structurally unsound (just like the man himself). Finally, a product that lets you vent your rage without getting banned from Etsy.
Dispatches from the Void. X.II
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.
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.
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.
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.
