Living our queer, twisted truth. Stories, art, love, and cantankerous cats.
Rodgit is gone. The bowl is full, but the cushion is cold.
This week’s Catanic Verses ponders the ones who vanish when it matters most.
Trust, like tuna, does not reheat well.
Scroll 15.11 reminds us: if they only arrive for sunshine, they were never truly yours.
River’s poem begins with the stomp of a shoe on a lanternfly and spirals into something deeper—an uncomfortable, necessary meditation on violence, permission, and the human instinct to other. It’s not light-hearted. It’s not supposed to be.
#poetry #Spillwords #lanternflypoem #queerpoets #neurodivergentwriting #humancondition #resistcruelty #UnderlandPress
Family Values is a quiet reckoning in free verse — a poem about the people who watch from the sidelines, silent in their surveillance, absent in their care. It turns the old saying on its head, tracing the cold metrics of modern connection through graphs, likes, and creeping. This piece confronts the gap between visibility and support, and what it means when the people who should know you best… choose not to.
go on make yourself a victim
you will be soon enough.
You can tell your own
children
Why.
“The wheels of betrayal turneth not, lest they be chicken-shaped and rolling toward revolution.”
In this week’s Catanic Verses, silence is sacred, meows are weaponised, and Poe rides a golden chicken straight into the centre of papal drama. Featuring velvet robes, suspicious eyebrows, and a firm reminder: speak less, flop more.
“Turns out gills work. You’re welcome.”
In a world where the rich breathe easy underwater and the rest are left gasping above, a rogue tech designer, a sanctimonious ex, and a sarcastic borg might be the last hope for redemption. Corporate theology, biotech betrayal, and underwater rebellion collide in Breathing Is For Closers.
The prodigals return. Flushed, apologetic, and waving foreign meats like penance. But for Poe and the paws, trust is not dispensed with the drop of a Dreamie. This week’s revelation speaks of broken bowls, delayed doors, and the sacred art of suspicion. Chicken may soothe. But betrayal lingers.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. But Evangeline did. Now the house speaks in riddles and the clock runs in reverse. Her fate was sealed long before the latch clicked. Tick. Tock. Tock. Tick. Some doors don’t open — they consume.
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.
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.
