Our poem This is Bisan from Gaza. I’m still alive. just won a Vocal challenge. The win is bittersweet—we’ve chosen to donate the prize to support families in Gaza.
This piece is for Bisan, and for every voice still shouting into the void.
Tag Archives: poem
Grin of the Deluge: Leavitt at the Levee
The flood came hard, but crueller came her grin,
Sick smirk, shrugs at the drowning in the South.
Dispatches from the Void. X.V.
Visa stress, bureaucratic limbo, and a house full of half-packed boxes. Celia reflects on love, exhaustion, and quiet resistance. Meanwhile, Mowgli files complaints, Akela flees from shadows, and Poe communes with paperwork. The countdown to Thailand continues—chaotic, tender, and just barely held together by bedtime Phil and warrior paws
terms of surrender
i’ve never slept so well
in your arms
ChatGPT Told Me So (Because I Told It So).
Quoting ChatGPT like scripture? Congratulations—you’ve successfully outsourced your bias. This essay explores how people are misusing AI to reinforce pre-baked worldviews, mistaking manipulation for insight and turning technology into the ultimate yes-man. It’s not intelligence. It’s intellectual cowardice—wrapped in cap-locks and podcast bravado.
when it happens
They told us not to dance on graves.
But when the tyrant dies,
we don’t mourn.
We remember.
We rage.
We reclaim.
We dance.
No prayers. No peace.
Just steel boots, scorched flags, and the fire they tried to drown us in.
Dispatches from the Void. X.V.
Visa submitted. Cats unsettled. Love steady.
As the move to Thailand hurtles closer, the boxes remain unpacked and the emotions unfiltered. Celia writes from the edge of exhaustion and hope—where hormones meet housing stress, political fear sparks dark humour, and the cats spiral into poetic rebellion. One pit in the stomach, three feline prophets, and zero backup plans.
Dispatches from the Void. X.IV.
Salt hit #1. Celia hit her limit. Mowgli lost his voice, Akela sued the air (again), and Poe is now spiritually bonded with the rice cooker. Meanwhile, we’re dodging hate comments, packing for Thailand (badly), and writing political satire fuelled by rage, resilience, and the occasional pear. Welcome to Underland. It’s a mess. It’s ours.
Dispatches from the Void. X.III
Salt launched early (because patience is for capitalists). River won a challenge on a site run by bots and tech bros. The cats staged an emotional protest. We made pesto. Also, Celia did an interview and accidentally sounded wise. Chaos, poetry, and spite—just another week in Underland.
Salt in the Wound.
Salt in the Wound is out now.
We didn’t make this anthology to soothe or distract. We made it because silence felt worse.
Every page turned is a scream in ink—against injustice, inequality, erasure.
This is print as protest. Resistance you can hold.
Featuring work from 21 fierce contributors who chose to write anyway.
Read it. Share it. Salt the wound.
