The wardrobe has vanished, the neighbour’s smoking crack, and Zionists are being platformed while dissent is muted. We’re packing, protesting, and somehow still writing. Rage, rain, and resistance: another week in Underland.
Tag Archives: poems
Volume XI: The Rogit Return. The Pillow Theft. The Audacity.
The wardrobe is gone. The sausages have stopped. Rodgit has fled. Again.
Akela Jean Underland, High Priestess of Passive-Aggression and Former Pillow Monarch, returns with a new monologue from the crumb-laden trenches.
This week: she mourns her sanctuary, rages against unjust nicknames, and plots vengeance from atop the coat pile.
Because when the sausages end… so does civility.
For When They Drag Me Off to Prison.
for when they drag me off to prison.
not if — when.
new poem. no metaphors. just betrayal, blue bracelets, and the quiet violence of your vote.
read it.
then ask yourself what you’ll tell your children.
The Velvet Revelation: Mowgli’s Blanketisms & Butt-licking Truths IX
The coat pile has become a war room.
This week, Mowgli the Melancholy weighs in on the digital duel between two ego-ridden billionaires, the soft coup of a stolen blanket, and the haunting power of Kamala’s laugh. Featuring hallway defiance, plug-socket rituals, and a tuna-fuelled monologue worthy of Shakespeare, our resident feline chronicler remains unimpressed—and ever watchful.
We Wont Be Going to Pride this Year.
Pride was never meant to be comfortable. It was meant to be revolutionary. We may not be marching this year, but we are still protesting—with our voices, our words, and our refusal to be silent. Because Pride is not a parade. It’s a fight for visibility, justice, and truth.
In Defense of Modern Poetry.
Modern poetry is not the death of poetry. It’s the mirror. Queer and trans poets like Danez Smith, Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, and Jayy Dodd write their bodies back into the world. Indigenous poets like Natalie Diaz, Selina Boan, and Craig Santos Perez speak their languages across page and performance. This isn’t poetry’s decline — it’s its expansion. To say otherwise is to mistake tradition for stagnation.
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.
A New Alphabet
A New Alphabet
We’ve shouted. We’ve wept. We’ve raged.
Today, just this.
A quieter offering.
A different kind of language.
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.
