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.
Tag Archives: #poetry
Tick Tock
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.
FAce-lIft Continuation XVII: Reflection
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.
Poe ‘Vices
Rocket dads, data bros, and misfired masculinity — this week, Poe responds to a reader haunted by a billionaire father who’d rather launch a car into space than love his trans child. With trademark sass, sorrow, and chicken-based resistance, Poe reminds us: your soul can’t be trademarked.
FAce-lIft Continuation XVI: Aloïse Corbaz
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.
Dispatches from the Void. V. VI
Back from Turkey and quietly reflecting on the uneasy mix of beauty and loss. A rich culture overshadowed by British tourism leaves behind more questions than comfort. As we return to our quiet life with the cats, our sights turn to Thailand—and the ongoing pursuit of something real, rooted, and ours.
FAce-lIft Continuation XV: Clarice Lispector
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 Underland Review: Call for Submissions
The Underland Review is calling for strange truths, haunted fragments, and beautifully unreliable narrators. This zine is a lie — and we want your glitch-lit, cursed files, and poetry with fangs. No bios required. No CVs. Just the work. Deadline: May 10th.
FAce-lIft Continuation XIV: Madge Gill
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.
You Called It Glory. It Was Just Death.
When war scorched the earth and the gods could no longer bear to watch, the sun itself turned away.
This speculative short story weaves a brutal, mythic tale of violence, divine reckoning, and the collapse of honor on the battlefield.
As brothers fall and the world darkens, only silence — and surrender — remain.
What happens when even the sky says: enough?
