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.
Tag Archives: #poetry
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.
Art Under Siege
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.
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.
Art Under Siege
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.
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.
Art Under Siege: Bisan Owda
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
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.
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).
