pain as sacrament

erotic gore art and poems for trans fags

spinning swords with a red jem in the center
adults only in red blocky text, spinning

Works In Progress

Blessed are the Meek Who Inherit Infinite Apocalypse
Been working on this for a while. Submitted it to Wiggly Bird Mailing Club, just need to make more page borders. Want to keep writing in the same universe/reworking and advancing the same concepts. Let me know what you think!

Draft of a collage and painting with themes from poems in Blessed are the Meek

[I can't capture the line breaks and indents well in html but here it is]

untitled insect pins? poem

Well maybe I want to be pinned down,
palming rusted iron railroad ties or shaved wooden dowel stakes
so I can gauge the stigmata and let it all drip out
suspended like chemistry set glassware
selfhood unspooling, condensing,
separated and distilled, alchemically distorted
let’s try and blemish the stainless steel stands rods and clamps
with boiling blood lust oxidizing with organ and colon lining
concocted to see the red in your face and veins in your hands

look me up in the spaces between entries in the thesaurus of angels
millions destroyed through replication and equation,
a film spread one layer wide
that it cannot help but break into constituent parts
isopropyl shining and stinging
skin surface tension breaking
fingers plunging past bone into pools and caverns
of clotted blood and tendons
pummeled paper thin
and easily read, blown through in one sitting
only one setting at the table, one napkin tucked beneath the collar, studying me as if I were the menu and not the current course

untitled spiral

Text saying 'There's a little girl who lives in my mouth and scrubs the roof with a long handled brush and pine flavor soap until it froths and I get animal control and pest control(everyone is always freaked out by the multiple arm and wing thing and the swarm of friends about and in) and paw patrol™ (twitter death threats and that one time I showed up with a gun to a meet and greet) called to my unlicensed houseboat. So she crawls up and hides all wrapped in my frenulum until there's no more gore to slurp up and starts again. I love her very much and sew her the cutest little outfits with my many arms which she stores under my fingernails, so I have to keep them very long even though I loathe classical guitar' The text spirals around a black and white image of glitched teeth overlaid with arteries and flesh that are flowing and twisting as if warped by glass


Text saying 'feeling digits ripping pouring into / every organ a handle a gateway a / burrow digging down closer / to what must be me / nail brushes drawing bile / scraping snaking sighs / out of stuffed plush lung pools' The text is overlaid on a glitchy image of a torso's internal organs with slight chromatic abberation applied

untitled cartesian mech short story

I’ve always hated engineers. Despite all the subterfuge about universal tactical objectivity, they’ve never been above metaphysical warfare. With this age’s limited supplies tech’s switched from sandcraft and silicon sigils ripping off indigenous weaving patterns to excremancy, urealchemical proofs and waste receptacle knotpipe wards. What were 1’s and 0’s are now quantum hyperdecimals of blood, bile, piss, and shit. For the rest of us, this means taking a breezy leak in the woods, over-drinking and oversharing, or enjoying the mark of a knife is a forgotten luxury. Otherwise hydroelectric and nitrogen-feeding sephulcers will run dry of white phosphorous fuel, shrines of capital to the suturestructure still trying to bandage the wound and drag forward a society fueled by gangrene rot and the monitezation of waste.

As we enter the harness, needles and mycelial air drop their spores into my crew’s collective taint and lungs, feeding the decomposition around our cock, carcinogenic mycoestrogen breasts like bags full of pomegranate seeds and mesoplastics, and dripping slime mold pits ringed with matted hair. Colostomy twist couplers lock in place as the lubed up catheter plunges into our hole to the base. We have flashing visual color codes to designate alter assignments and comms, maintaining fluid harmonic frequencies, monitoring pressure levels and oncoming fire, and landnav. Hooks latch onto our prince albert piercing and spear it into place, needles barbed, embedded for continuous dosing, gyroscopic housing stable and ensuring no fleshy thorn in the side of the surrounding tangle of tubes and brambles is jostled, except of course that this biomin/chitin-exoshell is about one year out of date and it's internal crisis of accumulation could not be more acute.

The fibers take root, threads spooling until the fruiting bodies burst. Spores search and scrounge for any open pore to settle into and incorporate. The humming pipeware and injections feel orgasmic, each cell and valve teeming with energy, cancerous autocannibalization, becoming and dying and living again from the dying. All linked together in a vast network, constantly on the brink of destruction and crisis, reveling in fundamental contradiction that drives the shambling exoshell forward. And the final incantation, as the tracheal tube plunges down our esophagus, scraping the vibrating sides, bulging out our neck and adam’s apple:

“In the name of the holy, blessed, and glorious quartet of blood, piss, shit, and bile, we consecrate this trembling piece of ground for our defense, so to be able to cause injury and detriment to all here assembled, I will put on the garment of salvation, draw upon the keys of death and hell, and that which we desire we may bring to fruition, decomposition”

The rumbling always makes first-timers anxious, whimpering and crying about the sanctity of individual consciousness and not having sharps break off in your junk, but we only revel in its holiness and multiplicity. Sloughing off this amalgamation of flesh, mycelium, and a plumber's waking nightmares requires at least three days of decomposition and reaclimation, so it's not coming off anytime soon, and is as familiar as the nervously scratched patch of skin behind one’s earlobe or webbing between fingers, stretched by interlaced hands. Days pass as we trudge along the wastes cape, hunkering behind dried husks of trees (too far south for any of those to survive the UV beatdown), valleys and mountains of lithium-ion waste cells with photovoltaic lichen and moss feasting on the remains, mutate mammals munching on the lichen, leathery, callused skinbirds picking off the mammals, falling dead from their infinite glide and covered in the crustose symbiote, looking like guts strewn by rubber, wire, and asphalt with flecks of that backyard hole dug for fun fake coal. Inhaling evaporated piss, trail of urate crystals discarded after molecular structures no longer effectively refract the flaming shitreactor cooled by plasma and bile and bile byproducts, we are mostly silent, in tune with each others’ movements and taking careful watch of the surroundings, Titus on yellow (surveillance), Pinball on white (piloting), Xyoxos covering red (maintenance), and me (LadyFinger Blast) on blue (landnav, strategy).