before the eternal worm devours

pisces · poet · ponderer | grand lover of aphelion solastra · blazania solis · tunaria noctivox | expect typos, etc… but don’t forget to enjoy :-)

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HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL

@nosebleedclub – 3/24/26

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COHENHOUSE

@nosebleedclub’s oct. 4 prompt

—

Cohen: 'Well, I dunno. If you're here to stay, might as well do summat useful.'

Sunny: 'We've been over this. I were summoned to be your chaos incarnate, not your ready-made servant–'

Cohen: 'Semantics, innit?'

Sunny: 'Summoned by your blatant fuckup, mind you! Like, c'mon, who creates a monstrosity so terrible it mistakes a microwave for a portal from Hell? I've seen nowt like it, Hen!'

Cohen: '...Hen?'

Sunny: 'Ah. That ain't your name?'

Cohen: 'You think I’m the fucking henhouse we’re in, Sunny? And–god, when you’re a demon with a name like that, you make a mockery out of yourself just by existing. There’s nothin worse than that. Anyway, I’ve already apologized begrudgingly. Ain’t that enough? You act as if I meant to burn my dinner.'

Sunny: 'No. I act as if your "burnt dinner" were a crime, because it a hundred percent should’ve been. It’d be a disgrace not to liken it to charcoal.'

Cohen: 'Please just shut the hell up and help me collect these eggs. And try not to drop any while you’re at it.'

Sunny: 'Yeah, sure, I’ll gladly do labor for a human! Willingly, too! Labor for a human in a not-henhouse!'

Cohen: 'Sod off.'

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PEARLS OF WISDOM

the careful study of angelology (the duet of showgirls; one human, one angel) and the use of @nosebleedclub’s prompt 'showgirl'

Tender one, follow my lead, my sleepless golden dust: don’t look back at Sköll, eager to devour with his wolf teeth and wolfish greed, nor at the edge of the world, gnawed by his fury. My little flame, I’ll give you something to perform about: cocoa eyes, glory runes, comet trails, wind currents, singing halos, the constellation of Taurus – so long as we keep the wolf’s mouth at arm’s length.

Promise me this: don’t look forward, don’t give in to the doldrums, don’t pause to follow the light trails, where each line of gold script depicts angels mourning their dead. Look at me. Look at me. We can do nothing but dance and flee, do you hear me? We must flee. The end of the world is no match for us if we outrun it, if we turn flight into choreography, if we establish our love as an angel-and-human duet.

We can make a ritual, a show, and a constellation out of this: my halo staying on during moonwatch, Sol in our nightly prayers after we murmur heart-to-hearts, subsequently striking deals alongside dreamweavers. Under the overpass of descending stars, we narrowly escape our predestined fate. We whisper against the wind, we scream our names raw.

Given that I always watch you with a lunar-gaze, you’ll never have to cry your lovely eyes violet. The fear of God – and the hunger of me – will never take root in your flowerbed chest. Wish upon the bows painted by the arcs of rainfall.

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ANGEL VOICES (OCT. 2)

@nosebleedclub’s prompt: squabble

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INTRODUCTION

· Interviewer: Elowen Thistle, Researcher and Archivist of Angelic Information

· Method used: The answer is recorded as an unaltered system log. The time is celestial-local and made into human-readable timestamps for UX clarity.

· Editorial policy: Flag each angel term with superscript text; tag entry for search/filter.

-

[LOG 001] Sólene – Choir Singer

Tags: Year 7 · Cloud Seating

Transcript – Q: What kinds of things do you angels squabble about on the daily?

Timestamp: Angle Cycle

A: "Don’t rouse me on squabbling! Me and Muna – oh my stars, we are the most insufferable bunch ever, though I love it dearly. We certainly have an exceedingly amount of experience to answer this without a flicker¹. And in the truest sense imaginable, we’ll squabble about anything within the light² that we deem incongruous. You could very well consider it a pastime for us.

"Like, Muna quite often defends her place in the farthest edge seat³ during comet displays, and I believe it’s within my right to complain. Are we in harmony with that? We agree? Because, Christ Almighty. I cherish her so, but seriously, what dim-witted angel in the committee made that decision? Cloud seating can be dangerous, and at best, halo-bristling. How long must I spend repeating myself to Council?

"That seat is one of many frontline positions, and Muna would not be able to safely fend for herself if a star were to fall, or if light intensity became dazzling enough to scorch her wings. She’s an angel-in-training, not a senior seraph⁴, and when I one day rest from the eternal song, my melody will be hers alone."

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1. Without a flicker: without hesitation or error, referencing angelic perception.

2. Within the light: anything under divine observation or creation.

3. Edge seat: outermost position on a cloud during gatherings, which offers the best view but is also the most dangerous, as you may have guessed. It places the inhabitant at risk of falling stars and other hazards. Though mostly prestigious, faults have been recorded twice before, this observation made by Ethel Voss (cloud surveyor) and Quince Moon (comet analyst) respectively.

4. Senior seraph: an elite, fully trained angel with authority and skill.

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Gentle.Earth

October 1st (@nosebleedclub’s prompt: darker mornings)

Ziri · 3hr ago · 1K views

When God sings with his creations, will a fallen angel – rising from demonic markings likened to the remnants of ash – not be part of the choir? Can something seen as corrupted still join a harmony baptized in sacred bliss?

If and when God Himself descends upon the earth in search of poetic justice, will I be exiled and shunned moments before my cadaverous self cries out a death-dealing plea? Regardless, come rain or come shine, there is no lesser extremity.

Under the warm lighting of the kitchen, tears perceived as cerise ichor begin to erode my mother’s blemished shoulder like a cliff side, there was no lesser evil. No morning more silently harsh.

I hope she realized this, the lens of truth shining through her dogmatic mentality as tears of her own plummeted to the ground; self-inflicted or otherwise, there ought to no song left unsung, forgiveness an obtainable thing to both inner and external ruinations.

🐚🖤 · 3hr ago · 806 views

death crawls over my body like a slug, an ironic, yet leaden awakening (you deserve this. you deserve to be robbed of earthly midmorning glory. you deserve achlys: enshrouded death-mist creating a yawning void in your name, purpose, soul. once stripped of the remnants of humanity, you ought to offer yourself up as thanks).

once i come to, underground & immortalized as a grave-dweller, a single thought makes winding circles, running along wooden walls until the only witness left is the lips of a wishing well: ‘death begins like a dream, a VHS tape playing scenes on loop.’

emptied of tears, the past me dips my fingers into the soft flesh of your left hip, pale & charted by two lip-calling moles, your kissed-to-fade daisy tattoo – curling up your ribcage – sure to be engraved into the farthest corner of my cerebrum as it shivers at the mere touch of my silver-tongued mouth.

as your dead-dear, i apologize to your soul and your soul only. i was not made to kiss without consequence, even less so to love – and fuck, even to live! – but i defied each truth drilled into me and let my iron-will shatter at the first sight of you, at the verge of your doorstep, at the foot of your bed.

(i’m at your mercy, mercury darling. admittedly, even my angelic and demonic forms are achingly mortal. i’m pathetically human for you.)

anonymous · 2hr ago · 111 views

Yesterday morning, I told Father about what he would love for me to refer as my sins, imagining my sweaty hands slotting into yours just so I could let the words out. After waking, I found him on the porch, the effects that moonbeams have on mood still troubling him, though the first light of dawn had roused from the dim recesses of the sky. I imagined abiding by his command and scrubbing myself clean, silvered suds spilling out from temples to the heels; then, I imagined telling him, The devil isn’t a tenant of my pores. At the image of the latter, I smiled. I went on without a hitch, turning half of my focus back to my sketch of folklore as I said, "I won’t bend over backwards for you."

BBY BLUE · 2hr ago · 799 views

as much as the little saboteur in me wants to make nearly every sentence or post about you an exposé, i can never not reroute to the good. everyone has done something objectively bad, and i cannot fault you for being human. we were given no instruction manual whatsoever.

i am not a stranger to making mistakes, either; and i am no stranger to making enemies out of friends. unlike others, you are not dead to me. god no. it’s not at all like that. i think this is true for the both of us. i can recite this as if it were the scripture i rewrote at age eleven: you are happy to be wholly alive, free of trivial setbacks (amounting to be larger than life itself) and the complete and utter lack of grace i projected onto you. an unchained, orphaned bluebird, you fly westward until you reach your temporary home, and i think of you when i’m weeping at the lyrics of "garden song" by phoebe bridgers.

'i grew up here till it all went up in flames / except the notches in the doorframe / i don't know when you got taller / see our reflection in the water / off a bridge at the huntington / i hopped the fence when i was seventeen / then i knew what i wanted.'

'everything's growing in our garden / you don't have to know that it's haunted / the doctor put her hands over my liver / she told me my resentment's getting smaller.'

autumnal · 2hr ago · 91 views

ritualistic mo(u)rning: walking in the pouring rain without a single care in the world. riding a rundown bicycle through trails complete with fear and adrenaline. candle-making for the sole purpose of keeping my hands busy. trying not to think of you. (it always comes down to love.)

roasting s’mores with friends i rarely message back. reading books with titles the same number of letters as your name. again banishing the thought from my mind. (it always comes down to regret.)

eating pumpkin spice bread and swallowing it down alongside panic and anxiety and solitude. taking pictures of creeks so i don’t forget what beauty looks like. lighting yet another fucking candle and accidentally burning my wrist, flames licking desperately at my veins. (it always comes down to incompetence.)

going forward before taking three lengthy steps back. wondering, wondering, wondering – which ghost am i mourning today? jolting awake at 8 a.m., yet not inhabiting myself until hours later, when picturing my own corpse startles me into being. (it always comes down to survival.)

Angél 🪽 · 2hr ago · 3K views

I’d consider my review of the earth (3/5, to be specific) simply lenient at best, when taking into account how demons leak through the barrier I presume God composed of bone and breath. Apart from that, it’s quite lackluster and underwhelming in the minds of some people I come across, but since I experience it differently in all respects, anew and unclaimed by a great desensitization to beauty, I find that mornings spent lazily are the next best thing to escaping time.

If I were human, eating cotton candy would feel like magic; clouds would seem too far out; happiness would emerge from relief. If I were deserving of the angel title, I would make more of an attempt to be a savior. But I’ve gathered enough proof that the act of compassion doesn’t have to be so complex and drawn-out. When using the few I’d call my friends as mere examples, our relationships are symbiotic. There is insight to gain from both sides.

Skye – the one closest to my winged heart – says ze has always acknowledged me as though I am a narrator of existence. “You speak with such vividness about patience and sacrifice,” ze murmurs, breath fanning my collarbone, and the meaning of my duration on earth is summed up in zir’s poetic half-grin.

"It’s no surprise that eons spent observing teach that immediate outcomes are as distant as a star’s dying light," ze continues. "Still, your presence bends time in ways I fundamentally cannot perceive. We understand one another to a fault, and . . . Forgive me if I’m horribly wrong, but I think mortality would look good on you. The promise of an unavoidable end makes the journey all the more rewarding, wouldn’t you agree?"

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September 27th (@nosebleedclub’s prompt: what would you save from the burning house?)

what would i save

 if my home & my life

  were to go up in flames,

swallowing my childhood,

 livelihood;

  heart, soul?

dear god,

 i would want to save this, & this, & this,

  but it’s such a gloriously sad

concept:

 us, human & animal,

  clinging desperately to items

 that remind us

  of things we can’t get back,

things that’d mean nothing to us

 if a memory or two weren’t attached to it.

what not would i save

 if my home and my life

  were to go up in flames,

setting fire to every bridge

 that had once stood tall,

  sturdy enough to, one day,

lead me down

 the path of stability?

fear god,

 fear god,

  fear the devil.

i want to be this, & this, & this,

 but i am afraid to move.

i liken myself to an animal, sometimes –

 too scared to make an error,

  of which would help death find me,

   when the true error

   is to simply remain still.

just a girl

 upon my mother’s knee,

  i sang (babbled, truthfully)

as the wind howled

 through a body of oak trees.

i knew then

 what i’d forgotten until recently:

again & again

 asking questions & searching

  will eventually steer you

in the correct direction,

 toward root answers &

 toward the hidden meaning.

i understand the world as i know it

 must burn down,

  and that i need to,

   more than anything,

save myself.

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August 4th (@nosebleedclub’s prompt: star map)

I. Nighttime always knows how to treat the Mellor brothers like runaway angels. Gently, gently, it envelops them in a world of blissful shade, prolonging the youthful spirit they swore was lost to time. Unbeknownst to them, they are the result of stardust — not just born of it, but shaped by the aftermath. By collapse, by heat, by everything that had to die to let them live. Overhead, the sky holds an ocean's worth of stars in its eternal embrace. But here — on this very ground, in this very moment — they sit side by side as two planetary systems¹, divine and meant for more.

II. Silently, they recall their roots. Somewhere just out of sight, they still feel the echoes of who they were, still remember the version of themselves that begged to be saved. They can flash back to the time where they had spent no less than three hours trembling in each other's arms, avidly wishing to travel interstellar distances away from parental gravity.

III. By the time the clock ticks to twelve, the world shifts — just enough to mark yet another year for Joseph, the brother who burned instead of bloomed. The brother whose inner planets were indelibly scorched by the memory of swollen lips, bruised knuckles, brotherly echo, and tire tracks imprinted in snowy roads.

IV. The younger brother, Jude, had followed. At first, the fear capsized him, but he came out on top. Took the earliest starship² flight. His plants may be earth-sized, and he may be dimmer, smaller, and more outwardly apprehensive, but he's full of potential. Of life.

V. Now, though, the two of them are mere angels in the moonlight. Fallen, but meticulously learning how to rise in their shared lonesome. Unfortunately, they can't do so without acknowledging the truth: neither parent has called.

VI. Into the stillness of the night, Jude abruptly whispers, "There's summat³ bout the dark that soothes me — my soul." In spite of those words, he's visibly anxious: he twists his sterling ring exactly four times, and goes slightly slack when Joseph decides to tease him, asking, "Why're you fidgeting, then?"

VII. Joseph is not many things, but one thing he isn't is stable. He carries hidden asteroids, distant cold moons, things kept outside the eventual warmth of admittance. Because of this, it's no surprise that he falls apart when Jude responds with an action in place of a verbal answer, reaching into the pocket of his hooded jumper and pulling out a necklace.

VIII. Joseph, built of gravity and fire, watches Jude as he looks back — small and steady, with too many worlds in his orbit and not enough light. The former's eyes widens, pale crescents flickering tears like he'd just seen the truth behind an emotionally barren star, dwarf yet immense. "Why—why'd you—"

IX. Wordlessly, Jude turns to face his older brother directly, the chain in his hand catching the faint radiance of a nearby streetlight. It's silver, glinting with newfound stars. A constellation. A map. A peace offering in the form of starship.

X. Voice softer than nightfall itself, Jude utters, "Happy birthday." Then, quieter still: "I were tryin to find the stars you said we'd get to, someday. One of the ones near Orion, I reckon it were. But, well, I ended up goin for the custom option instead. Put in the exact day you were born. Thought it were cooler. A sound⁴ idea." He presses the necklace into Joseph's palm, grinning, characteristically sheepish. "Erm . . . I just wanted you to know — you don't have to keep burnin yourself out, y'know? Not for me. I can shine a bit now."

XI. Gifted a sky he thought he'd lost, Joseph can't speak. His throat turns into nova, burnt shut from all the heat he swallowed and pretended it was fuel. Jude is still small, he thinks, still uncertain. But he has planets of his own.

XII. And he had just given one away. The gift is tiny and inconsequential in size, but the gesture is astronomical.

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1. The system of planets orbiting one or more stars, brown dwarfs or remnants. The IAU and NASA consider the Solar System a planetary system, including its star the Sun, its planets, and all other bodies orbiting the Sun.

2. A theoretical spacecraft designed for traveling between planetary systems.

3. A colloquial expression commonly used in some regional dialects of the UK, such as Yorkshire and Lancashire, meaning "something."

4. In British slang, "sound" can be an adjective meaning cool, decent, or admirable. It can be used to describe someone you like, approve of, or find agreeable.

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August 2nd (@nosebleedclub’s prompt: chapel)

—No more of this nonsense. Get up, Väinö¹. Get up now, Aaro – my only housemate and isoveli² – had said firmly, standing over the head of the bed I'd occupied for three days straight, memories haunting neither just my conscious mind nor my endoskeleton alone. —If you stay still much longer, you'll start to decay. Do you wish to wilt away? Meet Jumala³ before your eighteenth birthday? I bet not . . . So rise to your feet. It's already past dawn.

With a faraway look, I ignored his every word as I watched the narrow, languorous river outside my window forge its own aquatic path that, in its wake, rippled through the townsfolk's hearts like passion made water. A well-worn longing flickered to life, souring my gaze to melancholia.

I craved to do the same; I craved to have the opportunity, the freedom – to matter, to provide, to pursue my dreams, to look at a blackbird in thirteen ways, to have my arms my cedar-limbs win the race to the moon, to love and be loved⁴.

Kesä⁵ air smelling of lichen and birchwood smoke drifted in my room, but abstained from my heart's voiding chambers, long collapsed. The corner-cobwebs could not cower in shame at the slightest hint of peace; nothing was as adamant as my atrophy.

But I knew better. I knew as well as anyone that I could not remain mentally and physically stagnant forever.

At the entryway of hesitation, a frustrated sigh slipped past my lips before I slumped forward, frame bending like fragile script. Blinking, sleep clung to my sea-foam green eyes. —Do I have to? I murmured, and among the haze of my fluttering sight, I saw Aaro's jaw clench, eyebrows creased like notebook paper before they straightened out.

At my motionless body, his hardened expression softened, just barely. He cleared his throat. —Look, I phoned äippä⁶ for guidance–

I immediately stood, my feet briefly tangling in my multicolored quilt like a patchwork trap. I repeatedly cursed my luck – or lack thereof – under my breath whilst freeing myself. —Ei! Miksi?⁷ Why bring äippä into this? Into everything? I don't even need guidance! She's not Jumala, why would I follow her every word like a timid mutt? Why do you?

Aaro scoffed, crossing his arms as I approached him, desperately pleading by giving him a doleful look. He didn't falter; he stood his ground and abided by his unaffectionate demeanor. —It's for your own good, he simply answered, rendering my persistence futile. —She doesn't need to be a Jumala to be right, Inö. She advised me to bring you to her, and I'll do just that. You need help, and lots of it.

I sat back down, glancing downcast. When I next spoke, it was with the emotional resonance of a drowned hymn. —No amount of Merikylä ocean-water can cleanse my soul or dilute my sins. I don't care for the propaganda either of you spew about it.

—Its properties have more benefits than you'd ever know what to do with, Aaro asserted, already walking to the door, his back muscles and Hannunvaakuna⁸ tattoo facing me, the cross etched between his shoulder blades like a forlorn heirloom he didn't ask to inherit, nonetheless adhered to. —Now, get dressed. We're taking the juna⁹ to Oulu, then catching a bus to äippä's house. You have ten minutes.

-

Underwater, my tears become streams of light, of desolate prayer. While Merikylä's cathedral baptizes, the ocean drowns – but both know how to hold a body under. Pew by pew, the religion sinks, and I try to sit in the front row, intending to wait for a sermon that I doubt would ever come.

It takes me two attempts to stay under the surface, and even then I'm quickly spat back out after I thrashed and thrashed, and Aaro's voice echoed in the depths of my mind (Even in stillness, you find a way to descend. Must silence always belong to your self-inflicted sorrow?), or perhaps in the vastness of the ocean.

Third time's the charm – one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Spirit. Albeit, the scene is a hellscape: ghosts ripple with the current, weep soundlessly, reenact their final breath again and again, and tend to the white-laced bones of the submerged.

The water, an endless flow where ruthless mercy is mercy upon itself, waves goodbye to the wandering child, the old fisherman trapped under the boat he revered for two decades, the teenager who died at the hands of another, the face-down child purposefully left by a neglectful mother, the suicidal, the unknown, the twice-dead.

The ocean waves goodbye, all the while I wave hello to its victims, to each sunken phantom that I have only now come to resemble.

Underwater, life and death look the same.

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1. A traditional Finnish name derived from 'Väinämöinen,' a central hero in the Finnish national epic 'Kalevala.' The meaning of it is a wide, slow flowing river.

2. Big/older brother. It's a combination of the words 'iso' and 'veli.'

3. The word can refer to both the Christian God and other deities; here, it's the former.

4. A nod to both Frank Sinatra's song 'To Love and Be Loved' ("To love—and be loved . . . Is the dream—I pursue . . . Let others race—to the moon. Through time and space—to the moon") and Wallace Stevens' poem 'Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird' ("The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying . . . The blackbird sat / In the cedar-limbs").

5. Summer. Cognate with Estonian kesa ('fallow"), Veps keza ('summer'), Võro kesä ('fallow'), Erzya кизэ (kizë).

6. Mother/mom.

7. No! Why?

8. An ancient Finnish symbol traditionally used for protection against evil spirits and bad luck. It's also referred to as Saint John's Arms or Saint Hannes cross. The symbol was commonly carved or painted on buildings and everyday objects to ward off negativity.

10. Train.

[fraglance]

August 1st (@nosebleedclub’s prompt: not over yet)

During that initial half-hour of midmorning where all my past lives — the preserved hair clip in my mamam's¹ loose ringlets, the fille² whom nobody except relatives held memories of, the p(s)alms of their unloving hands remaining hollowed by tenderness they never offered, etcetera — have made a routine out of coming together to reconcile with my present self, the clock-tick stuttered like breath.

I'm biblically ashamed to confess this, Dieu, but I fear all evil. When my ghostly silhouette walked through the valley of the shadow of death for the first time, my bones shivered. Every elegiac lyric sung at the funeral tore my flesh open, Amorphophallus titanum³ rotting me from the inside out. I fear all evil; I have repeatedly caught myself speaking out of malice toward the selves I swore to never cut ties with.

Born of something unnamable, being forced to give back a soul is the grand bargain I fear. In some cases, there is no eternal rest to discuss. Only eternal yen⁴.

The clock-tick of papa's bedshadow stutters like breath, and my human perception is succinctly angelic: all I see is wing-whiteness. All I fear is the omission of mercy. In that solitary moment, my socked feet know nothing but the speed in which I run, a singular finger nicked by the rough cleft of the doorframe before I'm met with dead eyes.

His shadow always bore a rhythm reminiscent of classical blues, while mine changed with the seasons. Right now, both of ours had nothing to resemble. They matter not whilst the walls of my narrowed sky close in on me, and I carry claustrophobia and the weight of the world and everything, everything, everything — but not goodwill, forevermore, and mon papillon⁵, for his light diminished, skin molting to reveal the pulse beneath morality's veil.

I dart before I even know what I'm doing, only stopping when the old metronome in the attic is in my clutches, soon distant from both papa's box entitled 'Piano Paraphernalia' and the pale light that pirouettes like a pendulum.

I don't give up on him, but there's no harvest to reap. The proper time, if tried and true, would be now. But I can't see any silver lining at all. It's the sea to drink⁶ and the clouds to inwardly endure; the metronome cannot mimic his memorial momentum. His room morphs into a mausoleum — his bed, the casket; his window, the threshold no light can cross.

In spite of kismet's final decree, the universe has unfinished business with you, papa. (Dieu, qu'il se réveille. Dieu, que ce ne soit qu'un cauchemar, un mirage de ma peur⁷).

I repent. I repent for my darkness, I repent for my sins. May my lips never trace the chiseled line of a fellow queer woman's collarbones, if that means his light bulb of a heart can shine for a lifetime's worth of love. (Papa, Dieu me bénira-t-il avec ta résurrection⁸? Mon papillon . . . Give me a sign. Better yet, return to me as the sign itself. Give me a reason to not majorly envy my past selves.)

I love you, Papa; I know you love me, too. I trust in my belief that Heaven could not even begin to slice through our promises, nonetheless shred it to pieces.

I fear and I repent and I love and I swear I’ll romance solely men — and my breath, shallow and vital to sustaining, stutters as my once-sacrilegious lips pray aloud to Dieu:

To love is to live twice⁹.

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1. Mother/Mom.

2. Daughter.

3. A rare tropical plant native to Sumatra's rainforests. Also known as the "Corpse Flower" because while in bloom, it produces the odor of rotting flesh, luring flies and carrion-eating beetles for pollination.

4. A longing or yearning.

5. My butterfly.

6. A reversal or the opposite of the French phrase, which essentially means that something isn’t important or it's not that difficult.

7. God, may he wake up. God, may it be only a nightmare, a mirage of my fear.

8. Dad, will God bless me with your resurrection?

9. Rephrasing of Albert Camus’ quote: “To create is to live twice.”

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