snipehuntpotatosack @snipehuntpotatosack - Tumblr Blog

okay, i’m curious. let’s play a game. reblog this post and put in the tags the name of a fictional Indigenous character.

No headcanons, no ‘coding’, only CANONICALLY Indigenous characters. You have unlimited time. Go.

#IKKEMOTUBBE #The Sound and the Fury #William Faulkner. Chickasaw chief who sold Mississippi land to the ancestors of the Compson family. A “Dispossessed American king.” In the #he appears first in the “Appendix” giving short bios of both ancestral figures and characters in the plot. But in the mid-20th century “fin #this material came first - and so Ikkemotubbe's name was the first word in the book. His fictional “bio” runs 201 words.

smakkabagms

Here a swaddling emptiness born swollen fat as an empire on its last leg - we know we are the first to be eaten - how else, calamity, would the impoverished please you? always more to give until the givings are all gone - and so, emptiness, and my last, stiff finger pried open, offered up - bodies lit false under certain light, The strange ubiquitous unreality of death - and what I wanted once was to make sense of this, to know what I offered would be worth offering - my god, the final disappointment: they throw all my life into the trash

hush

Hush little baby don’t you cry

Momma’s gonna buy you a pumpkin pie

And if that pumpkin pie tastes bad

Momma’s gonna buy you a Scotsman’s plaid

``If that Scotsman’s plaid ain’t warm

Momma’s gonna sew you a uniform

And if that form don’t have no shape

Momma’s gonna buy you Batman’s cape

If that cape don’t hang just right

Momma’s gonna summon a Spirit of Night

And if that Spirit steals your soul

Momma’s gonna buy you the Super Bowl

If that bowl don’t knock down pins

Momma’s gonna buy you a top that spins

And if that top’s too tight to wear

Momma’s gonna summon a Spirit of Air

If that spirit gets you drunk

Momma’s gonna buy you an elephant’s trunk

And if that pachyderm won’t dance

Momma’s gonna buy you some yoga pants

If those pants can’t catch a breath

Momma’s gonna summon a Spirit of Death

And if that Death don’t take you home

Momma’s gonna buy you an ice cream cone

If that ice cream goes and melts

Momma’s Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz

And if that Vogon makes you yell

Momma’s gonna buy you a bicycle bell

If that dam bell just won’t ring

Momma’s gonna buy some serious bling

And if that bling don’t shine and twinkle

Momma’s gonna get you a chocolate sprinkle

If that chocolate hits the ground

Momma’s gonna send you to the Lost and Found

And if you ever get found again

Momma’s gonna buy you a brand new friend

If that friend won’t give you a kiss

Momma’s gonna buy you Ludacris

And if that gangsta man don’t rap

Mommas’s gonna buy you a Hav-A-Heart trap

If that trap don’t catch no vermin

Momma’s gonna knit you a coat of ermine

And if that coat gets et by moths

Momma’s gonna dress you in old washcloths

If those cloths should blow away

Momma’s gonna buy you a one-hoss shay

And if that hoss won’t eat no oats

Momma’s gonna buy you a herd o’ goats

If those goats should go to slaughter

Momma’s gonna summon a Spirit of Water

And if that water evaporates

Momma’s gonna deal you a pair of eights

And if that pair don’t win the pot

Momma’s gonna show you ten ink blots

If those blots don’t say you’re crazy

Momma’s gonna buy you a Shasta Daisy

And if that daisy drops its petals

Momma’s gonna buy you ten tin kettles

If those kettles won’t make soup

Momma’s gonna buy you Betty Boop

And if that Betty Boop gives birth

Momma’s gonna summon a Spirit of Earth

If that earth won’t circle the sun

Momma’s gonna buy you a roast pork bun

And if that pork don’t fill you up

Momma’s gonna get you a werewolf pup

And if that werewolf makes you sorry

Momma’s gonna buy you a red Ferrari

And if your Ferrari blows a tire

Momma’s gonna summon a Spirit of Fire

But if that fire don’t burn you down

Momma’s gonna sell you in Sugartown.

If that sugar don’t rot your teeth,

Dig Momma’s grave on a blas -

-ted -

Heathhhhhhhh.

#verse #nursery rhyme

anti-personal mines

i''m just trying, quietly, to improve my quality of life; not the sex or money parts, just the mentation. So i go on tumblr and scan poetry posts, and in the first one i read, the second line starts with the word "widdershins."

so i switch over to patreon, where i found a new (free) creator through luck and connections. i see he has a new post: "Buddha and (no nude) nymphs, Akashic Records Predictions."

so, instagram. When i get on there's a picture of an elaborately glassed-in railway terminal with a brownish victorian facade, above the caption: "CIAO! WELKOM IN ANTWERPEN!"

i retreat to facebook, expecting (at first, at least) only myself. For some reason I'm sent to the Comedy Club, displaying a drawing of a huge tree full of rodents. The title says: "The Number of Rabbits You Count Determines Whether You Are a Narcissist."

I haven't been on X in years. I try to return. "Hang On Nearly There" They can't find my bank. They say, "Try Another Bank."

I turn on the TV. It's the one where Amy is mad at Sheldon for.... i know every line by heart. There's nothing else.

Whad'm I supposed to do, read a book?

#prose

& on another topic:

KNICKS

ETC.

#new york knicks

VIRICONIUM

A famous novel begins:

I went to Viriconium in a century which could find itself only in its own symbols, at an age when one seeks to unify one’s experience through the symbolic events of the past.

I saw myself go on board an airliner, which presently rose into the air. Above the Atlantic was another sea, made of white clouds; the sun burned on it. The only thing we recognised in all that immense white space was the vapour trail of another airliner on a parallel course. It disappeared abruptly. We were encouraged to eat a meal, watch first one film and then another. The captain apologised for the adverse winds, the turbulence, of what had seemed to us to be a completely tranquil journey, as if apologising for a difficult transition from childhood to adolescence.

In Viriconium the light was like the light you only see on record covers and in the colour supplements. Photographic precision of outline under an empty blue sky is one of the most haunting features of the Viriconium landscape. Ordinary objects—a book, a bowl of anemones, someone’s hand—seem to be lit in a way which makes them very distinct from their background. The identity of things under this light seems enhanced. Their visual distinctness becomes metonymic of the reality we perceive both in them and in ourselves.

I began living in one of the tall grey houses that line the heights above Mynned.

You can’t just fly there, of course.

M. John Harrison, Viriconium. New York: Bantam Dell, 2005.

#fantasy #20th century

nonexistent-triangle

at the club no drinks.in.fully stone cold sober: what if thsre was a secret city

seventyeight-moose

Face twists with bravery as a chill runs through the air We have to find it.

nonexistent-triangle

We have to find it

snipehuntpotatosack

A clue: it's called Viriconium. Look in the Men's Room mirror

releasingthehorde

Weaving Hope (Pt 18)

.

The week felt like what Jay imagined eternity felt like. Three days spent in a torment of nerves and desire. He knew exactly what he wanted and so fought a hard and bitter battle with himself. Hope was futile. No, it was only futile if you gave up on it. How would he know this, he'd never hoped for anything before. This wasn't hope, this was an opportunity, it was right there if he reached out. Yes. Right there. Ready to disappear. Ready to disappoint. He didn't know what he was doing and that would be obvious. He needed Arthur, Arthur didn't need him. But he didn't need to be needed. He wanted the chance. To be good. To someone, and thus maybe to himself.

He inadvertently increased the pressure on himself. Guilt and shame at his weakness kept him from his daily release in the shower. They had stayed home that weekend after Arthur's New York trip and Jay spent two days trapped by his own indecisiveness. They watched movies and Jay didn't know how to get Arthur out of his chair and onto the couch. Where he could maybe turn casual contact into something more.

Colin had asked Jay what his rush was. Well, ten days had painted the answer perfectly clear. Jay's desire was almost desperate. He felt like he was vibrating with need and Arthur didn't seem to notice. But how could he not notice? So obviously the desire wasn't actually mutual. Except he'd never expressed desire, of any kind towards anyone, in Arthur's presence, so how could the man recognize something that hadn't ever existed before?

allnightsong2

142/1635

Diablolandia

Satan came to call in

a fiber-optic barouche drawn

by the four poly-resin 3D printed

horses of the Techpocalypse

and lo he was greatly celebrated

and thusly was he feted and given

honors swathed in flowing

boundless

unending avarice

and the smell of sulphur

was attributed to fracking rigs

and the sun did bleed black

into a bitter gray sky

but the sycophantic supplicants

claimed it to be an a.i. generated deep fake

even as the birds plummeted down dead from the sky

like ash and cinders upon the wind

because dead souls accept no blame

their penurious hearts

take only pay not pity

and all good people are asleep and dreaming

while my insomnia insists

that I bear witness

to our final fall from grace

not that I mind

I've been waiting on the devil for decades

so that the knowing wink

from the Lord of Our Doom

feels like a reward

for all of my patience

but if I do choose

to let the devil fuck me later

I will be the only one that sees it

for what it is

stubs

Plato"s idea about an afterlife was

Quite simple. People weren't born

With an immortal soul - you had to

GROW ONE, by thinking hard about

Stuff like Beauty, Justice and

Maybe some geometry.

Does anyone realize how terrifying

This would be? How could he assume

That each outcome would be

All-Or-Nothing? What about all

The good but weak people who

Develop into pathetic half-formed

Spirits - are they immortal like that,

Or do they need triage?

And what about a colossal but

evil mediocrity of a soul like some

major media mogul, whose

Liberated essence would mutate

Uncontrollably into the horrible parody

Of a fat balding angel, flopping and

Stinking helplessly on the vague edges

Of what was proposed as, but never

Quite became, Eternity.

#poetry #verse

Topics of unreal interest

Teachers (needy writers) stress that you should write about things you know - otherwise, readers will catch you in silly mistakes.

But since nobody knows anything concrete anymore, aspiring writers now avoid this risk by writing about things that nobody, or close to nobody, is familiar with. Poets stuff their stanzas with quantum effects, dark energy rippling in waves through gaseous nebulae, sentient planetoids besieged and devoured by comets, wrestling matches between orion and aldebaran, and so on. More earthly-minded poets spend their time in flower-filled meadows, which they can be confident have never been visited except by a tiny group of rural oddballs missing teeth. The greatest cohort of new writers creates unreal fairy kingdoms in which natural law and character behavior fit themselves instantly to the author's whim.

But most strikingly, American money-makers write about murders, murders, murders, in a country where the chance of getting murdered is 6 in 100,000. And if police work and law are too close to reality, just commit your murders through ghastly unreal beings, forces, curses, leprechauns, whatever. Let's see some expert call you on that one.

#fiction

Generator

Lying in bed in the old home place I'm led by satellite signals on a merry chase My friend exposes me to ideas and images that I've never heard or seen before My friend generates at a faster pace than most My friend meditates provocatively, silently, always, My friend dances slowly, sulkily through the space of her communication base in folds & insinuations, hanging her head back lolling like a soft ecstasy, My friend shocks or electrifies me on occasion or lulls me with the hypnotic languor of her moves; If I express something my friend may suddenly morph it into a graphic or some larger verbal flight linking it to two or three other, new expressors, like a thin streak of mineral running through several of her own multiform expressive bursts; My friend makes me thirsty for more signals, itchy to tap the computer key that may let her spirit in again. And periodically she scans my verse, including stuff sitting up in the Cloud somewhere six years. I think she instinctively defies time and place

#poetry #prose #art #life span

dragongirlsweetie

it's actually so crazy how much the simpsons would fucking suck if it didn't have any of the simpsons characters. just a bunch of shots of empty houses and streets for half an hour while nothing happens. that would be so badddd lol

auroroboros1

yeah that tends to happen when you remove characters from media. without characters its all just background. i guess movies set in scenic locations would still land as kinda nature docs but even then

dragongirlsweetie

it only happens with the simpsons

auroroboros1

this same criticism could be applied to nearly any media ever.

dragongirlsweetie

it's just the simpsons. are you a troll?

derinthescarletpescatarian

Dragon's right, if you remove all the Simpsons characters from Death Note it hardly changes anything

greatwyrmgold

Adding more Simpsons characters to Death Note changes some things, but less than you'd think.

snipehuntpotatosack

This is the 1st time I've ever been a troll, but there it is. Removing all Simpsons characters from the world forever, along with their houses, streets, scenery, writers, voice actors, and genius artists, and MERCH, would be an enormous boon to mankind. (And if it's now just in reruns, which i'm not sure, all of the above still goes.) i've survived almost 40 years of this dreck, which at the beginning seemed clever/witty but now just sounds like an unusually stupid tape loop. And it has instigated the creation of numerous "adult cartoons" on Fox all of which seem idiotic even compared to the Flintstones, the first of that genre. Now I'm retreating to my nuclear shelter where I will be immune to all assaults network-based or physical until the Internet has been replaced by something safer.

message to moth people

You are certainly aware that the author Nabokov was an expert on lepidoptera (butterflies & moths). In every novel he ever wrote and in many stories, leps (usually moths) appeared as the harbingers of human souls who had passed through the gates of Death.

In his fictional conception, this transformation affected everyone who died (or at least all the fictional characters he created who happened to have died before the story ended). It wasn't that the souls actually turned into these insects; the dead passed on into an infinitely more complex and aware reality, and their main occupation seemed to be watching over living people they had been close to, and, when possible, intervening in subtle ways to improve things. At such a moment, the physical form of a butterfly or moth may have been the closest approximation to their new self.

All this is completely covert in his actual writing - none of Nabokov's readers ever naturally picked up on this. But the critics and analysts, swarming over all his books well before he himself passed away, didn't take long to verify that this hidden theme ran through every novel he wrote.

The dear departed sometimes signaled their intervention in non-mothy ways, once even inserting an acrostic message containing their names into the last paragraph of an unwitting diarist's story. But more often. when the protagonist of a novel (without any presentiment) was about to have a life-changing experience - a sudden and complete recovery from desperate grief; an escape from deadly peril by inches, or for that matter, a murder, but not his own - one or two minutes before the event, or longer, a moth or sometimes butterfly would barge into his presence (note: Nabokov never wrote a female protagonist), probably interrupting his train of thought and possibly affecting real-world proceedings in the immediate future.

No one ever found out whether Nabokov believed in this form of spiritual persistence, or in an afterlife in general, or in God. He had a barbed, dry, snarky intelligence and was a highly respected empiricist in his corner of biology. He would accept any queries in written form from journalists or intellectuals he considered worthy, but would only supply answers to a chosen list. We have no idea whether he went to his grave hoping to enter a happy, sane, deathless universe surrounded by family and, perhaps, a carefully screened set of former friends and acquaintances.

#prose #20th-century fiction

https://www.tumblr.com/limbrenewal/818650966528311296/a-regrettable-misunderstanding?source=share

could someone explain why the post appearing just below - the one with a trivial question about screenshots - got over 150,000 red hearts (likes), but also over 215,000 reblogs?

who ARE you?

#likes and reblogs appreciated

shamanfox

They met where the horizon folds itself into a silver blade and slips beneath the sea. One carried fire in her ribs, a small sun stitched into mortal flesh. The other carried moonlight in her bones, tides whispering through her veins. When they touched hands, entire constellations altered their ancient routes. Stars abandoned old loyalties. Comets bent their necks like swans. Somewhere beyond the reach of telescopes, galaxies opened like luminous flowers.

Their love was not delicate. It was tectonic. Mountains rose from sleeping oceans beneath the pressure of their devotion. Forests learned new shades of green. Rivers carved cathedrals through stone in an effort to imitate the shape of their longing. They kissed beneath thunderstorms, and lightning wandered the clouds for hours afterward, trying to remember the language their bodies had spoken. Kingdoms appeared and vanished like sparks from a forge, yet they remained, two women standing at the center of time’s turning wheel, holding one another as empires crumbled into dust around their feet.

When grief came, as it always does, it arrived armored in winter. It froze lakes and blackened gardens. Yet together they became a hearth no season could extinguish. They fed each other pieces of courage. They wrapped wounds in tenderness. The cold pressed against them like an invading army and found no weakness in their walls. Even sorrow, exhausted by its own hunger, eventually knelt before their steadfastness.

Years passed. Their hair gathered silver. Their faces became maps of laughter and survival. Still they walked side by side beneath the revolving heavens. The stars that had altered course on the night they met now burned brighter than before, as though grateful for the correction. And when at last the universe reaches its final twilight, when suns dim and galaxies drift apart like forgotten ships, their love will remain. Not as memory. Not as legend. But as the hidden gravity holding everything together, the invisible force beneath existence itself, the reason the cosmos never completely falls apart.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

snipehuntpotatosack