#hallowpoems

[moocha-muses]

Just caught one of your hallowpoems on my dash, always love to see them! So, how about the prompt 'meshing'?

I love everyone who tries meshing, new skills are hard, i'm not your boss, I treasure everything you make, I love you, I'm sorry-

Whoops! No morphs included. (He can still gain weight. He does still gain weight, It might not show, but he gains it, he can see it on the scale, his ribs, his skin, his muscles, his organs all compressing the fat, like an exoskeleton. His skin is crunchy, and tough, and a prison for the globs of fat squirming and sloshing inside- He is denser now. He is dense, dense, dense, He looks as slim as ever but his feet punch through the floor-)

I ran out of time, so I left out the maternity shape- (She's pregnant and the baby is inside of her terrible, inflexible skin, growing, and growing, pressed up against the cage of her, there's no room-)

I know the mesh still has a few black shadows- (They're just not natural. He wonders if they'll spread, if he'll make up one day, black patched over his hands, his stomach, his mouth-)

Can you believe the game shipped with a broken fat morph- (They gained five pounds and spikes of bone burst from their skin, exploding outwards, impaling their lungs and their stomach and their eyes and any loved one who stood too close-)

How do you even do knee joints- (His knees snap as he moves, as he sits. They snap, and crinkle, and her kneecaps splinter out through his jeans, staining them red-)

There's some minor clipping- (Her dress is moving through her, sliding under her skin, a rasp of sequins against her raw muscle-)

This is the first time I've tried repoing anything and I think I unlinked a texture- (Now her dress is her skin, now she is the dress, a distorted thing, tanned flesh and buttons, and a zipper where she used to have a spine, her breasts are flat and distended, and lacy-)

Maybe I'll learn how to do shoe swaps, first- (His feet-)

[moocha-muses]

Tail

what's up my beloved horrors happy October it's my birth month and the only tribute i desire is to be fed delicious words (one word) (in an ask) (if you're new around here) that i can turn into terrible and beautiful poetry.

Here's one for @dunne-ias! It's about being tailed.

i am being followed followedfollowedfollowediam iam being FOLLOWED when the boy swims at night and i go to him and look at him look after him i go to the boy something is behind me, following me after me it wants me it wants the boy it nnononoNONONO MINE

i followed i found him i love him he is mine (slithering behind me in the dark slither slither) eat him chew him swallow him licklicklick licklick every night the moon the stars me me mememe mineminemine can't touch him i will i can when he comes. late late love lovelove latelatelatelatelate He comes. latelatelate he comes my love mylove beautiful boy behind me. behind me.

behind me.

beside me.

twisting tightening curling turning around me he found me inside me

(slitherslitherslither)

hishishis his hisssss-

[moocha-muses]

Loop

for @potential-fate

More time. That's what Zack longed for, when he went to the witch, cried on her shoulder and bled in her cauldron, more sunsets, more dinners, more arguments and afternoons in bed. Zack had wanted- Zack had meant a remission or a cure, a miracle. The flesh back in Ev's cheeks, the warmth in his blood, the spring in his step, the color in his cock. But it certainly is miraculous!!! Isn't it fucking miraculous, Waking up the same morning, The same morning. The same rot in both their mouths (forgot to brush my teeth and he's dying dying dying) the same pain in their backs, (slept all night in the hospital chair and he's got that drip in his spine) the same chattering nurses outside the door, the same husband, lying in bed, dying of late stage stomach cancer. Thesamethesamethesamethesamethesamethe- And every night Evan dies at exactly 8:09. His organs give out. His blood freezes. The little face he's got left over the laughing lines of his skull goes slack. In Zack's arms, on their sofa, on boats and in planes, wrapped around their dog or their daughter, doing his best to make love in a high-priced hotel suite, watching Zack eat a soft pretzel with mustard in his honor at their favorite park, in any other country they could reach before eight in the evening- Twelve hours, the same twelve hours, stretched out like taffy, stretched out till something - snaps! Evan's neck snaps like spaghetti, he takes poison from Zack's tongue, steps in front of cars and trains, off roofs, loves him loves him loves him, sick and dying, hand in hand, all the way down.

Nothing works. Zack blinks out, he disappears, he escapes; but Evan's always there, a cooling sack of skin and bones, chained to the same forever-of-a-day. "Do you trust me?" "Of course I trust you." Sweet Evan. Sweetsweetsweetsweet Evan.

The only way they're getting out of this is together.

And he loves him, he loves having Ev inside of him so much-

Zack smiles, keeps contact with Evan's sunken eyes and he kisses the knuckles of his husband's cold, dying, delicate hand, sucks a finger into his mouth-

-and bites down.

[moocha-muses]

it is time! for the yearly word offering, which will be: palladium

O, Sister. OoooOOOoooooO, sister! Is this your blood upon my blade, my hands, my heart? O, sister, would he tear us apart? My blood flowed with thine, battle-bright, yours burned with mine, Brightest sister, can you hear? The weeping, wailing of your end's spear? I am near; I would appear before you now.

O, sister, he would part us, he would start this feud between us, to demean us both. To break our troth. And you have my solemn oath, that he will not. You have my solemn oath that we are knotted, bound and clotted, just like blood-

Like the blood of gods, silver blood, have my blood-

Your fatal flaw was flesh, your only flaw was death. I will rend it without rest, and I will weave the finest mesh, to coat your silver throat, catch your final breath, and keep it hidden.

My uncle will not come, to someone so blind and dumb, when he's not bidden.

My blood your shell, your nest, heart still beating in your breast, an eternity to test, the weight of love.

O, I will preserve you, sister, I deserve you, beside my side till I am done, now we will both outlast the sun.

Your only flaw was flesh but I have put that flaw to rest, caught in the moment of your death, you will linger. Never toiling, never spoiling, never to lift a single finger. My sweet sword-sister, my sweet singer.

O, sister, is that you singing? I can hear the metal ringing, sing to me, O muse-

[moocha-muses]

oh I forgot about the Hallow Poems!!! <3

if you're still taking word prompts, how about the word Loop or, if that one has been done in the past years (might've done) then possibly, the word Heartless.

Heartless

"Look, here's another one!" "Amazing." "These things have four separate hearts-"

a lie she has five hearts and the fifth is lying beside her, her lover, her own, ripped open like a meal for these relentless, reluctant scavengers- oh, her heart, her heart! oh, his hearts, his hearts! his liver, his stomach, his spleen, sanguine savories, tender tidbits for the wedding feast, enough food to grow their brood-

"Careful; those things pop like soap bubbles once you poke at them."

the delicate flavor of his flesh, shrinking and shriveling, rotting in this awful air.

"Be careful; they want that one alive." "Not much fight left in it, now that it's on land, I heard-" "Well, it is full of eggs-"

awful, awful air. she shudders; she secretes, she's never been in such a small, simple space.

lighter than air; never sticking until your stuck, and her captors keep their mouths open, stupid, exposing their throats, as soon as they taste her on their tongue she's halted their hearts.

hungry she has so many mouth to feed, scratching at her stomach, begging to eat. these strange, pink things will do for them their organs suspended in the aspic of her, preserved in her aspect, she has tasted their flesh and found it good.

but not for her. for her, there is still the testes, the thymus, the tongue. she leans, she laps. her lover's hearts are hers.

[moocha-muses]

Here's another one! This prompt was from my own personal brain, it's a poem about sirens.

So when I was twelve the scariest thing I had ever seen, was this episode of Ducktales - No, don't laugh, listen - it was the where the do the whole Odyssey in twenty-two minutes (which is a lot better than Odysseus' time) and when they get to the siren it's not, not mermaids, or even bird women with human heads, it's this awful thing - some wretched nightmare half flesh and half coral, writhing on the rocks, purple with decay, and three beautiful heads on top of the undulating polyps, hoarse and tumultuous and kind of a little bit sexy, too, which made it worse. And then it turned out to be some kind of anglerfish deal the head were just bait, waving around on something with lots of teeth, and- and, look. Of course I had nightmares. I had such vivid nightmares, for so many weeks, I thought I was still dreaming when the thing popped up in our neighborhood. The house appeared overnight, like a mushroom, or the shell of some creature that had wandered over (which is what is was) and no one else noticed. No one else noticed that the 'three sisters' who lived there never stood even a foot even an inch apart from each other, or that they all shared the same giant housecoat, with the empty sleeves dangling at the sides, or that they had voices that rasped like a carrot peeler and ravished like a nineteenth century duke, or that they never stepped off the front lawn, and how they didn't so much walk across it as undulate, with a hill of grass pushing up from behind, or how every dog they so much as glanced at ended up disappearing. No one else could see it, but I saw it. And I'd spent months dreaming about this thing every night, Months spending every day thinking about how I'd kill it. And, since I was in a suburban neighborhood and not, like, at sea, I had a lot of options. So one night I went around to every single unlocked garage and gardening shed I could find, with my dad's wheelbarrow, siphoning weed killer, kerosene, anything with a 'keep away from children' warning printed on it.

You know.

I put on my dad's fumigation mask and I stirred that shit up like it was a cauldron full of newt eyes, and then I went over to my new neighbors' place. I mean my neighbor's. The sirens were sitting together, but they couldn't do anything to me, not with all the wax from my mom's best candles stuff in my ears. I waved to them as I walked towards them across the lawn, with the wheelbarrow at an angle behind me, draining poison. I left the wax in until they stopped convulsing, but I was still inside to hear the last death gurgles of the thing beneath the grass when I pressed my ear against the manicured lawn. The three heads were still whimpering on their stalks, but not for long. I had my dad's saw, too. And, even though it took a lot of work, and gave me blisters even through my gloves, I cut away the prettiest head, the redhead, and I took it home. And it lived! I kept it in a basin of saltwater, and spoon fed it stuff from the bait shop, and not only did the head live, but it started regenerating. It regrew really slowly and the surface really was sort of rough and coral-textured, but if you picked at it like a scab there was soft flesh underneath. i could wiggle a finger in and poke at the softness of it, and then I could poke other things in, too, later, and it had that beautiful face, and that was soft inside and out. I had my dad's tools, so I could sculpt it as it regenerated, giving it a shape that was a lot more pleasing than a tapering tube, with holes in the right places, and it took years, but finally I had material even down to a pair of neat little feet. It never stops growing from the neck down, as long as I feed it and give it its daily soak, but I have to trim and recarve every couple of weeks to keep it from growing out of its clothes. But I don't mind that, even when the screams blow the window out. Anyway, long story short, that's how I met my wife! You?

[moocha-muses]

It would be just weird if I didn't give you a hallowpoem prompt! Here's one: asphalt

It would be weird!Thank you, and here's your totally normal response.

The god rose up on a Tuesday. It took years- it took decades, more than a century- of sacrifice- faces pressed by boots into the grain of it, smearing snot and tears and blood, -they walked on it every day, leaving behind the microscopic offerings from their rubber soles, they dripped ice cream onto it, scraped their knees against it, painted it with chalk, chanted to it in a dozen piping tongues, danced along the whole long body of it- and sometimes they died on it, in whatever useless embrace the flatness of the asphalt could offer, -they pumped the last warmth of their heart out onto it. -the sidewalk itself is a victim, too. Grains of rock not tumbled smooth by the caress of ocean waters, but a child of grinding teeth and heat, every lost particulate smothered under the tar, a phantom mockery of the bodies dug up from the cool earth- pain met pain, and twisted into love, and that hot summer Tuesday the god of the asphalt rose up, carrying its worshippers on its back, and crashed down like a wave.

[moocha-muses]

I don't know what they've done to me but I'll handle them to you anyway: bubbles

Ahem. Mi-mi-mi.

Try Dr Mellow's Bubbling Scrub, it fills your home with the cleanest looooove- (Sing.) It suds and soaps. (Sing.) It scalds and scruuuubs. (Sing.) Better than bleach, stronger than acids, (Sing!) Like a warm, sudsy huuuug! (Sing, sing, sing!) The bubbles never pop, (they never pop) they'll stick to you like gl-u-ue, you won't believe how many bubbles, just one drop can pro-duce! They'll bubble up your arms, they'll sud away your troubles they'll fill your mouth with soap, and two shining rainbow bubbles will 'pop' into those soooockets, your beautifully clean eye soooo-ckets! These bubbles won't pop, (nothing can pop them nothing can pop them) these bubbles won't stop, (nothing can stop them nothing can stop them) Until they've done their jo-o-ooooooob; and everything is cle-e-eaaan. And everything is ç̸̈l̶̘͒e̶͉̊ą̸͑n̸̡̎. And everything. Is. Cl-eeeeeeee-ee-eeeee-eeaaaaaaaa̴a̵a̸a̵a̷a̷̶̶̧̛͕̽ą̵̀a̷͕̓ȃ̵̠a̸̪͘a̷̺͋ạ̵͆