#moetry

[princessmo]

how's everyone else's valentines day going. i started writing a song about robotfucking. also i accidentally hit capslock on the second line it's not supposed to be that emphasized

[princessmo]

i love you $8 typewriter from goodwill

[princessmo]

sorry this typewriter has me cranking out drivel at an astounding rate but i got yet another lyrical snippet under the cut

[princessmo]

snippet of an original song titled "femmedyke blues" under the cut

[princessmo]

move over rupi kaur, there's a new mediocre woman poet in town (fragment of a song below da cut. if you know you know and i don't blame you if you don't)

[princessmo]

ok i can't tell if what i wrote is interesting or dogshit so i'll leave it here for the people to decide

[domlarkin]

[ SUTURE // THE NEON CODE ]

He is a ghost in Gore-Tex, a silhouette of ancient thread. Drifting through the 404-error of the 6:05 rush. Trading cedar-smiles for liquid-crystal faces. At the blue hour, where the subway liquefies the marrow of the concrete, he mounts his pulpit of pine.

First: [ COMEDIC ] A mask of smeared pixels. Neon war-paint. A malware-injection of joy into the scrolling thumb, the backlit stare. A crack in the carbon-fiber armor. System override.

Then: [ TRAGIC ] Lenses wet with unbuffered data. The silent scream trapped in the fiber-optic cable. He kneels where the asphalt bleeds oil. Palms fused to the iron. Earthing the grid’s anxiety. Turning static into a copper thrum.

With [ ARTISTIC ] violence, he solders the glitch. Stitches the signal to the rusted wire. Threads the penthouse through the needle of the gutter. Knits the cold air between bodies. The motherboard kisses the bone.

Finally: [ SPIRITUAL ] A porcelain slate. No mouth. No eyes. Just Zero. A quiet frequency. He gathers the flicker of the router, plugs the gnarled root into the USB-C port of the world. The ground-wire for the divine.

He strikes a spark: Circuit board and lightning-struck sage. Ozone and wet earth collide in the exhaust. The city: no longer fragments, but a single, pulsing nervous system. Pulled tight. Held in his scarred hands.

The fever breaks. A flash of blinding white. [ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ] The Weaver dissolves. The air feels like a prayer that just came true.