Snack Essays Issue #2: (9.18.25-7.19.26)
[Context: Gathered all the little [Context]less snippets again from over the last... ten months. Yeah, not a week this time. Still wrote each one in, like, less than an hour. Haven't been doing much essay writing with all these games and novels. Some of these snacks may be stale, but if I can't serve a feast yet, I'll sate you how I may. Enjoy!]
i. ink-torment-encore
[Context: misère moderne]
(9-18-25)
Dark circles and bruises on sweetmeat,
rolling, lolling eyemilk melting into tearsalts.
Are snails allowed to cry? I stepped on one once.
It crunched and I whimpered. Haven’t forgot ten years on.
I’m P4P (pain-for-pain), bleeding heart on my sleeve.
Tomorrow’s forecast calls for torrential pain. Oh, boohoo.
Hell’s already been pried open. Chipped down, filed and hammered.
We know the score after this long on pitchfork’s edge.
Sores and ulcers feel like fresh kisses.
I wanna curl up, but ain’t no rest for th’ insipid.
So I sip ‘gainst snips my soaps and drinks,
kiss and nip stripped lips and hips,
and piss my rights on clips and scrips. I’m sick. Achoo!
- What’s the meaning of strife, mama?
- Consumption unto death. Speculating on the global tides of commerce.
- That’s the meaning of life, silly! I meant who penned this war?
- God. To purge the commies, pagans and fags.
God loves His children, but He loves some children more than others, dear.
Become stone as atlas. Only you may bear the weight of the world.
You’ll never die a martyr by a daily bruise, a daily cut.
This is our torment with which you’re imbibed.
Nurse on scorn’s breast until your eyes are full-to-static.
Let’s play a world dissociation game. Strap your bootstraps.
Lick the plates clean from the blood of slaughtered lambs.
The wool over your dreary eyes will cost you, after all.
But don’t underestimate the cost of rest. Back to the hearty mill.
Little grains of barley and millet chewn and strewn.
Water and germinate seeds between teeth,
Former life bursts out between your grinding molars.
I’m resting on the quilt of a hedgehog’s quills.
This is as close as he’d let me get for hugs,
while he nestles his nostrils and scavenges for feast.
Lap up your sad sap and other earthen crap.
Drink and eat your daily bedsheet wheat,
and rile up your wiles for rye-bread smiles.
I sip the snot from my nose and call it a day.
Show me to your medicine,
your loving strokes and squeezes,
pump my blood and goad my gait,
keep these weary eyes pellucid.
I love you (I know what this means now),
I hate this (but what are you without it),
I can’t hold on much longer (but who’ll fight if you don’t),
can’t fight back (so you await the boot?)
Flowers under the knife,
flower powerless to the guillotine
of psychological torment
spectres of haunt to jockey the ennui,
octogenarian spiders lay their trap,
with spindly legs and deceptive markings
in the shape of a toothy grin.
I know what love is now, I know you’re lying,
but I can’t get you out of your head.
Swing the boot back, somebody please.
Anybody but this swallowed ol’ pea.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, build your own demons.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, suppress your feelings.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, you’re the roach they want dead.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, the one that won’t leave their head.
[Context: god, you just LOVE self-persecution]
ii. eden is reborn! // i knew you before i met you
[Context: wrote lyrics for the songs of a couple friends!]
(10-16-25) & (3-12-25)
No, don’t fend me from your fountain
I just want to wish for scenic golden skies
where we can spend our nights
waiting out the rapture
when angels left our souls
to rot alone together
let’s see these seas made ours
we’ll bend the flow and ebb
of lull and dread
fight until we’re dead
now feel the world appeal
and break and bend
I won’t let this end
while I’m alive
can love and scream and cry
are you still here?
are you still here?
are we still here
with love, my dear, with love
send my wish above
hear me, God…
hear this, God?
fuck you, God!
we’ve turned your kingdom ours
your children left behind
now burning, blazing, building
our hearts can mold the world
eden is reborn
from ardent passion seeing, wanting, feeling greater
eden is reborn!
[Context: lyrics in the next song are not about me!]
[Context: also warning that the link above and below leads to the hell-site youtube. sorry, only "permanent" hosting service i could think of.]
running anew in a new kind of fear
always it’s chance that ends me back here
cus you’re cute and i wanted to talk
got some time til we’re off the clock
you were so sweet like i knew you so well
i think there’s feelings, not sure you can tell
off of work i know a view
wait that’s your place, well you won’t believe this!
need a fresh mind and a new kind of space
plan for the bar thinking that’s a safe place
should i stay or should i go?
why do i go for the types I know?
buckle my seatbelt, my liver is fried
hands were too shaky to kick it to drive
leave it to fate if we’re meant to
meet tonight and open booze
love you see that, now i see it too
lanes in my brain change to rides before you
i’ve known you before i met you
i hope there’s changes that’ll break through
love how you walk, how you talk, how you groove
sucks to still see that she can’t be removed
feelings saying all is the same
with a different face and a different name~
[Context: a fucking short? because i used my favourite goat gif as the thumbnail? silly ass website.]
iii. feral.girlwaste
[Context: missed her :( ]
(10-24-26)
my body is yours, the part of me I hold in my hand, ejected and repossessed,
and the blankets fume with my other fragrance, the one that warms me, body and face,
gruesomely a grain of rice split in two, a sticky whole squashed and smeared to the other side,
your ghost arrests me and locks me away, where flesh meets iron till souls unite,
my skin peeled raw, flesh lost form as sputtering meat wishes you were here,
you drink from my well and move me to quench your spirit,
I’ve move mountains to keep you fed, just let me know it’s okay,
and for you I stay fed and wet, ride clean of abrasions on razor’s edge,
but it’s a long journey home, a long walk toward roost with eyes this weary,
your names on my cotton, my fire, my gut, our little museum for you which I tend,
where once ink bubbled now boils pleasure, a little engine powered by snacks and smittenness
oh I’m so cold and bothered, where turbulent linen seas shan’t irradiate like thee
I ride the cresting waves with pressure from inside, pushing my flesh into your curves,
our nerves interlinked at the end of time on sopor’s edge, whole as we drift.
I hate to go back to sea, my dear, for even at her heights, she’s a breezy mistress.
so I fuck the parts of myself we shared hoping they’re you
[Context: what a odd pervert... write a love letter like the rest of us]
[Context: wonder where I got the idea for Calliope in Edifice Angels...]
iv. Anathema of the Compost
[Context: the creative fires still burn in my soul]
(7-14-26)
inveterate worms castrate by the guillotine of the setting sun
they sing in pineal choruses, chanting from the balustrades
But the Sands Whistle in horrible hymns, chords buzzing in the gravel
Tumultuous times are destined eternal, And the times have now arrived
whimper in lockstep your brutal machines, minting the freshest grease
dogmatic and dogged my ladies do clash for wonder’s soft hug
but the bread has no flavour and the Tea has gone cold
a stunted wet beansprout laments for all that remain
for the modular hairs of peapod fuzz know how the story goes
as they bristle and glow through the verdant afternoon
wanderlost souls together forever in sugar-snap chlorophyll dreams
the bitter bites of incensed malaise seeth through earthen mouths
gastric spumes wheezing in frothed tribulation for the smell of sulfur
oil-slick nights make placid the memories beneath her umbral sheets
mourning doves coo in cantabile gloom, inking the devilish day
all stays the same and nightmare reigns; march in the belly her drum
the hoarfrost has melted, the puddles are fed, the grass gently weeps
the songbirds hoarse, the tidepools empty, and grandma finally left
rot in sweet gristle, o mossy marble, squelch the green of your shrubs
the kingdom of pebbles serves as fulcrum point, atop which empires rise
despair in sweet disparity, Ye ants of bleak uncharity
whose carapaces quiver at the talon of the hawk scouring their mind
Lost boats float unamused in the harbour atop the bodies of groupers
plankton carry their fallen to a decommissioned Lighthouse’s glow
bless their tiny souls as they pop between god’s molars
detesting their lilliputian blues as he fiddles their sinews and fibers
those hard enamel walls are not as they seem slathered with plaster
gnarled, gnashing plastic fangs weave thorns in the bowl of thunder
Scanline smiles and record shop muzak are the spectres of the endtime
the ghosts of the seeds, smothered by concrete, haunt in wet-bulb heat
to kittens who howl as skin meets bone, now nothing but sentient pelts
ravaging miles by caustic cropdusters and acrid black blusters
and steam engine pipelines move treelines like jellyfish scars
the wet skin of softmeat is baking in sunlight atop stoves of sandstone
but nothing is done of joints on the run who nervously fly to the sea
o sisters in ceremony, melted by migraines, still offer sinners their oats
bestial paucity, the warm generosity, pick the bugs out an enemies pelt
Those trodden and wary, ribboned by lesions, still carry a second pail
we weep for the heart-brooched sacrificed donned without avarice
knowing the devils in their heart were soothed by sanctity
in a graveyard of kings, those without crowns ferry the heaviest heads
refresh and renew the waterlogged lights who halo the halcyon days
worship the winters of was by the cayenne and cocoa-stuffed tongues
atop the limelit twine hanging over A dumpster fumigated-mulch
the incisors of stygian fleas reign terror on the brocade bouquets
[Context: learned how to import fonts bc i could figure out hosting it myself! this is a very google-reliant page!]
v. barkeep de la luna
[Context: the fumes. the fumes! burn out you mustn’t!]
(7-15-26)
B>>Take a seat, young buck. Clock don’t roll around for miles.
B>> Brother, I’ll spin bottles ‘til the sun crests long as you got the dough and desire. Call me Dionysus with a trick up his sleeve and the fluids to banish the eve.
B>> With vision like yours, you are in for a journey. A. Journey. Now tell me, Ace, what do you fancy? Cus over here, we got brandy and bebop and swing, and on this side, there’s brightness and flings. And don’t call me some silver-tongued swill tech just ‘cus you ain’t sipped on this juice. I’ve poured bottles for kings and starry-eyed commies and poets with practical souls. I’ve made mixed drinks for crooners whose loves’ve gone lunar. Met Cajuns and Bajans, Wasians, Malaysians, ice cream truck drivers with frostbit abrasions.
B>> And fellas like more than just bottles. Peep the sap. This ain’t your grandpappy’s tap. We got prisms and futures, fractals and sutures. We got plumb-happy darlings and rum-ginny starlings who gamble their savings on blue. We got fresh-faced baristas and threshed zapatisas with dreams that the world can still bloom.
B>> You’re sitting on stools stuffed with stardust, drinking ice-cube lime-slice cinnamon dust. The steel wool of history’s spun on the shores of these vomit-stink stalls that're pissed in by whores.
B>> Adore the feeling, baby, as times get slender on a brokeback bender. We blend fresh paint cans and hope for fresh tints to dye dream-eyed shapewoods with radical tints. Brother, this is modern sorcery.
B>> Those poisonous swills of sludge acrimonious don’t hold a candle to me. I make drinks straight prandial ‘cus I know how to handle a heart trudging wet through its trenches.
B>> Buddy, bud, we’ve gotten quite close. See, you’re draining my tanks to the mud. Nah, your dollars are primo and just give me a holler when you want panacea to the rim. Just know a man with sartorial flourish ain’t much with only a languid furnace, so I’ll keep tabs the eyes that you dot.
B>> Have you dreamt like this, drinker, claire de lune in your thinker? got constellations in your blind spot? God, I miss the days when I cruised galaxies for the experiences that built highest art. the fictions, the frictions, the colour of diction. Yeah, I’m a sweet talker, but I need the lager to live in less dullness than yore.
B>> I’ve been kissed on dead sidewalks, been queen of cruel venus, been steadfast 'gainst hurricane storms. I’ve slept so many nights, cried so many tears, filled bottles with lives that I’ve scored. A humble bartender, alone on a meteor, growing dizzy and meager and ill. Yet I’ve done my duty, I’ve fed you my beauty and pray you’re more star-eyed than I. Das vidanya, you double-dutch dreamer, and come again with your own brews.
[Context: I like him! Has a name, I found out. Yeah, the bartender. It's Carlos.]
vi. dirty gristle
[Context: a quick one before the spectre of passing time eats my lymph nodes...]
(7-19-26)
[Context: Content Warnings include animal cruelty, dismemberment and gore.]
oh rot, oh rot, oh rotting stench. I am a medley of a man, a soul garbed in the souls spilt in my honour. with dignity, I coat my body with layer upon layer of skins. I am an archive of fur and flesh. observe. this is my newest union, this fresh fox pelt gnawing wet on my forearm. the blood of the animal already coagulates, our half-lives fusing in metamorph flesh. I am not a killer, not a sinner either. I am an honest man. this sanguine sacrosanct was signed and sanctioned by sallow-lipped gods. oh, my… the kiss of life wet against my skin paints me primordial. it makes me joyous to feel this loving union sealed.
you see not the face of the man, and I understand a man with no face is a man one can’t know whether to trust. but I wear the head of a moose atop my own, breathe through its brown-coated snout, kiss my sacrifices with its coarse, gluey tongue for more than beauty. this is my sympathy, the colour of my perception. these fuzz-mossed antlers coronate my sainthood, mark me the esprit de la forêt. perhaps the tendons of my neck click and strain. maybe my spine rustles, blusters of fluid spit from each frequent misalignment. my back burns acidically, for my crown is heavy as the most noble crowns are. I am monarch of more than one life, a public temple of a body. this moment, too, shall be marked in my kingdom. your flesh stitched tight against mine. my skin grows porous and pocked with all the memories, but I am more than one skin.
may you join me close to the heart, though that territory is hot for competition. i’ve got manifold rabbits cross-stitched across my chest, breeding as they expand. their jerkied furs I chopped and cut and sewed in medley, weaved from them a log cabin quilt. do you know of quilting? the heart of the man is the hearth of the home, and what is a quilt but a battle against the creeping cold of our spaces most intimate. my home is the chimera I've made of myself, my fire and love. i waste no piece of those who crossed no path, for such would be to forgo the scale of remembrance. see here? their rabbit ears hang as tassels from my belt, warn ‘gainst the sirens of night. and see here? their cottontails float froufrou on my tarmac seams. my lagomorph lovelies, so common yet so fragile. i hold them dear.
and my babies, they starve, grow tender and arid. thus, i moisten my coats, lather and brush each and every hair with regularity. with mortar and pestle of bones I couldn’t join to myself, I make mash of acorn and nightshade, mush leftover livers to cookie-cut treats. I seasoned with nettles and marrow and hoof, conscious of the flavours each of my thousand tongues finds toothsome. I feast like the beast that we are, we of one lolling tongue as our nerves collude in sugar-sweet concinnity.
along my shins, I wear my oldest guard. a dog and a cat, the very same pets I donned in my youth. their memories have stained me most profoundly, so I hold tight against their ears, guide my compass by the cardinal directions they instilled. their dusted forms were the first to keep me warm in these lost hollows. stave off that one beast I am yet to join myself with in flesh. those that called me a robber, a thief, a demon and a necrophile. my life is my own and my choices are the consensus of a harmonized chorus. no life pure ought not pass out of the periphery of a dreamer as I, but the impure I can take or leave. melancholy is a patch on my sleeve sown from beaver tails and otter backs, one that stinks my blood with chemical reminisce. the skins of these lost souls, pure and left to soil, are the formaldehyde of aging. I cleanse them of bestial life and they cleanse me of the nightmare of a soul alone. my childhood sensorium, my youth and young adulthood bare forth on me so long as my stitching stays true. i am an encyclopedia of crossed paths.
a pure soul like you should now know me a man of inordinate detail. there are no bounds to an archive but the ends one will pursue to sate the size of history. here is the first trout I caught in the rivers down south. here is the first beef cow slaughtered to slather my ignorant palate. here are the birds who nested tranquilly on the neighbouring roof of my childhood home. to be a hunter means not only the life of a killer. I seek to redefine such short-sightedness. i am an archaeologist of my roots, an excavator for all that’s been matted into the soils that pave my inner world. these stories I tell myself are adjoined to my flesh now, and every moment I hold shall stand forever with me. there is no forgetting, no exchange of souls that goes uncorroborated in my archive of skins and scales, feathers and fruits. I am all the snacks that built me, the sacrifices made for my soul to subsist. smashed flies and chicken thighs, dismembered all for my comforts. so now i don their guilt and never forget the warmth of their dirty gristle.
[Context: christ... see you guys for snack essays 3... eventually.]