this is one of the best depictions of addiction and obsession in our age

Never give up!

thank you
Im able to have this confidence on this site where im sort of anonymous but bringing it everywhere else and keeping the momentum churning is where things get scary.

I will lock in this year.
Not for my ego.
Because Squelchy deserves to be experienced by those it will resonate with.

I really do think so! I challenge anyone to find another poetry book that's a better reflection of the doomscroll age.

We want to do it for the ego, but we need to do it for the art!

@Fredward

@waltdisney

i've been trying to tell these people that i made a testament of our times and a masterpiece but they don't get it man this s*** is godsend

I’ll peep it sometime this weekend, promise! Sick cover!!!!

@Jonboi i f***ing stink man I am so sorry I am going to read this

aye its okay
I'm asking you to read a poetry book in big 2026, it's a big ask! haha

Get to it when u get to it, thanks

Pretty Soul

there is no MAN WHOS REPLACING ME

i took him down to the train tracks and spat on his cock

and laughed at how he preens and prides over that cock

a pretty cock

and all the while

I was hiding my soul

im working on a book of short stories now and im finding that so much more difficult than poetry

Working on Late Bloomer, a book of short stories.

Sneak peak:

If the thing worked at all, it had to be boring first. That was the rule. Anything spectacular was lying. You don’t invent a miracle, you invent a container. A sealed system. A feedback problem. Time wasn’t moving backward - we were being reintroduced earlier in the sequence. It's as if time were a long sausage playing life sequentially on its skin and I cut a link out and entered. Like a strip of film.

Earlier this year my brother discovered home videos in our parents' old attic. This was before he shot himself in the face. And I was struck by this twinge of longing for the past, still as it was, fixed and plain, as we kept spooling down the endless sausage, losing memory of what we had been. I thought of how excited and nervous our family gatherings were, to have this camera as an interloper in the fray. It felt more innocent, honest, bound by rawer entropy. Who could have known that before long we'd be skipping into infinite dissociation. Or is it really that deep? Was it ever?

It’s in nostalgia that I remember the beauty and magic of the old thing — the simple thing, the prototype. It was in the way you heard the faint click of the tape. The whir of it reversing itself. In hindsight, extra steps made it all feel more satisfying. And in the old clips I saw the birthdays, the milestones, the wandering b-roll. And for me, there were the chalkboards, the scribbles and half-finished proofs, first alive in flesh, then quarantined to the earliest internet forums. The forums which became obsessions. The obsessions which became me. And us. And all of it — the tape, the code, the forums, the waiting — folded neatly into a container of what pop-culture foretold: The Time Machine.

And the time machine folded into the trunk of my cyber-truck. A brutalist box, humming with inevitability.

Really? Why?

ChatGPT?

Chat thinking Cybertruck is hyphenated is hilarious. Grok would never

nah, i hyphenated that, that's my mistake, good catch, but chatgpt helped with some of it. like the first 7 lines are all chatgpt.

with poetry you can develop an idea or an emotional throughline pretty quickly. longer things just require stitching more threads. you have to visualize a world and a character whereas with poetry there's so much freedom. they can be fragments of feelings, or ironic jokes, or metaphors in life, or satirical character sketches, or dreams.