Kym Deyn

@kymdeyn.bsky.social

2191 Followers 1142 Following

Nuisance, writer, publisher - the devil's dandy - poetry & weird fic - tarot - https://linktr.ee/kymdeyn - she/they with MECFS. In books and in bogs.

Poetry School Into the Gaps: Folklore as a Vehicle for Poetry. Ten Week Course. Oct 2nd - Dec 11th. Tutor Kym Deyn
A strange long-legged toadlike beast with great big bugging eyes, an upturned mouth and a black warty back with long legs ending in paws.
Sitting on some copies of unfurl is a knit felted white isopod with a stylish detective hat made from brown paper. His antennae are fashionably curled.
Copy of Unfurl by kym Deyn, Nathaniel Spain and Finlay worrallo. The bottom left corner has been eaten away
A segment from Our Lady of the Asteroid Belt by Bella chacha published in Incensepunk magazine. Fatigue issues, cannot type out in full but available via google
Finally: an image of a sigil, it looks like an eye with a stylistic person inside it - a little circle and some curvy lines that meet in a wave at the bottom underneath is written You knowingly, purposefully submit AI to us? GET CURSED. Yep that's a sigil that I drew (by hand). It's a doozy. Smiley face emoji.
A photo of a slice of the cake laid down on a light blue plate with a cake fork beside it. The cake is a rich golden brown and in the middle is caramelised stewed apple
a sold vinted listing of the famous and now very sought after Folklore Myths and Legends of Britain, listed for a meagre £20, which I bought
A sweet grey and white Dumbo rat with a pink nose
Jar of Moles (Grant Zoology Museum, London) crittery dozened things each pink snout snootling formaldehyde up it's bamboozler which poor fuck had to collect them out in the dirt with a shovel here moley moley BONK . I’m only gonna put you in a jar and let tourists go eww at you for the next two hundred years god look at me for two hundred years I’d do anything look mummy, one of them’s licking the glass— honey it's dead velvety sweet sardined hope their ghosts are friends teeming in a molish afterlife dark and circular everything worm- flavoured tasty buggy snackerels what if you smashed the mole jar? vinegared moles spilling out flaccid & swimming everyone screaming someone saying Freddy you gotta get us a new jar of moles— —goddammit boss I never asked for any of this
cover of a plumber's guide to light by Jesse Bertron
Screenshot of the RRB radio 4 show, The Verb. Ian McMillan is joined by Lindsey Hilsum, Channel 4 News' International Editor, who shares poems that have sustained her while reporting from conflict zones around the world. Richard Skinner, editor of 14, the annual poetry publication dedicated to 14-line poems, chooses this week's Neon Line. Kym Deyn discusses their debut poetry collection Folkish which reimagines the folklore of Northern England for a contemporary reader. Cara Thompson, Nottingham's first Nature Poet Laureate, talks about her new project, Needle, which fuses poetry and textiles.
a white person with shoulder length brown ringlet curls, they are somewhat androgynous and wearing a green neckerchief and a loose blue shirt.
Custard 2, a black and white Dumbo rats perched on a human hand looking sweet and brainless.
Ask Not For Whom the Garfield Phone Rings Since the 1980’s fragments of novelty Garfield phones have been washing up along a stretch of coastline in Brittany, France. It is suspected they come from a submerged tanker lost overboard during a storm. 1. Good news from the abyss: there are no more Mondays other days are suspect and we are waiting for it’s decision. In the ocean’s penumbra dial tone unmoving eye fragments of self a dozen, two dozen, innumerable pieces worn to sand, held in the bellies of gulls, mouths of fish their language returns to his. Microplastics, in the right circumstance have occult properties. Imagine being everywhere at once. Having a copyrighted face. Everyone knowing of you and speaking of you, partaking of body being consumed. Cats always were gods. Whats one more apotheosis? Meow. fear everything you do not know fear everything.
Photo of a bleeding heart flower
screenshot of a linked in account deactiviation page: Close and Delete Account Reason for Closing Account: I am not a linked in person. I am linked out. I am in the woods. I am throwing off my skin. I am burrowing into the earth. There is nothing in me that you can understand.
The Cave Olm To be an olm in its slipcase of dark is to live out a saintless century. No stars in our cave night, eyeless is our slow vigil, our waking is close to sleep. The waters coverlets, we dream sleeping olm dreams interspersed with midnight shrimp, pearlescent freshwater crab. We larval, half-grown, Protean masters of our coiled living fill dolomite caves, sweet aquifers. The long-lived olm, who feasts and fasts, whose element is shade, whose shape is a languid question half-made.
Black and white Dumbo rats in their little plastic hide
a copy of my poetry book, Dionysia.
A plush kiwi that looks as if it's sitting on an explosion of its own fur, it's blue and grey and wears an expression of baffled astonishment
A large, bizarre bird plushie with a long beak and hugely long dangly legs, he's orange with tufts of grey plumage on his head.
Some clock clove with silver the stillness of the morning. Ere came the second stroke, another and nearer clock was striking. And now there were others chiming in. The air was confused with the sweet babel of its many spires, some of them booming deep, measured sequences, some tinkling impatiently and outwitting others which had begun before them. And when this anthem of jealous antiphonies and uneven rhythms had dwindled quite away and fainted in one last solitary note of silver, there started somewhere another sequence; and this, almost at its last stroke, was interrupted by yet another, which went on to tell the hour of noon in its own way, quite slowly and significantly, as though none knew it.
5. The Fool Have you ever licked someone else’s blood off a man’s skin? Still wet and dripping off him like honey? It’s almost sweet. I watch his rolling gait in the swell. The moon patterns the sea like crushed silk. The evening air. Ripe plums. Ostensibly, we’re supposed to be bathing. But I go and tug him under, waves crashing over our heads. Later, the treasures will have sunk, the cinnabar, the ambergris, jars of sweet wine. The sea will hold you down and you will think of this. Later the sea will look like a curtain tumbling in the wind and keep you still and you will think of this. I never see him again, do I? Sorry. What about— I’ve already turned over the last card.
an extremely tense looking venomoth plush
ebay screenshot that's asking if im ready to resell a kiwi plushie i bought
A medieval illustration of a sort of creature, the creature has the torso and head of a man, the legs and tail of a lion and the wings of a bat. He is swinging a club above his head. Some distance away, there is another illustration of a gryphon with a long, twisty snake-like neck looking the other way. The effect is that the first creature is sneaking up to bonk the second one on the head.
If you steal from this book to feed An AI made from peerless greed May boils burn upon your skin And maggots bite you from within.
If you steal from this book to feed An AI made from peerless greed May boils burn upon your skin And worms bite you from within.
Screenshot of the post below with the added reply by some random that says "but he has love and gives love. What's your point exactly?"
My father's hand holds Patch, a wire hired jack Russel chihuahua cross with big brown eyes and a huge pink tongue that flops sideways from his toothless mouth
empirical and poblar tmolkop book launch 27/03/26 1b books heaton ne65PH with readings by the authors, free entry
a crudely rendered drawing of a small white dog's head peeking up from above a train seat. It's eyes and nose are little black dots, its tongue is represented by a little red dot
Alexander and the Servant depicted in a medival style while riding a unicorn and an ass
the story is a wild geranium / moving this way and that / imagine a man / the rightful heir / a philosopher / wherever he goes / birds bend to omen / cities open their gates / he goes in disguise / he’s a convert to whatever is sold / Pagan snakes / Jewish laws / in Ethiopia he speaks to God / he’s king / conqueror / image / alchemist / his blood is ink / his being is this faint halo of light / we can say he went looking for ancestors at Achilles’ shrine / we can say the treasures of Persia turned to ash with his lover's body / that he never saw his mother’s face again / except in dreams / in the terrible night / of the world’s edge / with God peering down / through strange white birds
Sir Gawain Fucks the Green Knight Here’s a tale ripe for telling. Can’t say where I heard it first—in pretty French or Dutch. Perhaps as a young lady walking ‘longside the Rijn. I’ll spin it for you in an English tongue, fine as frost on lace, sweet as malmsey wine. So it goes that young Gawain, strength kissed into his limbs, fresh as the bright dawn, comes trembling down to the Green Chapel. You’ve heard this tale, I know. His breath makes peach fuzz in the air, fear into him like worm to apple. Christmas Morn is too soon, time is short. You have your own life to save, he says, picking through thorn and bough to an ivy-clad cave. The creature is the Jack O’ the Glen / forest prince / the wood’s own laughter. Beard of lichen and eyes like dark elder. I need not repeat their exchange—my boy’s flinching heart—a songbird in a rattled cage. It is after the blows are dealt, he asks, what god is worshipped in these green trees? Boy, the Knight replies, boy, were you not just down on your knees? The Knight is the tang of sap / bark rough and petal soft / everywhere leaves scatter / easily crushed / Gawain clings / hardly knows what he clings to / he is the forest and the flower / a turmoil of roots / where god and tree meet and melt / the birch the oak the fern the deer / mushroom maggot crow / here Gawain is branch and bud / blow returned for blow
Limestone Quarry, Knaresborough It’s not my fault the rocks are insane, I’m just announcing stone-intent. If you were two-hundred-million years old and each century was worth less than a grain of sand if you had been mud and coral in Pangea and saw extinctions and then in the great yawn of tectonic plates became a little spit of something that one day would be England, if humans were the latest news, a misplaced handaxe your first trinket, if you watched Romans introduce gods and rabbits, if you saw Christ carried in a book, if you were a sprawl of caves, a castle, a cliff, a series of shrines, generations of homes, if you wore a vast forest as a cloak, if you buried a prophet, dug up a saint, if you kissed the last boar goodbye, if you became black with soot, if the forest was shorn to a sliver, if the river washed you to sand, if the day and night were a spinning top and your voice was the great echo of grit, if there was no moving through your history but the history was you over and over and over again, wouldn’t you be a mudslide, a haunt, a great unspoken secret?
browt, an angry looking green bird pokemon with big angry leaf eyebrows
the "It was made for me!" panel of the junji ito spirals manga
a dumbo black and white rat with extremely low set ears that droop downwards a little.
cod(n.) large sea fish, edible and widely distributed in colder seas, mid-14c. (late 13c. in a surname, Thomas cotfich), of unknown origin; despite similarity of form it has no conclusive connection to the widespread Germanic word for "bag" (represented by Old English codd, preserved in cod-piece). Codfish is from 1560s. Cod-liver oil, known at least since 1610s, was recommended medicinally from 1783 but did not become popular as a remedy until after 1825.
braag sale ends tomorrow 10th feb up to 50% off thebraag.co
the lambton worm from my book cover of folkish rendered in a simpler cartoony style asking if you have games on ur phone
A small patch of old fur with big ol' watery eyes and a tongue sticking out from its mouth. Just about recognisable as a small dog. He wears a red Christmas jumper
Spherical Dumbo rat curled up babysomelike with his tail over his head
A huge black and white Dumbo rat sitting on his back with his belly out. He has a great big halo of whiskers and a sleepy expression. A human hand holds him
A rough linocut of a goose with an elongated snakelike neck, it has smoke curling from its nostrils and is walking away from a burning building
a linoprint that shows a sinister animal crossing scene. Coco the bunny whose eyes and mouth are empty holes in her face stands next to Lucky, the mummified dog who is holding an axe. Something is buried in the ground beside them. They are flanked on either side by a pine tree and an apple tree.
The moon, like a gardenia in the night’s button-hole—but no! why should a writer never be able to mention the moon without likening her to something else—usually something to which she bears not the faintest resemblance?... The moon, looking like nothing whatsoever but herself, was engaged in her old and futile endeavour to mark the hours correctly on the sun-dial at the centre of the lawn. Never, except once, late one night in the eighteenth century, when the toper who was Sub-Warden had spent an hour in trying to set his watch here, had she received the slightest encouragement. Still she wanly persisted. And this was the more absurd in her because Salt Cellar offered very good scope for those legitimate effects of hers which we one and all admire. Was it nothing to her to have cut those black shadows across the cloisters? Was it nothing to her that she so magically mingled her rays with the candle-light shed forth from Zuleika’s bedroom? Nothing, that she had cleansed the lawn of all its colour, and made of it a platform of silver-grey, fit for fairies to dance on?
He winced. Oxford walls have a way of belittling us; and the Duke was loth to regard his doom as trivial. Aye, by all minerals we are mocked. Vegetables, yearly deciduous, are far more sympathetic. The lilac and laburnum, making lovely now the railed pathway to Christ Church meadow, were all a-swaying and a-nodding to the Duke as he passed by. “Adieu, adieu, your Grace,” they were whispering. “We are very sorry for you—very sorry indeed. We never dared suppose you would predecease us. We think your death a very great tragedy. Adieu! Perhaps we shall meet in another world—that is, if the members of the animal kingdom have immortal souls, as we have.”
Custard the rat is held by my hands, sitting on his back with his belly in the air. He wears a happy expression, and is sticking one of his back legs straight into the the air.
A photo of a person in a white shirt with wild curly hair leaning over a black and white rat that is curled up in the palm of their hand. It has it's eyes shut.
The Ferryman by Daniel Bell
Cover of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo