אברה (wingeater)

@wingeater.bsky.social

901 Followers 499 Following

248 limbs/365 vessels angel gore recycling system; ash-grey feathers /not a girl/ https://wingeater.itch.io/ art by vich

screenshot of the previous two posts. the active post has the Hebrew on the right and English on the left, and the reply is the opposite
"sure grandma let's get you to bed" meme with wingeater slapped haphazardly over grandma's face with the caption "I was there! it was horrible!"
discord screenshot, 6:30 AM wingeater display pic, handle censored in italics, the message reads "dissolving,,"
pale-pink fingers, smeared with purple-brown, holding a craggy bit of warm off-white cheese balanced in the cup of a small dark prune. nails painted black, palm cut by a black fabric. the background is a confusing welter; pink and black stripes, golden-yellow poster with a sooty figure, too-red burst of flowers, hints of black leather and wood
a black mug of Earl Grey with milk on a defocused ~granite counter. a bit of blurry wall and something transparent are visible in the background, and the edge of a red square with a teabag on it in the foreground. the tea wears a coronet of bubbles
Sagittarius sun is still quest purple #7A59C7, cancer moon is tidal blue #779CB9, Pisces rising is foam aura #87C8C5, and Scorpio Venus is wine velvet #8F3C55
x the everything app screenshot in which wingeater is quote tweeting Vivian @suchnerve "You're sick if you think it's sexy for someone to be covered in blood" and saying "that's why I have the best health insurance I can get" Vivian has bangs wingeater has a wing sprouting from its eye
another of these radial arrays, goots, ורד, wrens, yossi, maeve, silby, postes, lo-fi,, etc etc
discord message from wingeater (handle censored in faded raspberry), 6:32 PM: , I mean beautiful sunrises happen every morning doesn't make them not interesting
a blue carton of muscle milk pro 33g cookies n cream against dingy unfocused cardboard and steel grating
barred patterns, devolving dull grey, and throat-riot white, cinnabar burns across constantly shifting arms still gold center fits, hook-slick, over pulse-mottled skin heart, storm-leached, leaden blue and shudder-laced, flicks itself through sodden with slate bird-shit
That night I, too, took boat to the chapel. Areta, I found, had retired to her side-chamber. In front of the altar, on the spot where the body of Sergius once lay, another coffin, a malachite shell, now shimmered dully under a taper-glow; stretched, open, on the old trestles. In the headpiece was gold-inlaid the Key and angel-song, as before. Supine within lay a figure—a marble statue. I wondered at the minute burin, so intimate with the genius of death, subtle to catch in stone the inmost thought of the Azrael. Here was flesh twice mortal; here was Sergius himself, stiff-fixed in a sleep doubly eternal. As the Greeks in the days of their hairiest niceties over-painted every part of their marbles, wreathing the lips in rosy smiles of supernal loveliness; so here, with opposite hope was the figure painted over-all. Too clearly with opposite hope: for I knew not which to say prevailed in naked ghastliness, the stained face and slumbering lids, yellow as fennel; or the beard and lashes, matted black; or the leaden lips, or greenish ears, or livid finger-tips, or winding-sheet of gold. As I stood regarding this effigy, lo, black velvet hangings parted before a doorway, and Areta, licked below the haunches by curling purplish tongues, loomed cold in a splendid unbroken gown of soft silk, all whiteness, like taper snowbergs, sun-smeared, clear against the black
a male brown-headed cowbird nibbles on some birdseed mix on a grey wooden porch that's already picked clean of sunflower seeds. his politely folded black wings and body feathers are catching a gorgeous spill of blue-green iridescence against the soft brown of his head
cropped screenshot from a comic book scan, all compression-artefacted black blocking and evening purples, with a block of scrawled text: Food for carrion angels.
frankjeweetwelwie.bsky.social 4 hours ag... Or you could even consider not being a Jew anymore, as a way of condemning what that religion has also produced. Without Jews, there was no Israel, and without Israel, well.. so give up the title. I was born and raised as Catholic, but also left that religion, for personal reasons.
screenshot of Google search for disregard, featuring the AI being stupid and also the Merriam-Webster definition for DISREGARD
a sloppy 13-pointed star. the thing has ignored 2 points for being too soft and declared it a 49% regular hendecagon
wingeater at seventh place on the charts for the seven-sided polygon with a seventy-seven percent rating
they made us do pages and pages of metric conversions as if moving a dot was a difficult concept! there's literally no math you're just moving a dot! "I want to have actually different numbers in every single conversion so I can drill my arithmetic" okay sure walk with weights on, some of us want to get somewhere without getting injured
i've enough abyss
a broad view of some wetlands in the foreground, flooded dark mud, sparse low greens, and bits of rotting log. beyond, a band of high pale gold grasses (like a covenant,,) separating off spring-bright deciduous woods on soft hills. the ski is blue, frosted with cloud-fleece
screenshot of wingeater message marked 10:44 AM, "autistic neighbor child is doing recognizable mourning dove calls" wingeater's display name in this server is "submissive and allopreenable"
tbf, jana's art practice specifically is buried in itself like a sick bird shoving its beak into a wound it made to check on the growth of the grubs there
pleasant font on a pleasant off-white (let's see Paul Allen's results) declaring that @manylimbedcrow, my x account, doesn't have sex
a bowl of yellow-tinged broth with a spoon and two massah balls
Wohin O wohin Wohin O wohin du Weltall der Sehnsucht das in der Raupe schon dunkel verzaubert die Flügel spannt, mit den Flossen der Fische immer den Anfang beschreibt in Wassertiefen, die ein einziges Herz ausmessen kann mit dem Senkblei der Trauer. Wohin o wohin du Weltall der Sehnsucht mit der Träume verlorenen Erdreichen und der gesprengten Blutbahn des Leibes; während die Seele zusammengefaltet wartet auf ihre Neugeburt unter dem Eis der Todesmaske.
half of a blood orange, with the beautiful gradient from clot-dark to dawn tip,
a blood orange, peeled in one piece except for a single fragment, splayed open in a hand. questionable footwear (not mine) visible on tile in the background
as described above, censored
wingeater display image, manylimbedcrow 9:08 AM there's a different kind of joy, in closeness? like if a shimmer could be made still,
EINEM, DER VOR DER TÜR STAND, eines Abends: ihm tat ich mein Wort auf—: zum Kielkropf sah ich ihn trotten, zum halb- schürigen, dem im kotigen Stiefel des Kriegsknechts geborenen Brader, dem mit dem blutigen Gottes- gemacht, dem schilpenden Menschlein Rabbi, knirschte ich, Rabbi Löw: Diesem beschneide das Wort, diesem schreib das lebendige Nichts ins Gemüt, diesem spreize die zwei Krüppelfinger zum heil- bringenden Spruch. Diesem. ………… Wirf auch die Abendtür zu, Rabbi. ………… Reiß die Morgentür auf, Ra— TO ONE WHO STOOD BEFORE THE DOOR, one evening: to him I opened my word—: toward the changeling I saw him trot, toward the half- sheared, the brother born in the grunt's begrimed boot, him with the bloodied god- member, the chirping manikin. Rabbi, I rasped, Rabbi Löw: This one's word, circumcise it, for this one, write the living Nothing on his spirit, spread this one's two cripplefingers into the re- demptive saying. For this one. …………. The evening door too, slam it shut, Rabbi. …………. The morning door, throw it open, Ra—
ERRATISCH Die Abende graben sich dir unters Aug. Mit der Lippe auf- gesammelte Silben—schönes, lautloses Rund— helfen dem Kriechstern in ihre Mitte. Der Stein, schläfennah einst, tut sich hier auf: bei allen versprengten Sonnen, Seele, warst du, im Äther.
shouting knives meme (young woman in a skirt and sweater with long black hair is screaming at a douchey young man in a loose button-up. her verbal abuse is drawn as literal knives; one is hilt-deep through his heart. minimalist palette, soft neutral grey, pallid white people skin, black, too-bright red, and dark indigo)
silly account interaction rate chart. Vered, silby, lo-fi, bird, titmouse, yossi, and other bird and titmouse's pigeon bot are in the middle. Shammai and Bridget and Little lamb and a vampire and a jackalope and Yossi again and Joel and Maeve and . . . Okay that's enough
a watermarked digital painting (?) of a pale creature with a complex body plan, suggestions of wings, numerous limbs, guts spooling out, skin flapping away to expose flesh,,
14 Oct 24 post from wingeater on x the everything app, "god should have given me a rifle"
a cluster of pigeons apparently grazing in a patch of snow in a parking lot; one is white. their plumage fits nicely into the pallette of snow and asphalt
a blue heron, with darker grey-blue primaries and secondaries matching a stripe on the head, and lighter grey plumage elsewhere. Its pale yellow/dark-topped beak is profiled against the backdrop, wings outstretched against golden dead stalks with dark legs bent against the earth. photo uncredited, via Cambridge Day
cover of a soft pink paperback: Jacques Derrida Spurs: Nietzsche's Styles Éperons: Les Styles de Nietzsche Translated by Barbara Harlow the cover features linework of interlocking figures which suggest Escher realizing a pair of multidimensional swastikas
Spice-crusted salmon, some kind of yogurt sauce, levantine salad, and green harissa on pita. For some reason, the photograph is sideways. I don't care
screenshot of the above post, with the translate button aggressively highlighted
In die Rillen der Himmelsmünze im Türspalt preßt du das Wort, dem ich entrollte, als ich mit bebenden Fäusten das Dach über uns abtrug, Schiefer um Schiefer, Silbe um Silbe, dem Kupfer- schimmer der Bettel- schale dort oben zulieb. Into the furrows of the heavenscoin in the doorcrack you press the word from which I rolled, when I with trembling fists the roof over us dismantled, slate for slate, syllable for syllable, for the copper- glimmer of the begging- cup’s sake up there
screenshot of a discord message from wingeater (username censored), 12/15/2025, 4:24 am my cardiorespiratory system has feelings about that , like catching snowflakes on your tongue, but living—
Gimli and Legolas resolving their differences except Gimli is a literal red flag and Legolas is a libertarian party symbol Red flag: never thought I'd die fighting alongside a pedophile Libertarian: how about alongside a friend? Red flag: fuck no
a questionably-edited meme. Bill Foster, thinking about thos beans, has become wingeater, informing the Bush's Beans facebook page on July 13 at 10:13 PM, I;m thinking about thos PIGMENTS you can see it, naked, sprawling, bloodsoaked, tearing apart a luxurious angel, above the comment. Bill Foster's red jacket is still visible around the edges. art by vich
130 Eros the melter of limbs (now again) stirs me— sweetbitter unmanageable creature who steals in
uncropped, finger visible, unclear background, purplish lighting 37 in my dripping (pain) the blamer may winds and terrors carry him off
Map of Ireland with greggs locations marked they are all in English-occupied territory
genius lyrics app screenshot; battery full, wifi connected, a couple discord and youtube notifications title: I Thought About Killi... Today, I thought about killing you, premeditated murder I think about killing myself And I, I love myself way more than I love you The most beautiful thoughts are always besides the darkest (Mhm-mhm-mhm-mhm-mhm-mhm-mhm-mhm-mhmm) I think this is the part where I'm supposed to say somethin' good to compensate it so it doesn't come off, bad But sometimes I think really bad things Really, really, really bad things And I love myself way more than I love you See, if I was tryin' to relate it to more people I'd probably say I'm struggling with loving myself Because that seems like a common theme But that's not the case here banner advertisement: Don't like needles? Get [redacted]y on us BOOK NOW [redacted type of drug] not actual size
picrew long dye-red white people hair white people skin and light freckles muddy green eyes neutral-purplish eyeshadow grumpy chain bits of tattoo slightly bulky black t-shirt
poorly printed label on a plastic cup; some whimsical character is partially shining through the paper. Drive Thru #6932 10:04:08 AM Md Ice SgrFrVan Latt 3 Sgr Free Van Syr Protein Milk
a hooded crow on a stump with a brown egg in their beak, two more at their feet behind them, a band of green grass and small plants reaches back to a wet wooden barrel
background: wooden table, orange woven mats, a pocket knife, some kind of snapware lid mid ground: a glass of foamy tea (mint with verveine and wormwood) foreground: a bowl with orangey bulgur, a matching stew with tomatoes, poblano, chickpeas, sweet and russet potato, and a spoonful of goopy green homemade harissa
clearsky screenshot of someone who added bites u and wingeater to their 1166 blocked accounts 92 minutes ago obviously I'm not showing who it is that would be weirdo who obsessively blocks huge numbers of people behavior
(book photo) fragment 38 you burn me
Signal screenshot the other person, 21m ago: You will never beat an allegation in your life baby me, 20m ago: Not even once
edited 4chan screenshot meme. Anonymous: Got [happy birthday] in greggs earlier lads Anonymous: tell us what happened lad Anonymous: I got [happy birthday] in greggs Anonymous: ye but why Anonymous: [it was my birthday] Anonymous: in greggs? Anonymous: yeah it was in greggs
garlic confit in a jar from this afternoon the bottom part is white because it's cold the top bit is transparent because it's freshly added I'm confitmaxxing
a watermarked alamy stock photo titled "a colorful ball of dryer lint"; it's been crumpled into a shape like a sphere-compressed brain, with regions of muted blue, medium charcoal, dirty pink, and burgundy heather
I SEE YOU KNEW MY SMALL BETRAYAL after reading Henri Cole There are cobalt beetles in the fertile soil and the darkness of a liqueur seeping into it which is the almost-belief in your love. I am clated, brighter than a sting and pink against the nocturnal dunes on this beach. We are ruins. We are ruins. We are ruins. You say this over and over against my half-shaven arm and I do not understand you in the right way. I do not feel your tears or ask you why you are heavy and hollow against me. You are revealed as you will be later, enamelled skin in a coffin with your dark hair brushed in a way you would have hated. I imagine this because I was not there and did not hold you and still think your death is a cruel deceit. I do not listen and do not see and do not see so I suck my stomach in and lie: rest against me and vaguely feel the quiver of my blindness. I feel the cost of coldness now, how you knew my small betrayal but still smiled against my breast.