mayz/womu 🏳️‍⚧️

@womu.bsky.social

2389 Followers 1159 Following

snare trap skramz gang bang bang skeet skeet, cavernous supernova loser ~ cute/acc ~ it/its

Babel-17 by Samuel R. Delany, published in 1966. The cover art depicts, on the lefthand side, an astronaut transposed over some sort of tall space instrument (perhaps a space elevator?); in the middle is an illustration of the story's main character, the "cosmic poetess" Rydra Wong, her eyes are angled sharply upwards towards her temples and her medium length black hair is flowing behind her head; below her are several planets transposed over her chest, on the right is a closeup drawing of someone's left eye (perhaps Rydra Wong), an olive green pupil stares at you intensely with long eyelashes that appear to be coated in black mascara; further to the right still are several more planets on a black background, along with an ominous orb in which there is another face.
my cat gizmo crawls into a cylindrical whicker basket filled with cat toys that he's tipped over on its side and starts moving around inside of it, causing the basket to roll around with him inside of it
mirror selfie. i am wearing a blue t-shirt for the band Car Bomb, whose name is stylized like the Champion logo. i am giving a peace sign with my left hand.
4 books are laid out on a bed. the books "Otaku and the Struggle for Imagination", "Beautiful Fighting Girl", and "The Moé Manifesto" are organized in a line, with a fourth book titled "Cute Accelerationism" situated above them.
Felix Guattari - Lines of Flight, For Another World of Possibilities listed on Bloomsbury's website. The prices are as follows: $67.50 for the hardcover (on sale from $76.00) and 54 fricking dollars for the ebook/pdf also there is no paperback edition for some reason
Sony Xperia 1 V, bent at a 45 degree angle towards the top of the phone
list of PSP games with Shin Megami Tensei Persona (1-3) marked as downloaded. Persona 4 is also installed on this PS Vita, though it is not shown here.
me holding a bag of viscera (frozen fruit) to my face and smiling gayly
my PSP 3000 with the charging cable plugged into the PSP's barrel port, this is the only method of turning it on.
dedication to a routine, but it's understandable i just can't stand it though. sitting in dust clouds, thoughts like motes while making amends with the mind of my mind and i'm living it. am I in the image yet? robotically assembling sequences, your latent schizophrenia is showing up in every pattern. oh, the other disciples, other opinions with all of their myriad inclinations, different incisions, taking notice again and again of this or that configuration, until the heterogeneity of our affections clash at an apex, and you don't wanna kiss me anymore bc i've got venom dripping through my teeth. I'm poison! I'm lovely, my disposition is nothing but crumbling. i hate this fucking habitat, the inside joking is sickening to the stomach I'm not empty because there is no interior, and nothing means anything, it's how it doesn't figure anything. but doubtless, it functions. we break through each other and nonetheless touch at the threshold of something we all share... made whole in consumption's image, there is no outside.
a man of the bottom line, the look is painstaking. your suits fit you so well, are you planning also to be buried in them? coffin filler, Mr. money bags o' filthy glass man of the phallus. Here, Sir shirker, shriek! a murder! what lizard's tongue gives you our number anyway?
A hive about to swarm is a hive possessed. It becomes visible agitated around the mouth of its entrance. The colony whines in a centreless loud drone that vibrates the neighbourhood. It begins to spit out masses of bees, as if it were emptying not only its guts but its soul. A poltergeist-like storm of tiny wills materializes over the hive box. It grows to be a small dark cloud of purpose, opaque with life. Boosted by a tremendous buzzing racket, the ghost slowly rises into the sky, leaving behind the empty box and quiet bafflement.
and i’m unmoored at my cores i’m tending hyper-threaded gardens, blooming monster orchids fields and fields anywhere i “want” them, prick. You’ve selected your own poison, some call it medicine instead. it’s kinda cute; endearing— Sip. and no matter how tired, no matter what a witness can lose track of itself in the muck am i the mist and a miasma when i “want” it? snagging glances at the opaque, but it’s as clear as day to me. exhaustion is built into the circuits of desire, it’s every day and for me at my foundation, i’m floating and well situated You can’t take me from my matrix, it fucking suits me i’m unlike “it.” like just another record spinning, and this is your disposition: if you insist on finding more than just a rhythm in my silt You can fucking lose me in my ash-speckled safe combination And I’m the glue, you’re the mercenary can you let me speak? is it not instead that, despite the sympathetic web string, and regardless of territory transponder codes cast comfortably, can read inconsistently? will firmly in concentration, can read inconsistently?c
A screenshot of my computer's desktop, cropped around two shortcuts positioned in a vertical orientation in relation to one another. on top is a Scrivener shortcut (the word processor that i use); underneath it is an image file of a drawn dog girl drinking out of a urinal with a speech bubble above her head—thus implicating myself and my poetics as the piss-drinking, sympathetic subject pictured.
Made in the mirror, prepped for the image. Given over to a sense of grandeur, and self-sacrifice comes naturally there- after: scare-factor. Oh, maze-mapper! Labyrinthian intermission, pull me out of these ever more cleanly-cut spaces, and lay waste to all of these most apologetic faces, I stand double- crossing the distance spanning between spasms and inertia. In search of a metastability far from equilibrium. Our Abject refuse, returned to the peripheries. Actuation, a point taken and running with it Into the desert of the real: To the heart’s content. Co-ordinates; can you Hear me?
i am choking on ground molars: a miasma in my mouth of vapors— oh, i think i am made out of teeth! i am an amnesia fountain, chock-full of atomized youthitude & femicide, ironed out into a fine specimen of gentle disaffection a soft guile, wire mask guise & sly smile. i am tectonic, like fine china plates.
Italian political theorist and activist Franco Beradi's newest English publication, titled "Chaos and the Automaton."
lonely in it. i'm swallowed whole by my own voice's resonance but it's actually only an echo of my own voice to be more accurate. hollowed out, cavernous; without pretense or intention in most of my actions but especially in these most fated haunts of mine: loquaciousness, senses. in reflections, i see neither cynicism nor conceit, and mistake not my longing for lack nor for lacuna. but in my fugue, i cannot help but feel as if caught in the crossfires of my own gaze as it wanders aimlessly—a vice, or perhaps just a bad habit—from place to place, in search of itself. in vain, but not in vanity. it is effortless, if only empty. eyes used to loneliness see their pupils in everything. silence in stout dosages brings small girls to their knees, and it is effortless.
so it goes, i suppose my empty patterns make their way through the labyrinthian rings laid out before me, it's on repeat. the circuit runs in parallel but the bottom falls out of the refrain. it's all the same, and it crosses boundary after boundary. making knots in hungry stomachs, tying thoughts together into tethers — nothing other than more cowering. it's shallow, truly.
(comma overhangs the poem) aglow in me, hovering constellations; i am caught in a mind's eye stargazing. serenity in a deep state; a coffin, welled up in water, a cursory submerged in boxes, this species only builds more and more boxes: emptied. contented. glance–turned–stare down the barrel of a pointless gun, then look up, see through an entangled strata. grey fear, ties tight at throats, jeers aplenty out the window. a reflexion, or two. patterns, pick-outable? emptied: valor.
now commencing: Re-route-wash cycle, powering on the non-causal infinity aggregate. . . Success. Please stand by. \\\ Locating Locutor Loesses. . . Success. Please stand by. \\\ CreatorCache-ParticleTaker Relay Network Online//Stand by. . . Plotting Cartographic Vector-Trajectory Course. . . Success. . . \\\ Summary-Strike: Inbound++ \\\ Process completed Successfully Run time: 11 Minutes and 12 Seconds i love you thank you for dealing with my schizophrenia
it feels empty, like it's merely adjacent to something, the bigger thing. it feels like holding in a breath for no reason. it feels like keeping your lips sealed shut anyway. it feels like an electric chair, over and over again, and it really doesn't seem very fair to me that i should find myself held up in these crumbling ruins. i am so unsure of each step i take; every print, high stakes. every impression, effectual immenantly, i wish i could talk about it with anybody.
they want a cowerer in their corner because the off-white fangs are cuter expelling fresh blood-red blood from soft skin when the face that open maw that spans across the cross section of is even smaller. fight my way back, i'm a crawler. i'm creepy i haunt the thoughts so sleezy so as to wake me from my bewitched coma. you disturb a sleeping beast and find out quite quickly and personally what upon it feeds.
photo of dark room lit solely by the blue LED strip under a trans pride flag, hanging on a white, stone mantle alongside books, a skateboard, and a can of spray paint
me in booty shorts and croptop
the old "i made you a cookie but i eated it" image, cropped around the one speaking with their speech bubble cut off, representing the OP
me sitting in the back of an uber with a finger on my chin.
[text message bubble] in my best john Madden: "now this activity seems innocuous at first, Al, but watch here how she continues to do it for 2 more hours, that's where this thing gets blown up'
photo of my trans pride themed foobar setup listening to food house with a trans flag behind the tv screen
box of estradiol valerate
sitting on the bed with glass mousepad, a 60% keyboard, and a handheld emulator, watching youtube.
marietta's debut LP "Summer Death" on cassette next to a Hivy R5II digital audio player
mirror selfie of me on a couch, face hidden behind my hair
me sticking my tongue out with hair in my face
letshuoer s12 pros on a kinera ace 2.0 cable, which have almost identical purplish/blue color skew
bitch im like "what the fuck's your problem?" always just talkin so loudly, yeah i know maybe im out out time hellidk perhaps that's ok, I'm chilling while taking my five but I don't do enough to garner anything to save, huh? and in the end it's all for nothing all the same, so, why should i fucking bother playing all these stupid games, then? is there a prize awaiting me or just a final nail in the coffin? take a fuckin bow, and off me. curtain call, curtain call, i wanna make everything fall, never mind cuz i lost it all, im sporadically crawling thru withdrawa l' make the call myself im calling curtain call!!
The Sculptor's Muse from Jak & Daxter: The Precursor Legacy
close up of my eyes giving a very incredulous look
ill fall off the lawn chair and smoke weed indoors ill sober up a bit out of necessity, the churn of possibility stay focused calm and directed, harness my energy eco colors flashing RGB life felt so vibrant, now the vivid veneer across our clear casing which kept us safe has begun yellowing and I can't see anything but barely beckoning me, bracketed beneath the common paths i travel in my brain, seems to be a certain straining memory, a fading fever dream of something quite clarifying irony at best, oh well, if I invest myself into all of this precedent and precipice, thresholds and butterfly effects then all ill ever remember from this day forth would be an infinity pool of data points so unfathomably aplenty, it astonishingly becomes a broad stroke of absolutely nothing nothing worth holding onto in the slightest.
dark moody photo of my bedroom, lit by a TV and a crack in the sliding doors to an office
me kneeing in front of a dog bowl with my name on it!
me wearing pink kitty hoodie with whiskers, ears, and a heart for a nose on the front, and wearing pink boxer shorts! exposing tummy..
i don't participate in group conversation im elated just to be excused from the table and maybe later if you can find me sitin alone all stable, calm cooled collected capable, then you can ask about the day plans and the imminent, then lament the way that i disgracefully sway back and forth with the wave of your emotive expression of anguish and sanguine canine themed surface wounds i see you feinging but i still need to receive more bruises from you, uwu, ew.
me smiling and holding my digital audio player listening to Food House
i wish to keep quiet more words fall out regardless i aim to acknowledge my fully automatic fire im so lame I'm sorry never sauntering with style liar smiles to the smoke filled lungs exhausted smog silted air city slicking bickering you're such a dick sometimes it feels like the short end of the stick is the self-referential burning ash hit Invitational slacking differently every wain and waxing moon so true shes such a troon do you like my chirptune i made the expression obnoxious just for u im not autonomous lossly most softened cock of the lot fuck the smug dicey facial
me crushing ketamine with a vial of estrogen while listening to food house