P A L I M R Y A 𓃏

@wyrm.ing

169 Followers 119 Following

˚₊✧‧₊ first ever lovely insect to receive special dispensation from the ould poachers of the wyrld egg to bleed Profusely in public.. full of love, empty of vein ♡ ✩‧₊˚ ( ɵ̥̥ ˑ̫ ɵ̥̥) stories/poems/games @ ptero.org

photo of my collarbone & a bruise that looks like an orchid petal
photo of a 1-year-old stag beetle wearing a birthday hat, about to eat a banana with a lit candle stuck in it
screenshot of a bluesky post by Solarpunk Magazine that reads: "3/3 At least we don't run your work through AI checkers without your permission like a lot of publishers do, considering the fact that AI checkers *are also AI*"
photo of Theo Von. he has a weird haircut
Letterboxd screenshot of the page for a movie called Pennyweight. the synopsis reads: “Blaine Kinney, an aspiring young filmmaker, approaches an eccentric and extremely wealthy businessman, Fentworth Pennyweight III, for help in financing his first film. To his surprise, Mr. Pennyweight agrees to fund the entire movie with one small stipulation: Blaine must wear a ridiculously large and effeminate pair of earrings for exactly one year. Desperate for money, he agrees to the deal.”
screenshot of a grinder notification reading: “Madonna LIVE in Times Square! 42m ago Tune in now on Grindr Presents”
photo of my hand & wrist wearing a red translucent plastic actigraph bracelet
pic of a stag beetle wearing a party hat, about to eat a banana slice with a candle on it
[…] second, and the lubey slurp of foreskin on waxed thigh has you brace for footing as some pig's clumsy broken leg in your mind shittens your tail. You buck as your boyfriend slides himself back in, and his dick pops when it breaks like every hard thing does. He squeals and squeals. When he gets back from the ER you're in the bathroom with water on for noise, but your skin's too wrecked from showering to shower. In the morning he watches your kid's procedurally personalized pony cartoon over your shoulder while you eat what you eat. Um. How exactly are we going to get out of this stupid place, the sassy one says. Your kid's synthesized pony voice says something smart about love or working together while your real kid laughs. You start sleeping on the couch.
photo of a spread from the Italo Calvino book Invisible Cities that reads: Hidden Cities 2 In Raissa, life is not happy. People wring their hands as they walk in the streets, curse the crying children, lean on the railings over the river and press their fists to their temples. In the morning you wake from one bad dream and another begins. At the workbenches where, every moment, you hit your finger with a hammer or prick it with a needle, or over the columns of figures all awry in the ledgers of merchants and bankers, or at the rows of empty glasses on the zinc counters of the wineshops, the bent heads at least conceal the general grim gaze. Inside the houses it is worse, and you do not have to enter to lear this: in the summer the windows resound with quarrels and broken dishes. And yet, in Raissa, at every moment there is a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding, "Darling, let me dip into it," to a young serving-maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful trans-action, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obscacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: "Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence."
screenshot from Wikipedia which reads: “A protozoan species, Euglena mutabilis, was found to reside in the pit by Andrea A. Stierle and Donald B. Stierle, and the protozoans have been found to have adapted to the harsh conditions of the water. Intense competition for the limited resources caused these species to evolve the production of highly toxic compounds to improve survivability. Natural products such as berkeleydione, berkeleytrione, [18] and berkelic acid [19] have been isolated from these organisms which show selective activity against cancer cell lines. Some of these species ingest metals and are being investigated as an alternative means of cleaning the water.[20]”
photo of a Taco Bell cup, on the floor (where it belongs), containing a dewy white “dirty soda” combo of Starry soda and milk syrup
photo of a girl’s face
screenshot reading: “But beyond my work, Mechsploitation as a genre has... I want to say blossomed, but it hasn't. There are a handful of works, maybe, that are brought up, but there are a few more than there used to be. Lynx Saxon, Proletkvlt, Mira Gale, the art of Marigold and Splashzone, and so on. Rho still writes. You should read their works, find them and follow them. Good art is being made. Just not enough.”
Tom Cruise as Vincent the killer, seen through a blur of clear plastic, eyes glittering in horrific recognition of the preciousness of his own fragile connection to the world
a guy labeled “MARCO, MALE COMEDIAN, LOS ANGELES, CA”
excerpt that reads: “People say nothing happens.” Madly’s close now, pupils thick, breath like dead roses. “You hear that? I hear it all the time. Hellworld. Nothing happens.” She plants the cracker in the foam of the dash. “Here’s what’s happening. You’re gonna take some deep breaths, count to ten. It’s safer if you’re relaxed.”
photo of a hand holding an apple
sunflower photo
(american fascism in its occult science era harnesses the eternal underpower of kept eunuchs with tenuous grasps on the material realm, docilized with occasional trips to the smithsonian chrysalis exhibit) handler: we believe the clinton liberation front still has chocolate milk. full fat. freeze dried in the martha's vineyard bunker. we need you to commune with someone who can confirm or deny. he's named Balaam and his head is shaped like a bull's head, and his tail is like a serpent's tail, and his teeth are me, covered in shit, droolingly possessed by the restless spirit of a failed nerdcore rapper who thinks i'm his girlfriend and we're pregaming in his 2008 dorm room: check it out babe. in bed i'm daniel craig with his little finga. some bitches know that i keep it bazinga. yeeOWTCH cattle prod
• Stupid Answer • Good Guess • Zeitgeber • Say-No-More • Forgotten Boy • Hemoclyst • Fourth Time • Ponderosa
“Is it dark down there Where the grass grows through the hair? Is it dark in the under-land of Null?” Helen Adam, 'Down There in the Dark', 1952 “The void migrates to the surface...” Advances in Geophysics, 2016
Screenshot of the Hinge app The prompt says: ‘My favorite off-brand LGBTQIA+ icon is’ The answer I wrote says: ‘the vastness of locusts which shall, as a cataract sloughed from the eye of the bomb-rosed sky, fall hale and hard upon our ailing histories and fuse them with our futures at exactly 7:34AM on the 21st of June, 2043’ The AI-generated criticism of my answer says: ‘Go a little deeper This response is very abstract; try a clearer point. What do you hope to see in 2043?’
photo of a decellularized leaf with red bloodlike fluid being injected into it
Screenshot that reads: “Hey. Look. Will you look at me?” Madly says, touching Tom’s collar. “It’ll be okay. Yellowboy’s a hyperaccumulator. Sucks it all up and blooms, just like its mama.” Tom rattles his head like a paned pigeon. “What?” “Remember that year we worked out in the flats, scrubbing soil for Solacor? How they modded the grain like crazy to suck up the metal? It takes a lot of crisping but you can’t just mod any plant to do that. You gotta find a hyperaccumulator. Some species suck shit up, whatever you throw. They don’t even hate the poison. They just drink and drink, and they smile right in your fucking face.” Tom frowns. He remembers the red ruts his nape bore all autumn from shouldering sheaves of lead-heavy barley, stiff as sabres. Freakishly tall. His stooping to sweat in the graygold shade of their rattling ranks. “That’s so stupid, Madly. You’re so stupid.” “Yellowboy’s tough and tumble.” Madly gestures broadly and Tom follows her hand. He looks out at the smashed rhizome of the thoroughfare, a lurid bruise of rubber and unslept flesh more substance than stuff, a megalife made into a slurry of ore. He sees clotted garbage chutes lashed to reeking awnings and corvid cop drones pecking holes in a neighbor’s hands two stories down. “Someday it’ll spit this up in the face of the world and smile bright like a nuke,” Madly says. “Won’t you, baby?” Yellowboy looks up from its doodle on the passenger seat foam and clumsily caps the lipstick. “Tommy, mama said we get cricky later. Eat at the green and the birds,” it says, beaming.
Norco screenshot. A bartender named Gus cleans a glass. There’s a closeup of his friend LeBlanc, who’s wearing clown makeup. Dialogue: Gus: Brett. What in the world you got all over your face? What is that? LEBLANC: Bruh. It's nothing. Don't worry about it. It's just my look. Gus: You was just here a couple hours ago. What the hell happened? LEBLANC: It's just a look, Gus. A style. It's just my style. Let it rest.
Screenshot of Norco. Pixel art. Closeup of the face of a bearded man, golden sigils on his forehead. Dialogue that reads: PAWPAW: SAINT NICHOLAS, HO HO HO! SANTA: PUP PUP YOU WRETCH, YOU FUCK. PAWPAW: YOU OLD IMMORTAL FUCK. SANTA : FUCKER. MOTHERFUCKER. PAWPAW: HO HO HO! SANTA: ARE YOU HERE FOR THAT GOOD STUFF?? That good nice stuff?? PAWPAW: Pour it in my mouth. Pack it in my throat with your rotten hands.
photo of an anglerfish swimming toward the sun
hospital selfie uwu
photo of an industrial pile driver
photo of ice on a river. a duck or goose has swum a trail through it. waterfowl prints on snow.
flyer reading: T4T t4treadings.com 21+ Embodied Exegesis Transfeminine Cyberpunk Futures Edited by Ann LeBlanc Featured Readers Maya Deane Adeline Wong Palimrya January 9th 2025 7pm Sign Up 8pm Open Mic 9pm Guests @ The Model Cafe Cash Bar No Cover
screenshot of text that reads: “i know this is a cold take by now but its honestly disturbing to me that christmas in modern america is literally like,, a competition to see how many christs you can birth from your womb in one day!! all these stinking mounds of rotten christflesh littering the midwest corridor, broad and soft as melted mountains, leaking holy leagues of evacuated bowels into tributaries, turning hellbound salmon to the surface to gulp for methane and we’re supposed to think this is rly fresh & festive.??? not to be all hitchens but i’m over it bitch!! give me something classy. lets name a mocktail “the manger”. lets legalize reindeer stuff but keep it taboo. lets pay mariah to make something up”
screenshot of an excerpt from my story, "A Canyon of Blood for the Normalest Man Alive", which reads: "are you curious, Mister Presidents? about what’s in my hands? peer into the barrel. spy its ugly luster. a mega-dense bullet of purest crystal cringe, packed with unimaginable wronging power, just slight enough to slot into a Dardick .38 tround. do you understand now what you’re going to become? no. you’ve never worried a day. and don’t worry either over how i got the gun. it looks printed, but it’s not. i coughed this shit up on my fourth birthday. you know microplastic? how wombs grant us a few grams at birth? well, sometimes if you’re cringe enough it’s not polyester but a gun in your gut. and even if you suck at eye contact you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth."
photo of a bug crawling on a flower