poetOflore

for When Your Flesh Feels Too Loud “I’m havin’ trouble tryin’ to sleep I’m countin’ sheep, but runnin’ out…” - Brain Stew, Green Day Breathe in. You are real. You are here. You can’t see the map of course, but you see this little star right here, or there. That’s you. You are astonishingly somewhere. Anywhere, where you are is where you are, ya know? “My eyes feel like they’re gonna bleed Dried up and bulgin’ out my skull...” You are a temporary miracle of meat and intention. Not an accident. Not a burden. Not a glitch in circumstantial circuitry. Certainly not a categorical error, maniacally laughing internally as you question Gilbert Ryle’s intentionality for absolutely no reason. You can feel it in the eyes, that old spark & strain mentality. No, you are a creature of pulse and prophecy, stitched together by the same hands that formed galaxies, and still chose to form you. Why? I don’t know. I think it’s pretty cool though. “My mind is set on overdrive The clock is

#WANTMORELIZARDS! Kinky Lizard might not qualify as a game so much as an interactive art reveal. You click, you uncover, you, let’s call it, admire. You can knock out all of the achievements in under an hour, but the experience lingers longer than that [EMOTE] I have a couple comments. I do not want it to come off as criticism, more like evolutionary hopes. 1.) The bio-boxes could use a little more scale and sparkle. Right now they are very minimal, cute but cold-blooded, they lack personality. Flush them out, turn-ons/offs, favorite snacks,ambitions/dreams, confessionals, each bio-box could, in of itself, become a tiny terrarium of lore. Psychological humanization, parasocial connections, structured fantasies. 2.) It’s called Kinky Lizard but there were no kinks explored, which could also tie back to the bio-boxes, maybe Naeris likes her feet worshiped, and Lizara is all about that gold, BDSM, praise, humiliation, hoarding shiny stones, and oviposition, there are literally

Except from “Of Rhinos & Men: Domestic Iconography and the Early‑Century Comfort Crisis,” University of New Baltimore Press, 2049 "Scholars broadly agree that the Lap-Rhino Photo of February 2023 represents one of the most unintentionally influential domestic tableaux of the 21st century. Although contemporary observers interpreted the scene as “lulz,” later historiographers identified it as a rare instance of Proto‑Comfort Iconography emerging from the Terran, post‑pandemic domestic spheres. The plush representative of the rhinoceros itself, catalogued in the Vellum Taxonomy of Terran Artificial Fauna and Comfort Constructs Specimen R‑22 (“Rhinona Ryder,”) is notable for its facial embroidery, which researchers have described as “preternaturally unbothered.” Its placement upon the subject’s lap has been the focus of considerable debate. Some argue it signifies a reclamation of personal space, others insist it marks the beginning of the Sentient Plush Hypothesis, a brief but

 THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS: JUNE MANDATE Annual inspection of the Divine Heart: Mercy levels Compassion flow Wound‑healing Holy Hours: Spending time in prayer, meditation, and adoration, often on Thursdays. Honestly, whenever is fine. Just try to spend an hour in unknowing.  Citizen Reminder: The Heart remains operational 24/7, accepting unfiled prayers and unscheduled acts of mercy. The cost of showing yourself some grace, ABSOLUTELY FREE.  CHRISTIAN HERITAGE MONTH Review of artists, mystics, martyrs, saints, sinners, and stubbornly faithful bureaucrats, and their impact on the world as we think we know it.  Re‑cataloging of: Miracles: Verified Miracles: Pending Miracles: Unlikely But Not Impossible All Citizens must wear flame‑retardant robes in compliance with the Divine Illumination Safety Code, Section 33. The light of truth burns hotter than Erika’s diss tracks.   MEN’S MENTAL HEALTH MONTH Emotional recalibration. Issuance of overdue vulnerability

Recovered from the Citizen Core Archives, Deck Seven, Abandoned Station E‑9. “Timestamp uncertain. Origin signature corrupted. Believed to be devotional fragments from the early diaspora — These psalms were not composed for the sanctified or the efficient. They were written for the ones who keep trying, those who learned early that survival is liturgical, that faith is maintenance, and that decency is rebellion in a system built by cruelty and ignorance. Each transmission bears the same frequency: a voice calling out from the long dark, asking not for rescue, but for recognition. They are prayers for the haunted, the fostered, the star‑crossed, and for those who still believe the divine keeps immaculate records of every attempt, recalibration, drift, and moment of endurance. Read them as scripture, or as a signal. Either way, they are proof that someone was here, they existed, and they kept the light on.” Star‑Crossed Psalm I Blessed is the Citizen who learned early that some

I Eat Paintings When Guards Aren’t Looking is exactly what it promises. A delectable little HOG where you find cats, eat snacks, and forgo conversations on conservation ethics. The puzzles are clever, (you’ll need the hints), and the cravings are surreal, though better than drywall. It’s a point-and-click buffet of choice masterpieces and extremely poor impulse control. The cats are the real stars, reminding us all once again that they’ve been there since the beginning, lounging in the margins of myth and museum, watching humanity misinterpret art for sport. “Is it a flower or symbolic?” “Pretty sure that thimble represents a kiss…” Every click feels like an aesthetic crime. You’re not solving what is, you’re devouring essence. The game brushes past restraint, palettes your curiosity, and frames your gluttonous sin. Sometimes you just have to eat your feelings and call it performance. Au revoir, $%#&!

GOBZ drops you in with no instructions and no tutorials, which seems like a very Goblin thing to do... Once you figure it out, it’s fairly simple. An ankle biter bite sized bit of chaotic charm wrapped in pixelated mischief. It’s a little funny, and a little strange, in that “wtf am I doing with my life?” kind of way. The novelty scampers off rather quickly, like a goblin who’s stolen your attention, or your lunch money, and then ran for the darkest hallway hoping you'll follow. But you know better, you do. The best feature is honestly the gallery; the pictures are neat, how I unlocked them all remains a mystery, but as the saying goes, “hoard first, understand later.” After a bit of time the whole thing settles into an idle achievement farm, something you leave running in the background while you do more interesting things. It’s a tiny curiosity that burns through its novelty fast, but hey, it’s free, and occasionally everyone just wants a bit of that old click n’ cackle.

Midnight oil on her collarbones, sacrosanct blessings on her skin, consecrated; sugar-stung - She kneels, not to pray,  but to decant, communion made flesh,  ascetic aesthetic, by no means average, her altar, a mattress,   her sacrament, her arch    not like a bow, but like a question posed by the divine feminine,    answered by one mouth alone,     Oh, the devotion of it— of everything, of this  private liturgical emotional  and transcendent dimension,  revenant reverency,    her ribs rising,   a cathedral of breath,   her fingers mapping   the psalms of your scalp Durkheim’s sensuous phrenology,  filed and felt, taxonomy of devouration, this is the hunger of devotion -    tongue in cheek, against, parted lips,  whispering ache, finger’s litany,  this is the gospel of teeth,   of nails scoring shoulders,  as if to gilt the moment   into the very fabric of eternity    collective effervescence, legs shaking, release cresting, “Alex, I’ll take,  what is comprehension?”   and when

Truth rarely trends. Truth rarely gets applause. Truth rarely sees algorithmic blessings. Truth waits… It hums beneath the noise, steady and unglamorous An idea people crawl back to - After the glitter burns out, After the feed goes quiet, At 2:14 AM when they’re trying not to fall apart. But for me, truth is more than a word, or a moment, more than revelation, It is the pulse of my conviction, Human to the core.

The Architecture of Staying Human “World’s out there singin’ the blues Twenty more dead on the evening news Think to myself: “really, what’s the use?” I’m just like you; I was born to lose” - Rx (Medicate), Theory of a Deadman Your personal opinion does not grant you divine authority. It doesn’t really grant you anything, other than conversationally, it is quite meaningless in the grand scheme. It’s filler, a puff of bravado meant to cover up for insecurity and shadow. “Opinions are like assholes; everybody has one.” A handful of people may think it’s profound, but I promise it lacks universal appeal. And I can almost guarantee it bears no seal, no covenant, no weight of heaven. Rousseau rolling in his grave, cyclically reiterating, “Hatred, as well as love, renders its votaries credulous.” An opinion is not a credential. It’s not a permit to demolish someone else’s dignity. It’s just noise, the kind that echoes in the ruins of a crumbling society. Outside of the moral