FrankenTit - Store | Carcazan

Available to Pre-Order NOW Publication Date: Autumn 2026 ‘Ordinarily, I loathe the notion of "battling” cancer or "fighting" this disease. No darling. . The fight will be against insurance, fear, crap...

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23 - Ars Poetica

#NaPoWriMo Day 23 and I wrote a piece of free verse inspired by the prompt from the official(ish) NaPoWriMo site of “ars poetica”, which is a poetry standard I didn’t have a name for before reading that – I always called it ‘metapoetry’ – writing poetry about poetry, or, more specifically here: writing poetry about why I write poetry, or what I think it is. Behold! Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the twenty-two preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/fayroberts/posts/ars-poetica-165559094 --- This is us – naked, yet wearing masks, asking you to hold hands with our solipsistic scribbles, dip toes into the straits between outcrops, pop across the water for sustenance, or style. (We’d bid you stay, but there are others to explore…) We’re waving flags so you don’t have to, or maybe because not to do so would render us even more helpless – if we stop outlining the world, will it live up to its threats and tip over? (Silence feels deadly at times like this.) And, either way, maybe we’re only semaphoring ourselves, leaving clues in the gaps for Future Us to dig fingertips into, nod wisely over, then clamber onto the drystone foundations (build higher, further, faster). In the end, I know I’m doing this for all the reasons above, and for the dopamine release of seeing my words click into place behind others’ eyes, the fun of stacking and tangling sounds (and because I struggle to perform a drawing…) Another drawing done by me as a strong No Thanks to GenAI images; imperfect, but mine.

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Raccoon with 'Good, Good' text

Alt: Gif of a raccoon with 'Good, Good' text while wiggling its hands together

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22 - Disambiguation (a rhyming infodump)

#NaPoWriMo Day 22 and I wrote a clerihew inspired by a prompt the Porcupine (disambiguation) page of Wikipedia, which is pretty much fully down to my Prompt-o-matic Spreadsheetatron™ telling me to write a Clerihew (okay, I cheated a bit in the first stanza; don’t tell Bentley) about Porcupine, except it was me who decided to expand it to a five-stanza series by picking things that intrigued me from the “It could mean these things” page. Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the twenty-one preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/fayroberts/posts/disambiguation-162117475 --- The rodent that’s called Porcupine has quills on its sides, rump, and spine; whether it’s the Old World family of Hystricidae, or the New World (totally no relation) family of Erethizontidae. The Porcupine Caribou is an exotype not found in the zoo. This subspecies of reindeer is super-migratory, which makes them a nomadic-existence-inspiring quarry. The slow-moving Porcupinefish has one easy-to-grant wish: it mostly wants to be left alone, which it hints at by making itself spiky and overblown. The HMS Porcupine could be any one of various ships, numbering nine. The first one was launched in 1743, and the last one torpedoed in 1942 in the Mediterranean Sea. Porcupine homolog (Drosophila) is a human gene whose mutations are associated with focal dementia hypoplasia. The protein it encodes is not an easy thing about which to write odes. On the grounds that anything is better than getting GenAI to vomit something up, I drew this nightmare fuel fusion of images associated with all five things described above

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21 - Envoy

#NaPoWriMo Day 21 and… yeah, so this one kind of gut-punched me and delayed everything else, and then I was overthinking the visual imagery, which stopped me from recording the audio version of this and, while I finished all the poems within April 2026 (technically, if you live in California), I’ve only recently started getting the spoons together to make the posts. Anyway, Day 21 and wrote a piece of free verse inspired by the prompt “Temples and Prisons'”. The publication which supplied said prompt state that they “are open to traditional forms of poetry, as long as they provide a sensory experience and avoid cliches and emotionally loaded language,” which I think pricked me to some of the lines that follow. In fact, there are quite a few obscure references in this, so jump down to the end if you’d like to see them first, or otherwise ignore. Please note content warnings for assault, and implied parental violence. Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the twenty preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/fayroberts/posts/envoy-162005431 --- So here I am, locked in memories, seething behind a scarp of bone, not as alone as I’d like to be, breathing (just breathe), pleading for Lethe. It doesn’t come. I should start at the beginning, sins brimming over in media res, desperate to avoid the kind of ploys employed by the terminally metatextual, mental guests overstaying their welcome. Impressed yet? Or should that be etched? I’m sketchy on the specifics, but acid clambers up my throat, and oh yes – etched is definitely (technically) the better word. Le mot juste, but there’s no justice, just us, right? I am a bran tub of unsorted clichés wrapped in ill-fitting identities, overlapping map references and… stuff… Breathe some more. In. Out. He used to clout you, side of the head, bed not a refuge like it is now; cowering angers him, but defiance winds ire up into the crack of leather. That’s not cricket, is it? Thwack! Howzat? resounds and I’m out, reeling, feeling misalignment chime down my ganglia, a ladder to clamber, but… wait… The ritual glitches, high priest teetering as I finally see him clearly, outlined in jumbled metaphors and a score of awful imagery: this bleak wee bastard’s weak. No titan he, just greedy Tantalus… Put him away, find a grey rock to lock above his head, shed the presumption of his power, shower the lingering shame off your body and stretch. Deep breaths. Drift outside to see the sunset, let lingering warmth invest the dreadful, hollow spaces, chase sounds that won’t echo over and over, soft surfaces absorbing. We weren’t meant to live in mausolea, cold marble crafted to showcase only the past, fastened into shackles dragging at our heels. We need to know our starting points to map the next steps, and I wish I had an apt and natty end, could send you off tidily, but… this is it. Painstakingly drawn by me using Krita and a Huion tablet Notes: * Envoy (also: envoi) generally means a (diplomatic) messenger nowadays, but there are a ton of historical and literary meanings: The mesage itself. The concluding part of a literary work, esp. a short stanza concluding a poem written in certain verse forms (e.g. the ballade or sestina); (occasionally in extended use) an author's concluding words, dedication, etc. The mission or errand on which the messenger is sent. Letter of envoi (envoy), from the French lettre d'envoi, which can mean a letter intended to accompany another (especially diplomatic) document (basically a covering letter), a letter formally opening communication between individuals or institutions, or even a letter advising of the dispatch of goods. * The Lethe is a river from Ancient Greek mythology, where the dead go to drink to forget. * Le mot juste is a French phrase which we use in English to talk about the right word at the right time. * And Tantalus was a Greek king condemned after death to never be able to quench his thirst or satisfy his hunger, as justice for what he served up at a feast for the gods (purportedly in one version: his own son). Jump back up to the beginning of the poem.

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Dancing Cartoon Ghosts Music

Alt: Four old-timey ghosts playing musical instruments

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