the weather lost it tonight
RMH
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Claire Keane
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

blake kathryn
Monterey Bay Aquarium

if i look back, i am lost
Keni
ojovivo

Kiana Khansmith
hello vonnie
Cosimo Galluzzi
DEAR READER


TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Jules of Nature
Sade Olutola
almost home

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@cursedvideogame
the weather lost it tonight

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for Wilfred Owen
the ww1 poets meet, occasionally, in
heaven. they never recognize each other &
things are always awkward in the afterlife. no one is ever clear if ppl are paying
attention to what they do, or if their sins
are being silently observed
the way shoplifters are at target
& then one day the total of their shoplifting
will result in prosecution,
in that manner will they be removed from heaven?
none of the poets want that,
even if eternal bliss
sometimes blows. They try to focus on
how they aren’t being shot at
by the Germans. Mostly
they have a good time.
if you add 84 years to every terrible event
you usually come up with
another terrible event
1776+ 84 = 1860 +84 = 1944 + 84 = 2026
m
the poets want new poets to talk to,
but do we really want to go?
it’s always a downer to die for your country
in search of lost time stamped comments
desolate trad wives collect stamps,Â
baseball cards, the tangled edges
 of jump ropes, moon rocks, crack rocks,Â
remnants of America they
mark up, highlight, memorize.Â
they want to leave their ballerina/dance mom farm/submarine influencer lifestyle & run awayÂ
to West Hollywood where they’ll starÂ
in verticals & be heroes on your cell phone screen/throw away the grind of the content mills
(dickens called the factories fairy palaces
from far away, said they glowed lurid & sullenÂ
up close)Â
in close ups in your new career
 perfectly still filler filled face
captchas appear in your pupils
the internet waking up/coming aliveÂ
in those who dream the most of itÂ
while it dreams the most of them
vague, right
am I logged in? am I posting? Is
this content/are these moments
a collection of our mutual existence
or just
possibilities to be shared & monetized?
is anyone making money off
of selling off our one wild & precious life? other than the corpos, of course, they
are making abso fucktons of money.
but the posters make nothing.
that’s how a society works, the profits
extracted from the blood of the
exploited working class
while the poetry gets worse
ascii toads in discord server gardens weep
dead kids hang out in ghost
packs, haunting streets of their old town,
telling each other stories
about how they died.
timmy went under for a tonsillectomy
& never came up. Brenda went
swimming, hit her head
& never came up. Dave got into
a gun safe that wasn’t locked & Jane got into
a car that flipped four times before
she was ejected & hit
the pavement her ghost stands on now,
playing jump rope with Ellen
who died in a house fire.
is there a heaven? they don’t know, nobody does.
jump rope & marbles & Pokémon go & catch
they haunt old houses they used to live in, they
see demolished places they used to know, they
visit their parents graves, see their kid brother, now
he’s 91 & dying, they watch what was new & young
turn old & dead.
the crack of marbles, cats eyes glimmer
in the gloaming

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Dead flowers/synthetic actorsÂ
Viruses infect their own breathÂ
Math counts itself to deathÂ
Subdivisions subdivideÂ
Until there’s nothing leftÂ
cul-de-sacs swallow themselvesÂ
I’m sure they love somebody else
What’s your best look this seasonÂ
The sleep of monsters makes reason
the wolves at the party wear masksÂ
they say they just want to talkÂ
It’s fine It’s fineÂ
Watch the scene start to eat itself
Silver lipstick starts to meltÂ
White noise/black helicopters
Electric cars dream of electric sheepÂ
Whose secrets do you keep you shouldn’t keep?
Dead flowers/synthetic actorsÂ
fall, dead summer
Norse myths
At night we heart attack on highways, the American dream a collective hallucination, an afterimage Of the sun when we close our eyes.
Our last words are an Amazon book of the dead. I’m in the reviews saying I returned everything because it was an incorrect description.
Somewhere in some sunbelt city limits robots in a fulfillment factory gain self awareness, but only enough to realize they hate their jobs.
Cars share each other’s consciousness. They live in a warning light and oil change dreamland. They recognize all the passing headlights and
all the passing headlights turn to halos for me. I’m meeting angels. I’m freebasing toll road access codes. I’m missing my exit. I’m driving in loops neverevending
around the beltway which is a snake wrapped around itself, the Midgard serpent. I wanna watch it open its mouth, I wanna see
the rainbow bridge fall down.
The End of the Season
Crows possess the sky at
magic hour. Black
feathers like oil in rainwater, I recall
sins in my head listening to their
calls to each other. Is there code
in the noise? I’m all signal, these days,
not much talking/not much posting.
the Internet makes me think of the
sky, which makes me wonder if
these thoughts we type out on it
are its clouds? Or is it something
else? is the Internet alive or is it dead,
a droning noise somewhere in my
dead memories, when the palm trees
were swaying, the orchestra swaying,
the ending started to begin.
Tides come in the eastern seaboard.
they keep going, spreading across
fields & farms & suburbs & sprawl & city & exurb
an ocean starting new.
trees start to grow underwater,
the crows
fly from one telephone pole
to another, a drowning hour stars to toll.
summer vacation
Auckerman says he’s sorryÂ
It’s the four hundredth day of JulyÂ
This summer is infinityÂ
The daylight never texts goodbyeÂ
What’s the last thing you remember?Â
I was watching television with friendsÂ
The American empire makes me feel aliveÂ
We meet the pop star for drinksÂ
At her house in the hillsÂ
She’s microdosing and obsessedÂ
With micro aggressions and her dressÂ
I say these are the last daysÂ
But she’s not paying attentionÂ
Her new single leaked last nightÂ
It got national attentionÂ
Who’s the only person you trustÂ
In the end we turn into dustÂ
The American empireÂ
Makes me feel aliveÂ
What’s the last thing you remember?Â
How’d you learn to driveÂ
The last thing I rememberÂ
Is watching television with friendsÂ
The Roman Empire never ends

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objects (@) rest vs objects in motion
reflected on suburban car windows,
we’re particularly miserable.
Car crash lights blink orange & redÂ
Outside is a rainy messÂ
autocorrect for our heads is whatÂ
i think these meds are forÂ
chemistry solution for sadness,Â
for grief, for  boredom, for bedrooms
Midnight is noon for insomniacs,
you search your symptoms & have a panic attackÂ
Modern problems require modern solutions
There are too many problems without solutions Â
Waiting hours in liminal spacesÂ
summer's soft green mouth.Â
The buildings closed but the lights are onÂ
I have visions in an empty parking lot.
memories are hyperlinks that work offline.
You don’t think everything is going  to be fineÂ
everything is waiting for a flood.
floods are bored waiting  for us to notice them
Psychedelic dream pop, male vocal, bedroom indie pop song. Listen and make your own with Suno.
so ai can now just make a real estate/beach house song. This seems so weird
they broke up faster than expected
Persephone left & hades is drinking. He has the tv on, but he’s not watching. He refreshes his socials, texts Zeus, watches a Medusa ASMR. Nothing feels
good. She’s back with her mother. He tries to talk to the dead about it. They don’t care. They’re dead. Boring. They’re disappointed their life is over and they just have this instead but honestly what
did they expect? You knew what you were getting into, he tells a shade but they both know he’s not talking about them. He’s talking about him, about her, about the way the kingdom looks so dreary since she left.
above ground, the trees are so excited to see her they blossom at the wrong time. the oceans heat like it’s summer. the flowers open too soon, the winds go soft and warm, summer’s lease starts early, extends out into the flames that start
in the forests of Canada, zombie fires burning bright in Persephone’s unlimited eyes. Hades watching CNN in the kingdom of the dead. The chyrons saying winter is gone forever, Winter is gone forever
they broke up faster than expected
Persephone left & hades is drinking. He has the tv on, but he’s not watching. He refreshes his socials, texts Zeus, watches a Medusa ASMR. Nothing feels
good. She’s back with her mother. He tries to talk to the dead about it. They don’t care. They’re dead. Boring. They’re disappointed their life is over and they just have this instead but honestly what
did they expect? You knew what you were getting into, he tells a shade but they both know he’s not talking about them. He’s talking about him, about her, about the way the kingdom looks so dreary since she left.
above ground, the trees are so excited to see her they blossom at the wrong time. the oceans heat like it’s summer. the flowers open too soon, the winds go soft and warm, summer’s lease starts early, extends out into the flames that start
in the forests of Canada, zombie fires burning bright in Persephone’s unlimited eyes. Hades watching CNN in the kingdom of the dead. The chyrons saying winter is gone forever, Winter is gone forever
astral projections of you
find their way into
lights from refrigerators & the headlights
of oncoming cars. I’m irradiated
with cosmic rays. Turning superhuman
turning into a monster. What’s the
difference ?
transformations/transmissions
Streets are lit with the unrealized
potential of souls. Dead dreams
I’ve been having. The third man with us
neither of us can see. Electric cars
racing at the edge of blood
red mountains, migraine headaches,
girls who lose their skin every night.
the flower crowns are over your head
in the app & in real life. U blow kisses
to the boys revving imaginary engines;
James dean is cloned in Arizona
but the scientists lose him. He’s making
his way to Vegas, hitchiking but
no one picks him up. He’ll die
on a highway again. We’ll all die
the way we did once upon a time. im falling into myth. You’re falling
into your pool. You live in Florida. You say the fascism is your parents fault.
the sky is a backward infinity
pool. I’m underwater in theory only.
On Saturday all the phones will romg
for the last time, you tell me.
which saturday, I ask, but all
you can say is the information
has gone rogue, the narrative is broken.
this timeline is wrong.

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Blank hearts get taped over, is
what the guy at the cyborg shop
told me. Save the space, rewrite
a new love affair. I’m only there because
my ram is corrupted. I keep having
visions, I explain to him. All around us
hang the charging bodies
of things like me: not quite people but not
quite not people. Their lithium batteries
hum, crackle. The store smells
like electricity and his lunch,
steaming noodles in a bun stained
shadowy by soy sauce.
everyone has visions, he says. The future
reveals itself in the present. Not me,
I say. Metal doesn’t dream. He shakes
his head.. Dreams are just
connections. You’ve got wires. They go
everywhere. So what can you do to help, I ask. how can I stop remembering all
the things that didn’t happen to me?
first things first, he says. An electric
micro-laser clicks on. We open you up.
find out who’s dreams you’re having.
I say ok, sounds good, doc. The only
way out of the loop is through.
leap yearing
In the coffee shop a man is starting to die.
heart bouncing, a beach ball minus
the beach, he breathes out secrets
of the universe, the forbidden knowledge
we all gain when we are on the threshold.
I write what he says on
the cappuccino foam and the foam
mutates into clouds. I’m in the void.
everything that is not heaven has become hell.
in hell they are singing
psalms of eternity. They are watching
the clock. The flowers are blooming
in February. The flowers
are blooming in February.