Filthy
Welcome to October, You're Fucked . Content Warning.
My feet, bare feet for effect and pomposity, press down over the arboreal confetti. I'm walking aimlessly, chasing the last of the summer away beyond the threshold into the familiar and forlorn. Autumn greets us all differently as the sky darkens earlier and the daylight hours shrink. Irreverence surrounds me, but it's here in October it reaches its peak, when I account in my ledger for the previous quarters of a year that was sullied by grief and anxiety and the painful reminders of the past. If you yield to autumn, it will yield to you. October offers sanctuary to those hoping for it from the height of summer. An end to the buzz of bees, wasps, hornets and lawnmowers. Pollen junkies don't exist, but those with hay fever do, and wait patiently they do for the first sign that they can leave the house without supplementation. But whether we like it or not, October welcomes all. While some reside locked away and covered in layer upon layer, others relish this ceremonial rerobing after the fleshy displays of summer in the hottest places and Scotland. The transition from the prettiness of summer to natural sanitation, decrepitude and decomposition gathers pace with every calendar day. The horizon is dim and brisk with November and winter preparing. As I walk through town, Brown leaves crumble beneath the soles of my feet as the souls of the trees wail in joyful agony. The way of the world, death and rebirth. The naked trees feel no shame, though tip and bough hope we show mercy to their crooked nudity. Their ravaged skin is displayed for octoberites to stroke and caress like kids in a sweet shop (candy store for you Americans) or creepy old men and women stroking the ladies and gentlemen in their dusky dens of iniquity where the red is synthetic and the brown is something you hope you never see. Be it dried blood or dried... But some don't visit the body shop for warmth in October. Some have partners and beds and don't sell themselves short or pay over the odds. The dark seems to awaken the octoberites to want, desire and plead for skeleton boners and accoutrements of toffee, nuts and cobwebs. None of that nauseous fake snowstorm shit show you have planned for winter. Welcome the spiders into your home, let them adorn your October abode in the finest of laces. You could strip for the spiders and let them dress you in the most scandalous silken lacy lingerie. The diversions are as rampant as the brothels of October, and so we need to remember that pumpkins die by the end of autumn (or fall to you American octoberites), so while that jack-o'-lantern may look gruesome and worthy of a trip to Halloween Town, a few weeks later it'll be festering and smell of puke like the puke in the brothel toilet. There’s no escaping October and its acolytes; they’ll hunt you and knock knock at your door until you offer them chocolate and sweets, or candy if you’re American. The reds and browns of the deciduous are pleasing, and the cider can be warmed in a bucket by a heathen or equally God-fearing brunette who’s gone grey. A blanket’s embrace, with the fire or radiator blasting warmth. Hide from Howard Phillips and his racist opinions, or offer him to the spiders as a treat while they dress you in your sexy negligée and the pumpkins scream bloody murder as you scoop their innards and carve a lifeless visage into them. Welcome to October, you’re fucked.
By Paul Stewart28 days ago in Poets
Ace in the Hole. Top Story - September 2026.
So, I am a lack, a space without meaning, where SEX, this imperative part of our species, forgot to manifest. So, I am broken, the magazines and toy ads say, SEX, is always fun Sex, is always wanted. You are supposed to love this. What's wrong with you?
By Kera Hollow2 months ago in Poets
Dead Boys Do It Better. Top Story - September 2026.
Forget the boring men who breathe They're basic, dull, and slow My lover's six feet underground and puts on quite a show 👻 At first, he came to haunt my house with eerie, spooky groans But now he leaves me lovey notes scrawled on paper tomb stones 👻 He haunts my bedroom and my heart he boops me on the nose He floats in through my window and hands me a blue rose 👻 He whispers his sweet nothings right into my ear Some say call an exorcist but he's nothing to fear 👻 He never leaves me on unread no waiting for a chime His planchette flies across the board in record breaking time 👻 "Spell out that naughty thing you want" I whisper in the dark The planchette spells out kinky things and ignites a filthy spark 👻 His hands are vapor, slick and cold I hold them tight in mine He gives me wet and wicked dreams crossing every single line 👻 A little shiver shooting down my spine when he gets near I feel him slide right into place though nothing might appear 👻 His ectoplasm dripping down my fishnets and my thong intangible and soaking wet He loves me all night long 👻 Don't need a condom or the pill there's no chance of a kid Just icy, spectral residue as proof of what we did 👻 Posted couples pics and comments lied "You're posing with the air!" Bitch, open up your third eye, please... He's literally right there 👻 I love my sweet, transparent man He's always in my head A love like ours is hard to find especially when they're dead 👻 No living guy could ever match his cold, and spooky thrill He leaves me tingling and hot and begging for him still 👻 My heart is permanently his I'm possessed from head to toe Why date a man who's still alive when dead guys love you so? 👻
By Sara Wilson2 months ago in Poets
