getting fisted on the kitchen counter sipping whiskey and

my louboutins in your mouth

this is the good part

the hotel room with its maroon tiles

drawing hearts in the fogged up glass for someone to see later

Read more

It seems up to this point I have been the only one truly present in my writing. I have 19 of these letters left that I promised myself I would write. When lovers exist here they’re painted as a silhouette, a starless sky, a negative before it’s developed. I tell myself I like the negative space. I crosshatch the people I don’t want to talk about with the stroke of a calligraphers pen, loops and loops and spirals thickening with pressure and releasing before the advent of the next letter on the page. I’m the only thing made of flesh here, sending you solipsistic kiss marked envelopes. That’s not out of love, that’s out of fear.

You’re not meant to talk to strangers on the internet this intimately. First I wanted to write about sex. I wanted to write letters like I used to write for him, but the ink flows different when it’s a scream into the void. “A professional secret keeper doesn’t make a very good writer” whispers something in my head. I don’t want to listen to it.

I don’t want to talk about her, or them, or that place at all, but it keeps showing up, and the negative space consumes the page until it’s just empty, blinking at me, waiting.

My first piece of writing on here is about drinking. There’s tipsy. Then there’s that place. The event horizon. Hungering to fuck up in a way that means someone will treat you tender tomorrow. The threshold beyond a black hole. Drunk.

Yeah, thats it. I write about being drunk. L’appel du vide. I write about dive bars and strange pubs and beer gardens and rolling on my back in the grass, my mouth sick with peach schnapps under a july thunderstorm crackling past the garden fence.

A black hole. Have you ever lost all your memories? Do you remember what it felt like? (The irony). The blank page. The negative space. The simplicity of existing without knowing, the relief that comes with your own personal apocalypse. The epistemological madness of it all.

I don’t want to talk about her.

This is a nice neighbourhood. This is meant to be the good part. Existing feels tidy, smooth like an opal. There’s no danger, chemically induced or otherwise. There are lost house keys pinned to the community board at the laundromat. This is not a place for beads of blood rolling down my thighs, or learning what a cigarette tastes like just because that girl is so goddamn beautiful.

It felt like heaven to hate her.

I am so grateful now I promise! But I secretly miss the wreckage. I clench a fistful of dirt. My fingers are soaked in fertiliser, wrinkled from all this nurturing. I want to try everything, I want to fly burning, I already know I have a taste for the sun.

I think I might be the black hole.
I’m thinking about starting a garden.

I feel perpetually hungover despite being as sober as a baby. I think its something to do with the experience of accepting that you’re disabled as an adult and you don’t have the same amount of restlessness that you used to as a teenager.

And its like Willow! You don’t need to be so sexy and clever and impressive all the damn time. You can take a minute. You don’t have the be the sexiest person in the grocery store as the saying goes.

I’m still scared I’m becoming boring. I’m aware that I don’t need to show up as the life of the party when I’m at the laundromat. Is this healing?

I read an essay by Michelle Tea in her book Against Memoir (highly recommend by the way).

So here’s my attempt at giving you the rest of me, because “sex doesn’t carry a story” feels like a slap around the face that stops me from devolving into another substack essayist talking about how they tried BDSM once with their boyfriend and yes it really was that cool and hot and the rest of it (not that I’m judging, I love all of your stories). But we’ve hit a critical mass.

When I started the succubus codex I knew I didn’t want to necessarily write about sex, but something adjacent to it. More the experience of being wanted to a degree that makes you feel like your skull is splitting in two while walking down the street. And being wanted by people you don’t want. Not necessarily a shame, but feeling blinded. I guess writing lets me sit in the shade for a while.

My body has become a neutral liminal space through disability. I couldn’t get less of a fuck if I’m actually wanted, its more like a mechanical survival instinct. In the day to day though you wouldn’t catch me dead in a miniskirt. I care about function more than form, always have. I didn’t know adulthood would need this much ibuprofen though. The world is increasingly becoming an unsafe place for disabled people like me. Everything is burning. Of course escape and fantasy and sexuality sounds appealing amongst all that. I guess there’s a part of me thats scared that eventually the pain is going to be so bad that I’ll never fuck again, so I should enjoy it while it lasts. Its bittersweet. Its erotic melancholia. It’s grief.

Sorry I couldn’t be more cheerful this week. I’m in pain, a lot of it. I’m doing my best.

The Succubus Codex ⋆ ˚⋆ ꩜˚

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.

• Against Memoir - Michelle Tea

• Brigitte Bardot in the Coach and Horses Pub by Ray Bellisario in 1968

• Pub Sketches by romyyayo on tumblr

• worldbuilding magazine

🦷, willow

void in the shape of a girl

it girl wears a silvery smokey eye to the porn shoot to watch it run.
it girl is watching me and i am watching her.
we pass secret notes written in code through a keyhole in my mind.
it is just us against the camera, cradling one another with lipstick.
we are not thinking of the stranger in the room, but we know him well.

these masks we rotate through are like picking candy.
i can be both warhol and valerie.

i get tired of dancing but when i do, i kiss it girl sloppy
lick the sweat rolling down her neck to the collar bone
everything is about it
but we don’t name it.
it is a power
that a creature like me isn’t supposed to have.
i ask it girl what she wants.
she says shew wants to dance and spin until we’re silly with lust.

we wink and pass a secret note through the glory hole.
i keep the dagger under my garter
because cruelty will always be there for me after the party.
she doesn’t care what the others think but she wants a blinding light on the dungeon floor to frame her right as she’s unseamed
i slip my fist in her and my fingers return slick with the poetry of wanting, viscous to the knuckle.
see this? see me? i can be a wreck too. this honesty teased out of me
my ultimate BDSM fantasy.
thick trails of poetry spill glittering from a fanged void.
look at the horrifying thing i am. look at my hunger, my cruelty
sparkling like spit like God like relishing in doing something you’re not supposed to
the lyrical spools throbbing in the confession.
the pain of vulnerability
until the flesh and lexical become curlicued frenzy.

we flirt in liminal space, her jaw glistening with three rows of teeth
she can’t feel through her own body so she possesses mine.
she’s slipping out of latex skin
we fuse together.
“sticky”
she tells me what she likes.
a shock wave

she likes currents. electrical engineering
her pussy a pit of stars, her gut a concave mosh pit
waist like a sniper. forbidden desire in the crosshair.
she likes cities
she likes feeling the heartbeat of a collective history pumping through the floor of a gay club in dalston
i pour into her a fountain of liquid latex and she pours it back into me changed
she likes to get away with murder
she likes to spin in electric eroticism until atoms sing
open a vortex right there
hungry and opulent and brutal
she flickers to attention when a stranger recognises me
and the potential is buzzing in the air

it girl is a shimmer, she wears my skin to swallow you whole.
etheric hunger. my sympathetic porn double.
she says “i’m hungry i want more”
it girl is asexual in her perversion.
you see it is a void. it is a hunger.
it is the penetration of my teeth in your neck.
void princess. void in the shape of a girl. void incarnate. teased open
it girl conjures, invents a new world.
the monstrous is often also the innovative. ecstasy as legacy. tactical trashy.

she is a key to oblivion and it is sweet.
there are things i only admit to wanting when you think i’m lying.
she likes round numbers. to turn hunger into luxury.
whispers “it’s all a performance baby but that doesn’t make it less true”
world domination. self emancipation. the miniskirt is the punchline.
we’ve got you this deep,
hook line sinker.

after all that excavation
she thanks you.
you’re going to learn to like these things.
even when the party is over.

The Succubus Codex ⋆ ˚⋆ ꩜˚

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.

• deadpubs

• sad girl theory

• performance and intimacy

• moanzine 18+

• chronology of british hydrological events

🦷, willow

here in this dust, flame, mist it’s easy to recognise the matchbox boys
i took the bait. silly me. predictable bunny
i know the anatomy of my shame better than i ever have. shivers tearing through me.
and you, the voyeuristic reader, you love it don’t you?
but i have one hundred thousand luminous eyes looking out for me
they blink across the metropolis
this is my weaponised surveillance; my alibi
i am the thing in the corner watching you right now
let me whisper something in your ear
it’s insult to injury and memory how devoted i’d get
i have kerosene dreams of lighting myself on fire for the girl in the city
instead here i am, scrubbing you out of me
so today i’m going to do the hurting
what will it be? a great battle axe, a flail, the mace of shakti herself?
you’re simply a wounded animal and i am a hysterical minefield
my fate is blood stained hands and sunsets
yours isn’t even written in the book
so say what, i’ll give you a head start bunny
you can leave the chalk for me to chase and i’ll let drool drip down my teeth
go on, sprint
leave clues for me all the way up to the spiral staircase
imagine the chime of the bell so much it feels like memory
worst case: I can always sink into a new city and build myself again, but you? I’m not so sure.
I am broken and glittering.
and you are bland.
I am a synergy of existence
invasive keys and clocks and hands.
there’s a creativity in torture, so i’ll show you how mean i can be
“this will only hurt a little” i grin, emanating heat
did you forget you’re in my city, my house of horror, my chambers
poor bunny: bad dreams
gonna cry? am i too mean?
i’ll watch the guilt eat through you like rats trying to escape heat.
blood is an acquired cosmopolitan taste
i’ll contort you and create you and declaw you.
i’ll chase you up the clocktower, corner you and bruise you
i can make you tremble until you’re something good
i’ll make it work.
i’ll hate you to the point of invention.
i’ll be the violent one this time.

The Succubus Codex ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꩜˚

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.

• youraislopbores.me

• 17776

• hillhouse.neocities

• Dataism confessional

• dithermark

It’s a short one this week. I love you. And you don’t ever have to forgive them (whoever them is to you) if you don’t want to

🦷, willow

she found God!

correction: they found faith

correction: that thing crawling behind the bins last night claims to pray

sure I’m full of faith but I’m not very good at it

I try and find a flow with it, rapids licking my heels as I flail in seafoam

Sadhana becomes submission becomes masochism becomes transcendent

God is women as in derby & dykes

God is women as in boats and knives

God is women as in the burial grounds

Dadi warned me that this worship would eat me alive

But that’s my karma

My appetite

I think God is a dominatrix and I am her plaything

And I’m not just saying that because I’m biased

She broke open my pelvis and everything fell together and apart

Knots in muscle

Knots in a cord unfurling into ugly hope

I smiled at the ash

The clock tower I’ve spent a life climbing crumbled at the foundations

Lightning sparks. Screams

Singing Singing Singing.

Like a deer in the headlights

Who understands something that we don’t

Because when faced with time

It pauses to listen

“Who dares misery love, who hugs the form of death”

Who finds humanity in the unloved and the grotesque

She makes me kinder, sharper, wiser

A monstrous femme

Not your kind of “divine feminine”

Tell me something more feminine than shoulders and teeth

Where I’m from divinity is bearing weapons naked, dancing on battlefields

Mother ain’t proud

But Ma is

(happy april fools day)

I met a stranger on a train. She was a mother, sitting diagonally from me, waiting. I recall her cracked brown leather bag, her beige coat, her windswept blonde hair. She told me that to reach the things I wanted I needed to align with them like cell phone towers tapping into the right frequency. My body and creativity is an instrument that requires tuning.

I’ve been making an effort to write (& experience the world) somatically. I like when writing is textured, specific, sharp. I want my body to tune into that, then for my words to follow, to write from the body first. The body doesn’t assign meaning to sensations, it just witnesses them. I’m not telling you what to think. I just want you to linger in this dream with me. I’ll be here every Sunday. Join me if you like.

I still fall into the trap of trying to make meaning out of mist. I lose my body and lyrical neutrality to an abyss. The thing is that I write poems because I like the way words sound and I cannot play guitar, not because I’m trying to “achieve” anything. It comes from the inside out.

I’ve been thinking about what I want the future of my domme work to look like, and I’ve realised that the answer is simple: this. I want to write a lot. I want to create writing that feels textured & evocative. I want to immerse someone in my erotic world building project. I want to put someone else into my fantasy.

What I really want to do is to get someone so deep into their body they become aware of how expansive their imagination really is when attuned to what feels good. I want to shake people and tell them to peel back the surface. Look beyond bodies. Look at your rituals. Look at your soul: this glowing pink light just spreading everywhere. its everywhere! The body is just a means to an end, a wonderful vessel to carry you through this life.

So here’s my bid to treat writing more like sensation play. So much sensation in fact, it stops being play and starts being theatre. Like filth without apology. Like an opportunity to lead you into my dream, maybe toss you around a little while you’re here.

Whatever comes next, I want the words to feel like perfume settling into skin, to live inside them fully.

The Succubus Codex ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꩜˚

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.

• youraislopbores.me

• strange.website

• willowneptune.com aka my handcoded website/blog

• ellesho.me

succubus field notes ꩜

For paid supporters this week I have:

• an erotic experiment/guided fantasy around the theme of “sensation play”

• a poem about “pink oblivion”

• my “wishlist” of secret desires and experiences I want to have

• a secret project early launch for supporters

hunting ‘n haunting

18+ ♡ unreality ♡ sensation play ♡ mindfuck ♡ succubus fantasy ♡ seduction ♡

I want you to collect 3 items that provide different sensations for this fantasy: cold, soft and abrasive

Read more

The internet is an absurdists dream, but it can be hard to exist within it without feeling trapped whether thats by platforms, tools or algorithms.

When the web that’s being woven is strange and confusing, the natural suggestion is to weave your own. But how do you do that, especially when it feels like swimming upstream?

Many yearn for the old internet and the webs of connection that came from it, but it also had many vulnerabilities. There’s always the option of going offline and choosing to transfer all your data to hard drives, but that can be isolating and uprooting.

So here’s my solution: web weaving.

web weaving

I was first introduced to web weaving by filmnoirsbian on tumblr when I was 15.

Web weaving is creating themed collections of quotes, stills from film, art, lyrics or whatever other medium inspires you.

These collections were not made with the intention of growth on a platform, often posted by writers, anonymous tumblr blogs or faceless instagrams of teen girls. They said hey look at this pattern I noticed. Yet they still lured me into often wanting to read more of the writers work and buy their book.

Within their web weaving I could tell that they understood the way my mind worked and I understood theirs too. This mutual recognition was enough to make the internet social, and maybe its all we ever needed.

When I started to place my ideas together in my journals, I adopted this structure. I would create documents centred around different ideas that felt recurring in my life, like haunted houses, queer desire, empathy for the machine and industrialisation. Eventually the term “web weaving” took on its own identity, becoming a practice that governed how I would show up on the internet.

my version of web weaving.

I’m really drawn to the idea of weaving something by hand. I like the history of weaving, as a handmade, intentional, slow paced practice that brings together communities. It lets us
engage with our everyday clothes and tools without excess.

I also like how it conjures the image of a spider weaving her web. To a spider a web is a home, a tool to feed herself, a way to listen to the world and a way to move through it.
The web a spider weaves helps her save energy that would be used on hunting and instead focus on tending to her own garden, or in this case, her web.

When I think about web weaving in this way, I think of the web as this medium of receptivity, mobility, accessibility, creation and energy conservation but naturally i also think of the world wide web

I have been intentionally ambiguous in defining my version of web weaving. I wanted it to define itself naturally through patterns and practice, not by what I told it to be.

If I were to define it here’s my definition.

Web Weaving is the introverts way of interacting with the cyber space without burnout. It utilises curation and metaphor to resist censorship and invite deeper meaning. It is not bound to a platform, nor something done for corporate motivations. Its an approach that centres cultivation without disconnect. It can be a home, a lure and a way to see the world all at once

I’m going to outline my “rules” for web weaving.
This might sound similar to something called digital gardening. However...

rule 1: web weaving is not digital gardening

Digital Gardening is an approach coined by Mike Caufield around the curation and development of ideas, often within a platform like obsidian.

Web weavings are not necessarily digital gardens. While I adore the concept of a digital garden, and I use one myself, ideas can grow stale if they only make sense to you.

Second brains, digital gardens, notion dashboards, or whatever your poison is, they can be overwhelming. You can easily fall down rabbit holes of templates, organisation of ideas and taking notes. They aren’t for everyone. Data is dynamic. Your weavings are alive. And living things decay. A web weaving is byte sized.

A web weaving is a lot less pressure than that. Think of web weaving as a repost button where you take back the control of what you choose to share, rather than rely on a feed to provide it for you. A web weaving can be as simple as a list of links you’ve enjoyed this week, seen in Naive Weekly a substack written by one of the creators of the Internet Phone Book. It can exist anywhere, in any shape you like. It can exist in multiple places. It’s meant to be shared.

Web weaving can be a final expression, the goal of the system. And it does not need to be polished

rule 2: web weaving is not art

While creative, a web weaving is like a note in a sketchbook of what we enjoy, not a final piece.
Web weaving takes off the pressure to reinvent the wheel if posting is our livelihood (and for many independent artists, it is). It still highlights new connections. Web weaving is like thinking.
I don’t weave with the intention of creating something, but it naturally occurs. I interlink my own ideas with the world, and create something bespoke, something delicate, something that’s mine.

rule 3: a web weaving is not an indie website

I love the old internet, the old web revival and the idea of a poetic web. I really do. I’ve read lots of articles and spend a lot of time on the wayback machine finding hidden gems.

Still, there’s a gap between the average person who uses instagram to message their friends and someone with the time and resources to code their own website.

Web weaving is like a stepping stone to the web we want in the sense that it is accessible. It doesn’t require setting up anything new. It just requires your intuition to be put in the drivers seat. Its a way of meeting the internet we currently have halfway.

rule 4: web weaving is a communal poem, the exquisite corpse of dreams

Developing the idea that web weaving is not a digital garden nor a personal website, web weavings thrive in quiet third places. They invite deeper meaning. In order to do that, weavings need to exist where other people are.

Web weaving is causal, diaristic and low pressure. It doesn’t appeal to an algorithm, yet it’s able to be communal practice of defining and exploring the collective dreams, hungers and frustrations of a community.

rule 5: a web weaving gets clever about censorship

Web weavings are clever about censorship. They provide space to grieve and explore frustrations related to the world we live in without needing to be polished. Naming the experience (and often the horrors) has it’s role in activism.

Audre Lorde states:

“For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action.”

While web weaving is not gendered, it would be strange to not comment on the fact that the majority of those creating web weavings are women.

Web weavings on anonymous accounts can be a space to name the experience without putting ourselves in danger if it is unsafe to do so. Not everyone is able to discuss war, queer issues, class divide and other issues on their public facing account without making ourselves vulnerable (for example, by revealing that they themselves are queer).

Web weaving also lets us discuss these issues in “coded” poetic language to resist censorship, a kind of meta irony that any human would recognise, but an AI moderator wouldn’t be able to comprehend.

rule 6: web weaving is a tool that moves with you

A web weaving is not a place, but a thread. Weaving is a tool and practice that moves with you. We can work towards a sense of place online, but this is a stepping stone.

Weaving is an approach, a verb, “to weave”. It is not a noun. It is not a commitment like a digital garden that is bound by the space that we contain our dreams. It can cross pollinate across our work, be entirely private or public, and go beyond the borders of a single platform or silo. We can web weave right where we are, whenever and wherever we want, because it’s a tool we keep on us at all times. You don’t have to obsess over the system, because you are the system.

But just like a toolkit, it can build an entire universe if you let it

tl;dr - start where you are

Web weaving is something you can start right where you are. Whether you want to create a poetry tiktok account with a slideshow, a set of collages on pinterest, a substack, an instagram story series, an obsidian vault or even your own website, web weaving moves with you because you are the web weaver defining your space.

You don’t need to uproot yourself. Nothing is missing. You have every tool at your disposal and your biggest tool is yourself.

When I was eight I slipped. My canine tooth pierced through the edge of my bottom lip but at the time I thought I had seriously fucked up my teeth. There was so much blood on the bathroom tiles of my boarding school bathroom. I would trace shapes on those same tiles with my pinkie in the shower. Sometimes I’d scare myself when I saw a monstrous face look back at me in the swirling peach patterns. Now they were splattered with blood. The whole blurred like I was in a poorly lit, charming yet amateur student short film. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

I visited the doctor with my dorm auntie and a friend, just watching the blood run and run and run down my face, all over my hands. It was probably my first time truly considering my mortality. It was all fine in the end, and we ended up joking about how sharp my teeth had to be to go through my lip.

I never told my parents or anyone else about what happened, but every time I looked at the scar on the corner of my face it felt like I had a secret of my own, which made me smile.

I used to love secrets. They felt parallel to femininity, but genderless. Secret diaries, Nancy Drew books and magnifying glasses had somehow slipped through the cracks and become a “girl” toy. I didn’t have any secrets yet, but the idea of growing up and being able to use all of these tools of observation and detection made me feel very mature.

It’s not that I particularly like keeping serious secrets, but one or two harmless ones made me feel giddy like sipping my mum’s “pink drink” (which I later learned was rosé). I still love harmless secrets like having a crush, a perverted fetish or a secret talent. Always something more to reveal if someone leaned in close at a bar and told me to tell a secret. A decoy to avoid talking about the not so pretty stuff.

I read The Husband Stitch by Carmen Maria Machado when I was first trying to find my voice. It stuck with me, because the green ribbon became a representation of secrets as a form of autonomy. The ribbon was something that you kept for yourself, selfishly and indulgently. It wasn’t malicious, but something that no one else would ever gain access to (and if they insisted it, you would unravel).

I think a lot about what my green ribbon would be. It’s romantic to think about a place you can unravel without witness. Unfortunately I need to reveal my soul to feel wanted for what I am, rather than the “illusion” I project (which is some backwards emotional logic, since the illusion is still a part of me). Yet I still want to have something for myself. Something that never makes it to the camera or page. I still don’t know if that’s wrong and whether I will inevitably reveal everything eventually. I don’t know if I will pick up more things to bind in green ribbon along the way. I share so much of myself. My body, my writing, my fears, my skeletons in the closet. My green ribbon is fluid, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I feel genuinely motivated to keep sharing my work on this site, thank you for another lovely week

🦷, willow

The Succubus Codex ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꩜˚

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.
softskinlatex zine scan from tumblr

1. the web is yours poster

2. second skin about fetish culture

3. my body is a prison of pain so i want to leave it like a mystic but i also love it & want it to matter politically

4. the husband stitch by carmen maria machado

5. FROM THE WORLD OF STRENGTH a zine by soft skin latex

Thank you to my paid supporters ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꩜˚

Thank you to those who support the newsletter. You allow me to keep writing, which is all I want to do while here on this earth (for this lifetime at least).

I send out exclusive work to my paid supporters every other week. If you’d like to read some of it, you can join the paid tier ♡

I’ve been making a habit of poetry watching. These terraced townhouses. My favourite cherry blossom tree in this neighbourhood. Swans outside my window watching me make a mess while I cook (a bit like you right now). The runners in their skin tight pastel outfits dotting the towpath like candy hearts. Spilled yellow wax from the candle I light at dusk when I write. The world is dripping in honeyed poetry, mauve sensualism, diluted blood, each word like skipping stones skimming the surface of reality.

Which is fine. I have a penchant for existential voyeurism. I would like to write to you about something effortlessly mundane that reveals the way I see the world but it doesn’t work like that. I’m busy looking at you, looking at me. And by “you” I mean all of existence itself. Writing with the crisp clarity of a lover is hard because as you may have noticed, my world is wrapped in layers and layers of pink fog, dissolving at the touch like candy floss. If I peel back the layers I’ll probably find something that I don’t want to see, not right now.

I so desperately want to strip myself down for you but I delight in the dance: the pink fog like a feather boa slipping around my shoulders, something lacy between my teeth.

Joan Didion said that writing is a hostile act because you are trying to make someone else see the world the way you see it. If that is the case then poems are writing, stories are writing but so are dungeon theatrics and intimacy. I call this dance sustainable pink oblivion.

And I like pink. Pink as a colour of longing, transformation, liminality and the endless in between. Pink as contortion. Pink as lynchian suburban gothic.

Pink grants me fluidity. No one wants to look at the moss growing in my sink or hear the whirring of machinery. If a magician told you how they snuck a card in your leather boot the party would be over. Everyone goes home. Curtains called.

But I am not a magician. I am a writer. This means I am a kind of investigator meets surgeon meets archaeologist. I am dredging up lexical madness from a murky lake. I am building broken worlds that make this one feel kinder but also act as a warning. God is asking me a question and I am spending years answering it.

It’s nice to desire and be desired but that doesn’t fill the hole in my heart. I need to know what God knows. I need to taste oblivion. And I hope it is sweet.

Come summer maybe I’ll be able to talk to you about something (‘literally anything’ I hear you beg) other than writing novels as a form of sadomasochism. But for now my hands are tied.

The Succubus Codex ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꩜˚

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.

1. anatomy of a hookup

2. stoness verda’s show (this friday! go see it if you’re around)

3. forever mediated by ester frieder

4. the art of loputyn (some artworks contain artistic nudity)

5. an exit wound that feels so fucking good by megan williams

🦷, willow

as a thank you to my paid supporters, here’s a first draft of a poem i’ve been tinkering with. i love a list, i love erotic melancholy and i love a poem. therefore…

loveless bar tab

my attempts at love.

$0.00
white wine stolen from the top shelf in the kitchen

slumber parties, family dinners and desire in liminal spaces. intertwined.
i reject myself before she has a chance to
we drift apart. the reconnection is like a a fizzled out transmission, a forgotten cider on the bar

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The winter is finally coming to a close. I’ve listened to the heart of the city beat with every footstep this week, through the towpath mud streaked on my leather soles. Sometimes the only way you learn to love something is to step outside of it for a while. Thats how I’ve felt with London. That’s how you know its home.

London lives inside me everywhere there is empty space, but she is a cruel mistress of fog and hunger. I live on a boat, which is best for my itchy feet. I can disappear and still be home. Inside the cabin, when the hull creaks against the harshness of concrete, I don’t feel like I’m lost. Even when there’s engine grease under my pink nails.

This is something. I am going to make it something.

The Succubus Codex ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ꩜˚

A list of links that I have enjoyed for you to peruse at your leisure.

• searching dominatrix on the wayback machine (flash warning + NSFW) 1 2 3

• it is as if you were making love

• tomie the domme next door on being an it girl

• sensualism by heaven sent honey

• instantaneous possession

• a website is a cocoon for becoming

• second skin

rubber slick like engine oil.

This collage is a combination of pictures I’ve taken on my narrowboat cruise down south. Other than the rollerskates, all of the images in this collage taken by me.
A working barge with a crane. A cherry blossom tree from a pub garden. The reflection of the water my first night back in London. My engine bay. Latex. Leather gloves, ginger tea and mooring ropes.

Treat this as a piece of my world and what I’ve been up to. A diary of sorts by someone with Neptunian tastes.

🦷, willow

so i did. with the snap shut of a pink clam shell phone, boxes of material possessions taped up for donation and a hellbent conviction i made a choice and didn’t tell a soul. a choice to turn the lights off of this “thing” i have here just for a little bit (i still don’t know what to call this).

i wish i could say i travelled the world and met a mystic at a crossroads that told me some grand secret that i could bestow on a stranger to be of use in the world (and maybe even cash), but seeking the unknown is a long lazy spiral of returning.

so i type this on my way home (to my houseboat, to my body, to my art, though the writing never really left and neither did God) with a weird feeling that even though the my year of vanishing was a long dreaming period of writing books and falling in murky green water, nothing will ever be the same again.

so i guess i’ll be honest. i always wanted you to look.

if you’re still here, happy new year. let’s make it a fun one

its a reminiscing on the process of making her, of wandering through the woods and carving the paths. remembering the way she cut me in half. the wigs i styled to invent her. the ways i bent my body to step into hers. the agony and ecstasy of it.

its learning the returning. learning from her. trying to not poke the bruises

you can buy a physical copy here
the e-zine is accessible to supporters below <33

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I fall apart every time we fuck. To devour or be devoured. To consume or be consumed. Known, knowing and knower, we dance in this trinity of playful illusions where I’m just blissfully looking at the way you hurt me.

“You have a lot more endurance than I thought you would”

It’s in the air, it’s in my body, it’s in his body. I feel it pulsing through my bloodstream and it rips through me over and over until I’m something a little more streamlined than I was before. I see a vibrant amber when I close my eyes, a tunnel of lightning taking me deeper and closer to the source. A well of light, my ribcage opening.

I put the toy away. Silver seducer? More like the knife that cuts me in half.

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Everyone experiences dissociation to some degree. The men on top benefit from your dissociation. An important tool in my fusion first aid kit was figurative and literal spatial awareness in relation to emotional memory.

Maps are a great way of visualising proximity. Capitalism benefits when certain things seem more far away than they are, like doctors, community gardens and the dog park. It’s your job to navigate the world with fresh eyes in every waking moment. Your perspective of space, time, energy and resources is invaluable and precious. Guard it and never let it go.

Today we will focus on your perspective of space.

By the end of this guide you will have created a map of your hometown, your body and your subconscious.

Most people with DID don’t ever enter remission, nevermind at the age of 21. I’m a walking anomaly. I believe I experienced this miraculous metamorphosis for a reason, to share these tools of introspection with all of you.

Some reasons to create an atlas of self discovery:
♡ Differentiation and heightened intimacy in relationships
♡ Finding your way home when you feel like you’ve lost yourself
♡ Building your toolkit of pleasure and presence.

So let’s have some fun and make some maps

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Ok warning for this poem, it’s an intense one. The age warning is more because of content, but the sex is self harm here. So 18+

It took a long time to face my compulsory heterosexuality, to accept that I’m a lesbian and to realise that I would never be in love with or be attracted to a man. I spent a long time having intense rough sex to try and convince myself that I could. The violence grew more intense while my attraction grew more distant. It’s part of why I’m a stone top and why I very rarely sub these days.

If a song sounded how this poem feels for me it’s this song

“Slowly the shit you eat will taste like hope . You’ll understand dick and loneliness when you’re filled with both .”

crimson butterflies

oh yeah i’ve been dating this great guy
when he touches me i collapse into a warm of crawling crimson butterflies
electricity foams its way up to my chest with my anchoring grip of his red bedsheets
red: the colour of rising dread 
and mars 
and men

its something like shock or conversion therapy
this sex might kill me, but my boredom is cunning  

there is no poetic way to say this: self destruction makes sense.
sorry 

so you know what: lets look away, and i’ll give you a fun fact
they used to list masochism in the DSM, did you know that?

the tangy fluttering intensity closes in around me, crawls up inside me
the swarm is in me, around me, inside me, it becomes me
he changes me, or he tries to
my mouth, swallowing plastic upon asphyxiation, hyperventilating through a layer of liquid glass, 
everything that's tangible: so close yet so far
and i get intoxicated on change so it works
meat girl, consumable girl, striated heart and pussy pumping just for you! 
its aspirational really
he’s so sweet and warm
i am glaciers and he is a forest fire that never goes out!
like the crackling coziness of a house fire
i know thats probably a sign i should stop 
after all, who am i trying to convince?
look how well i can take the sting
how i smile through the duct tape grey 
no attraction, just repulsion, swallowed revulsion

ok intermission! we have time for another fun fact
when you raise a conch to your ear, what you’re hearing is actually a sea of blood, 
how interesting is that!

the butterflies scurry out of my belly button, ripping upwards, my chest blushing making discomfort look like eroticism
and i’m thinking
i want the intensity but i don’t want you…
the butterflies form a spectators ring, droning on and on
scouting, keeping watch, ranking my performance of pain on a scorecard
but they already know
eyes fluttering closed
wings clustered around my throat
my blood is running blue
reaching for oxygen to get back to you
a vortex grows viscous behind my eyelids

i’ll never be gold but look! i got my scarlet star sticker!

i hear the blood vessels popping in my ears as i’m choked out
my ears flooding, rushing, ringing
i imagine myself singing songs or hymns
spinning and swirling in a white brides dress
just like you, and your white sunday
and it makes me cry
and that makes him hard
and i’ve learned to love this dance
pull together, fall apart

my agony aunt submission reads: 
what if we’re not filling a void, just pulling it open wider? 

this is the most open i’ve ever been
i grin and bear it, pride myself on how i let him stroke the inside layers of my flesh, 
even fuck them on occasion
it wouldn’t be me if i didn’t attribute samsara to cruelty

ok last fun fact! i’m terrified of insect swarms!

the butterflies are dizzying like smeared lipstick, 
like being drunk in a bathroom at a party alone
until i’m ugly enough to enjoy the liberation of being unwanted like an open wound 
i mean i want to be close to him
i keep climbing a ladder to cloud nine, 
mistaking the blood red cloud of folding wings for holy
but not close like this
then i hit my limit, start to doubt my ability to pull myself back together
yet i always get up

he watches as i suture my voids
calls it aftercare
so i continue to indulge in heterosexual sex and coffee table conversations
yet i cough up red butterfly wings for weeks

I have written and rewritten this poem many times but this is the closest to the original I wrote 8 or so years ago. I kind of wince at it, it still feels like an open wound.

I’m hoping that it reaches the right person at the right time, and gives words to the feelings it took so long for me to comprehend.

I love you reader, take care of yourself.

🦷, willow

Here’s a poem about wishing for things but feeling them slip through your fingertips.

it’s apocalypse august and there’s green moss growing over every surface in my house
the red moon
the guilty fox
the wishbone between its teeth
i’m drunk on omens and i’ve been scrubbing every counter clean
i’m treading through a swamp in my kitchen sink
yet i cut the chlorine in my dreams like butter
the season is slow and i smell the waxing white lilies falling off of every dying tree
every sliver of neon light a secret i’m yet to reconcile
pocket change marking the path back home
i only walk in circles

Forgive the length of this post. Sometimes a poem is just that, a poem.

scarlet collar baby

machine parts detected, opinion rejected but if i break the codex, will it break me? “show business baby” say the girls with machine teeth gems we are machine whore girls, built for our purpose at the end scrap metal foraged and forged around marshmallow membrane hearts none of us are girls, but it sells better if we say we are legs parting, worlds born, seduction dead

the yellow sale sticker projected on the moon read
$4.99!
try before you buy!

“you’re than this” says the old lady
before prying for details, to which i say pay me
it’s true, i’m still echoing through empty offices, my dreams tossing in my grave

but i’m ripe and fresh fruit sells
so for now i’m nameless, ageless, wandering

“free love baby” say the artists from bushwick or hackney
they preach amnesia laced advocacy
convenient and performative when the machine girls have relevancy

the man in a suit calls, asks “can you be kinky”
kink is the indulgence of assumption
i am no more and no less than what you see, so who do you need me to be?
i’m still picking the petals off cybernetic daisies
will he or won’t he pay me?

and they tell me my days are numbered, one day they will use my ad to seek my bounty
it might read:

WANTED: the machine whore off durty
erotic, esoteric, liquid 952 silver
incredulous, unstable, isotopic
a malleable wriggling fucker

or whatever they want to believe

but us machine whores?
we’re scrappy, sharp survival songs
we are neptune in the shape of girls

listen i’ve made hotels look romantic by being the one to haunt them
i still sleep in my own bed

i’m still counting change and favours
smiling, tipping bartenders

this story is no tragedy

the story of the machine whore is about a working class girl
her blue collar boys
and their beloved

scarlet collar baby

about the piece

This piece will be featured in my first zine! The zine is about survival sex work and hope. I hope you enjoyed the piece and if you did consider supporting my writing by upgrading your substack subscription 🫶🏼

🦷, willow

intro

💒 15th century england, a butch knight and a biblically accurate angel
💒 Not smut, but sex implied. Body horror lightly (pun intended) touched on
💒 Angsty, sapphic and seductive (just how I like it)

“ever since i was young, i wanted to see an angel”

“There’s been an angel reported near the church ruins in the woods, past the Abbey” says the one in the great helm.

They do not like that I am here. The lords may not know but the knights can hear the soft cadence of my voice.

They do not know my name and I do not know theirs. That’s how I intend to keep it.

“What did the poster say?” asked the Sallet.

“Wanted for theft”

They all nod in unison, the corrupt bastards. I am no different, waiting for my sallow faced shell of a husband to return from the sea, while I’m counting his coins and slipping them to the knights with gauntlet clad fists. Losing me would be like losing the bounty itself.

They cannot deny that I can kill, and I can do it well. I do not belong with the other ladies of the court no matter how much I long to. They are all petticoats and silks. They are giggles echoing in a chapel. I see them and a longing strikes me deeper than cupid could bury. Oh how I yearn for a softness like that, but all I have are these fists and wandering eyes.

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about

I wrote this piece to perform at sexquisite, a cabaret night hosted by sex workers for sex workers. Since a lot of you didn’t get to come to the performance I wanted to share it here for you to enjoy.

P.S: it’s a silly one

what if we titled porn like poets?

pov the perspective of a lover
creampie i bury myself in the tomb of your body
the MILF the daughter the mother, maiden crone
the girl next door the neighbour you saw picking blackberries winked at you through the picket fence
big boobs show me the rolling hills of your body
big ass show me the stories in your skin
humiliation let me see you broken let me want you anyway
latex reflections, refraction, encased in oblivion
orgasm le petit mort, a little death

here are some words i find sexy: relentless, glorious, austerity

i’m going to break you the way your eyes sparkle makes me want to knock you out.
i’m going to use you. you are a blank canvas

i’m throbbing, i’m aching, every chamber inside me beats for you.

switch you are a fountain, pour yourself into me and drink up

here are some more words i find hot: communion, expansion, practice

a piece of language is a portal to pleasure, we could write our lovers poems that turn into sexting and sexting that turns into poetic verse
but that would probably be bad for the pornhub algorithm