About | Writing & Articles | Image Vault | Links | Manifesto | News | Store | Subculture Generator

Home » News

Posted   |  Posted by

We just completed 8 care packages for backers of our 2016 indiegogo campaign . grateful to everyone who has been so patient and understanding about the reasons for our delay, such as homelessness and trauma.
Unfortunately there are a couple of packages that cannot be sent. Jenny and Henry i cant send to, because the addresses given are not acceptable to the postal system , and i havent had any luck reaching them.
We finally have the funds we need to complete all this, and we will be breaking up the postage tasks over 2-3 weeks, sending possibly 2-4 packages a week.

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None

Posted   |  Posted by

there are many hells
many hymns
of survival
many rhythms tribe
falls
as hyenas we stalked asphalt
walls shift , grifter gifts
graffiti rifts, rafter whispers
lift me up lord, let me give up
lost , rain drenched
hunched , wretching in the fjord
wretched whore of horror
poisoned folk lore
i want no more , just open up that door
so tired of pacing, spiral-mad, upon this
hard time killin floor
There are many battles.
masochistically i see what sings to me
its song of survival
night night night
black trees , toxic levees,
madronas like auburn bursts , scraped knees
I know this place, its lovely dope-sick cloud face
I know how
to stand, to watch, to speak, to signal, to bless, to blend
to send, to curse, to put to sleep
But i dont know how to escape
Hit after hit, the fight broke up, the signal recieved, the flags sacrificed, the offerings made , the big dogs satisfied, the daughter held, the drugs consumed. i know, i know, these bruises are from my own fist
but they flew like arrows from a fortress of hurt
my body is gone but my heart is still there
standing by the mud flats, drinking the cascadian rain
feeling the inlets wailing pain
my body somatically feels the tragedy
fish death swan death clam death crane death otter death whale death, emeth to meth like the harvesters breath, like the hearth of hops ripped from my family crest. leaving us nothing . just stories.
There are many wars, many, but not what you would imagine, beloved. Clustered in flustering compartments of nihil, cradled in comfort as poisonous as flayed skin , A heroin choking us and keeping us shut in…this is a war, like a fractal crystal cluster of soul traps , a maddening aftermath. war, yes, thieved of its meaning, a saga of bla bla smothered in beaurocratic silence.
how. how to live. how to exist? forget being human, can we even be mammals? can we even be insects? can we even exist? The abyss is a gift as swift as a blade, You think you know, you think you wont fade, but your dream has been infiltrated, by the lysol stink of his invisible hate. the Babbler . The Babbler. The Babbler.
a dream theived of the hades warmth that would keep it from frostbite, delight replaced with comfort as hollow as a microwaved meal. All pigments sucked of light till all remaining is beige, grey, bone white. He is here, the babbler. The Babbler. Dissipation, dissolution, entropy. Words break, fumble, stumble, collapse. no one understands how to maintain this tower, they fumble over each others intentions, love, life, cannot flower, where is the horse, the rider, the power? stolen long ago for the golden gods of emptiness, the cowards
at the end of all things , know this soldier of Scarlet never needed much. just a few knick knacks, kickabout things no one sees as much more than dreams:
Meaning, dreaming, loving, singing, fighting, fucking, breathing. A pipe and some smoke, a hole in the wall, a blade, a faded photograph of a lover by an oak. A bit of quiet, a polaroid of a riot, A home, a peace In Her Love even if my demons deny it.
Why. why is it so hard. to live?

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None

Posted   |  Posted by

The last time Saturn, the Reaper, was in this alignment, The French Revolution butst onto the world stage with all the bloody fury of an underclass violated for countless years. Romans, the first fascists, worshipped Saturn, foolish enough to blindly believe he was their pet, their personal assistant, a validation of their entire value system. These arcane nazis saw their empire as a giant clockwork, the way they fought was without passion, cold, precise, practiced. brutal unrelenting machinery of death and enslavement. But Saturn, my Master, does not play favorites. From the beginning to end of time he has not and will not favor any god, king, man, or prophet. We all fall to his scythe, sooner or later. All that mankind builds, he annihilates, when the time comes.
Rome fell because it expanded as wide as the happy bellies of its beaurocrats. In its arrogance it aimed to cover the entire planet. Stretched thin, the fierce, the brave, the hungry …found ways in through the cracks. Those closest to death become instruments of death, the blades they swing are imbued with the lustrous hex of his Righteousness. Inevitability.
Are we brave enough to dust off the guillotine? even if only symbolically? Has the internet , by becoming the end all and be all of our ‘movement’ actually made our slogans hollow? We must remember the taste of blood in our mouths, the covenant we made with Rage the first time a bully shoved us down and we felt it rise from belly to heart. The fist exists. Know this.
There are atrocities, agonies, miseries spreading like crowned locusts of gold, theyre destruction cannot be undone, but it can be stopped. We can end this. The enemy is a fool, a gutless bumbling clown crowned with bullets, bankrupt of imagination, full up with deep fried lifeforce ripped from the shattered souls of Mexica children. There is a spell buried in plain sight in the depths of this spinning technicolor hell. Find it, warrior of light and Holy Night. Find it.
Rebel peasants, told to work the fields, to tolerate the rending of the social fabric, the violation,the curse of monarchy…said the most holy of words.
“No.”
Her word, Her little soldier child of a spell. That enflames our souls with the terror of Liberty. Rebel peasants , deprived of the vigor of the beasts of their forest, the richness of their lands, the dignity of their bodies, said No. The weapon they took up was Saturns weapon. The scythe. This is no coincidence, history speaks a subtle language, there is a message underneath the slaughter, spelt and psyche-felt in split entrails.
justice. Death.
Death. death death
Merciful, beautiful, leering, spinning, laughing, destroying Death. Come .
Come for the richies, the piggies, the idiot geniuses in valleys of silicon grasping after an immortality our broken world cannot sustain, a gift not Gods to grant nor mankinds to recieve…one last treasure squeezed from the Watchers, now geriatric with dusty pigeon wings…muttering into decreptitude, with no more songs to sing.
Swing your scythe, rebel serf. Swing it at knights, riot cops, at nazis, fascists, and richies. Swing your scythe, Black Goddesses, equatorial seers, Valkyries of Nuclear Winter .
Slay
slay slay
Say the Word that is the holy
of
holies
that
begins
the world
NO.
Fuck their undertow ,their fools gold glow, their pervert murdershow. Blood blood blood for the Goddess who shivers and starves in darkness. Blood blood blood rain down from the highest scrapers of sky, from the fattest veins of the richest wall street clowns. Destroy. A nihil make of their endless idiot-fapping dolla dolla cake. Awake. Swing, sickle, fall hammer, stab switchblade, blacken curse, penetrate Verse, Bring upon the Monsters of False Light all that is the Worst.
Saturn , Who Is Time, Who is Death, is with thee.
Chronos, the key, patricidal poetry, rapist-killing warrior he castrates kings and clips wings of dead eyed cnn angels who cling like flies to the remnants of a 4th of july sky.
Die, Monarchs, Die.

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None

Posted   |  Posted by

The Up the WXPX: Radical Hope zine project started in 2017 and derailed due to violence ,twice requiring i be hospitalized for suicidal impulses. I have had CPTSD ,so this has been hard.
donors, have been very understanding, even though their zines/rewards are nearly 2 years late . Our writers who needed payment we have paid. I am finally housed and safe. But half the donor money was stolen in summer 2017 and the other half was used to get the campaign half way finished. The rest of funds and savings had to be used for survival. What savings i have have to be spent surviving in a overpriced part of Seattle . Im here because this was the housing i could heal in , and it comes with the price of more poverty.
I am doing one final push to try to get all the zine stuff sorted and mailed . I am posting a link people can use to donate if they wish.
will consider it my duty to sort all this … whether ppl donate 400$ or 10$ . but i have to ask, as a professional print run would cost around 117$. & i still need funds for postage, and for printing enough back issues.


anything you can do makes a difference


cash.me/$Babs156


#witchpunk #wxpx #zine #diymedia

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None

Posted   |  Posted by


the digital version of ‘Up the Witchpunx: Radical Hope’ is finished. It will soon be available on Cutlines Press as a downloadable PDF . Special thanks to Dylan and associates for helping so much with online publishing. Backers of our campaign will get special download codes for this.
Also check out Flowers of Praxis, another zine (a sort of bonus zine, and a companion to Radical Hope) which is available also on CL for download free/sliding scale!


Radical Hope features…


Cristy Road
Kook Teflon
Rust Belt Jessie​
Dylan Ce
Adrianna Lopez
Christian L Villanueva Rivera
Mellissa Chthonia
ELJ Yuhasz
Misha Moon
and many others!


Our original Tumblr Post

Also… the anthology I submitted a piece to just hit $11,229, nearly twice its original goal!

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None

Posted   |  Posted by

We finally moved out of our horrible apartment. it was an overpriced mold-infested studio in a heavily gentrified section of downtown olympia. Now we rent two rooms in a beautiful witchy punk beach house on the outskirts of olympia. This move has been extremely good for my physical and mental health. After 3 years of awful black mold exposure I am finally beginning to detox. Tasks with the zine which were a huge struggle before, are now beginning to come together more easily.

We have suffered a lot of setbacks with Radical Hope, such as the theft of several hundred dollars from our lock box and my declining health. But we are working very hard to get settled into our new office /living space/temple, and in the next few weeks The final stage of the zine will be much easier to get through. I truly believe we can look at officially releasing all zine related material this October.

Thank you for your patience!

    You can see video and pix of our moving process and new temple space/work space
  1. here
  2. here
  3. here
  4. and here

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None

Posted   |  Posted by

The Resilience Anthology is… “the largest collection of literature to exclusively feature transgender women and CAMAB (coercively assigned male at birth) non-binary writers.”

I am honored that my short piece, “Godless, I am a Rose” will be in this anthology. It is a Babalon-inspired gnosis, a trio of vignettes about schizophrenia, the Lilit, sex magick, initiation, ordeal, and spirit work. Guaranteed to piss off christians, terfs, and your dad.

Check out the Kickstarter and tell your friends about it!

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None

Posted   |  Posted by

Up the Witchpunx Radical Hope is close to being finished. 34 of 40 pages have gone through rough pre-editing and pre-layout. ive made all the headers for articles, gotten a really nice big bitmap library together all optimized for black and white, and got it all into a shared folder so my editor can finish it all. Now she just has to figure out how to edit my 27 page article into 5 pages but. you can still read the 27 page article in the digital version of the zine via Dylan Ce ‘s cutlines press . So we just have to figure out a 5 page summary!

Read or Leave Comments
Comments: None


"It won't be the witches that are burning this time."
--Blackbird Raum

© Up the Witchpunx  tiny fox   horse9@riseup.net