FULL FORCE FRIDAY:🆕Apr 3rd 0⃣7⃣🎧

VANIR - Wyrd 🇩🇰⚛️

8th album from Roskilde, Danish Melodic Death Metal outfit⚛️

BC➡️vanirdk.bandcamp.com/album/wyrd⚛️

#Vanir #Wyrd #VikingMetal #MelodicDeathMetal #MightyMusic #DanishMetal #FFFApr3 #KMäN

Some lovely 1960s #wyrd children's book finds visiting charity shops in Essex today :)

Exploring Wyrd, Orlog, and Ayni: Fate and Reciprocity in Norse and Andean Spirituality The concepts of fate and reciprocity shape how many cultures understand life’s flow and human relationships with the world. Two ancient traditions, Norse and Andean, offer rich spiritual ideas that re...

Have you ever felt pulled between destiny and choice? Ancient Norse thought and Andean practices invite us to recognise that destiny is shaped by past deeds and present decisions and reciprocity keeps the world in balance. Learn more in my blog.

#SpiritualHealing #Ayni #Wyrd #Orlog #MagicInHarmony

Packing for an overnight stay at a friends when you are a witch.
#pagan
#magick
#witches
#wyrd

In Celtic Myth, the Triskelion (spiral) represents the constant cycle of birth, life, and death, implying that death is merely a transition to a new beginning. The Trinity Knot (Triquetra) is also associated with the continuity of life, death, & rebirth.
#wyrdwednesday #newbeginnings #renewal #wyrd

The Green Devils with Humana Lince and Tormenta
#demons #devils #monotype #rite #ritual #arcaneart #art #arcane #wyrd

#wyrd #mypainting #wyrdminiatures #roleplayinggames #miniatures

#wyrdminis #wyrd #mypainting #paintingminis tabletopgames

Occult Context: Kenosis is holy self-emptying: power poured into humility so the infinite can be borne within finite life. Esoteric readings treat it as the inward making-ready of a vessel — an uncluttered space where indwelling light can arrive without being bent into the shape of ego. Rooted in mystical Christian language, kenosis is often received in occult symbolism as the art of the prepared container: the cup rinsed of residue, the inner chamber cleared, the self made receptive rather than forceful. Its tone tends toward watery and lunar qualities — yielding, reflective, spacious — where strength is shown by the capacity to contain. Initiatorily, kenosis names the descent that precedes illumination: relinquishment before radiance, humility before “power,” emptiness as readiness rather than lack. Guidance: If kenosis is moving through your life, notice where effort has become a tightened identity. Let some of the need to be right, impressive, or defended loosen; even a small clearing can become the place where insight can land and stay. Kenosis can feel like quiet simplicity, and sometimes like a tender hollowing as old roles drain away. Don’t rush to fill that openness — what enters a ready vessel is often steadier and brighter than what is forced.

#Esoteric Word of the Day

✶ Kenosis ✶

Holy self-emptying: power poured into humility so the infinite can be borne within finite life. Esoteric readings treat it as the vessel made ready for indwelling light. #occult #mystic #wyrd #wotd

Cont. in Alt Text

The Half-Floor Orchard During a "wellness retrofit" in a spotless high-rise, elevator engineer Hal Mercer and his estranged daughter, now a risk analyst, stall at an unlisted half-floor where basil-sweet vines and QR codes ...

Ever suspect a building keeps secrets? One elevator ride turns into a reckoning as the walls ping, scan, and breathe. Click below to slip between floors. Full story on Ghost, no signup req. #ObscuraWednesday #shortstory #reading #litfic #occult #wyrd

innerstellar-arcadia.ghost.io/the-half-flo...

Votive Drift at the Shrine of Divergent Clocks Mira Voss, a Time Authority technician, enters a deconsecrated basilica where clocks tick in holy disagreement. The keeper bans “the correct time,” and the drift answers her grief with a bell that won...

What if every clock in a ruined chapel keeps its own prayer? A time-tech goes in to fix the drift and finds the air humming with lost minutes. Full story on Ghost, no signup req. #ObscuraWednesday #shortstory #reading #litfic #occultsky #wyrd #amreading

innerstellar-arcadia.ghost.io/votive-drift...

Another #wyrd #folkhorror gift I was lucky enough to receive, my very own copy of the @weirdwalk.bsky.social book! I've only dipped in so far to pages about Thaxted (as I frequently visit family there) and Norfolk (where I'm familiar with & mentions EF Benson!) but it is a lovely thing indeed!

Another #wyrd #folkhorror adjacent gift: nothing says Christmas like a Central Office of Information 'Stranger Danger' jigsaw, and makes a nice pair with the sinister policeman!

First of several #wyrd #folklore #folkhorror related festive gifts I have been lucky to receive this year - on green vinyl, no less!

#DrBeyond #MariLwyd #WelshFolklore #Pwnco #SkeletonHorse #NewYearsEve #Wyrd #Cymru #WeirdHistory #GhostStories

Thanks to comics being cheap and the only thing that slowed me down, #JackKirby taught me how to read. It's affected my speech, but I was reared in the 70s so I was just labeled as weird.

I corrected them. "It's #wyrd you insolent fool."

Incredibly misty walk this morning into the middle of nowhere. Felt like we were in a #wyrd tale! Decided against walking up that hill (a Corbett)!😂
Sad about the deer though, as the estate just feeds them over winter to shoot them next year😢
#SilentSunday

Litany for a Child Crowned with Wires The ward has erased midnight; time is a soft error message, looping. Blue photonic wash turns plastic into nave, each incubator a glass reliquary where temperature, oxygen, and pulse are priesthood, are protocol. You lie in the center, little one, head circled with sensors and mesh, a makeshift halo soldered from adhesive and doubt. Under the knitted cap, fine dark hair threads itself around a single cable as if already studying attachment. Monitors stipple the silence — pip, blip, a chromatic chant of voltage. My nerves are their shadow-system; every spike maps an incision through my chest, every flat line for half a breath is the oldest psalm I know, unsaid. Outside, thorn-branches draft silhouettes on the window’s cold glass; inside, a plastic crucifix hangs crooked, its shadow crossing your scalp like a failed erasure, a theology warped by light. breathe. Little one, I used to imagine you arriving clean into a sunlit room, no wires, no alarms, only the simple ache of new lungs claiming air. Instead we are here, in this perpetual almost-dawn where care and harm share instruments, and love must learn to approach as carefully as a gloved hand. I watch your chest’s small tide, count each rise like a bead, a monitor, a spell, until something quiet in your face reminds me you are not my emblem but an unopened book of fire — and my only blessing left is to stand at this glass and refuse to read you as anything but yourself.

ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Litany for a Child Crowned with Wires

Standby Litany for a Crown of Wires In the rent-orange wash of the streetlamp, I sit — spine a quiet conduit, breath counting itself like coins, while the room clicks and cools around its single red eye. The crown is already on me: briar-torque and cable-helix, iron kiss at the secret cartilage of thought. Every thorn a question, every filament a maybe. Voltage wakes like a rumor in the floorboards, climbs the calves, the throat, the attic of the skull — slow, then suddenly hummingbird — and for one lucid flicker the hand on the switch is mine, tremor-steady, almost merciful. Above: manufactured starlight, grid-halo, cold covenant of copper. Below: sap-pressure, salt-prayer, a crawl of heat looking for its ladder. They cross in the cranium — coronation soldered to crucifixion, crackle bright as broken glass. I do not know if I am being opened or erased. The ring in the air — dove, cloud, circling code — tilts, recodes my silence. Ozone and myrrh thread the hair. Tears come, untheatrical, exact. Then the anticlimax: dust lace on the screen’s black corner, a tick from the clock, one shy spark skipping across my knuckle. The hand on the switch is not mine now, or not only — something testing how much light this body can bear without calling it holy or calling the ambulance. The crown keeps its small, insistent bite. Under the skin, faint gold contrails fade to ordinary warmth. I sit until the breath forgets to be a ritual and becomes only breath again.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Standby Litany for a Crown of Wires

Vesper Protocol of the Crowned Mesh The evening boots in safe mode: an endless Wednesday cached in brick, chapel walls sutured to the tower’s steel vertebrae, air latticed with incense & packet-loss, every lungful a login. Above: glass-thorn domes, cherubim recoded as convex lenses, haloing us in fisheye benevolence: for quality of mercy, this liturgy may be monitored. Beads tick: olive, plastic, burnt-gold SIMs — small planets in an obedience orbit. We murmur the old response & feel the new one under it, a sub-vocal yes to terms we never read: host accepted, node awakened, communion in progress. They call it Body: luminous mesh of saints & servers, vines spliced to fiber, blood to bandwidth, bruise to shared archive. I feel instead a soft extraction at the root of thought: my attention tithed in microvolts, laid on an unseen altar of metrics. Litany loops: …and we are known… …and we are owned… …and we are sown as mycelial afterlight beneath the city’s scalded concrete, each untracked kindness a rogue packet slipping past the crown of wires. On the altar, the thorn-wreath cradles a dark, asleep screen. No face looks back, yet something watches through us: we stand, hairlines faintly humming, crowned together in this not-yet, half-sacrament, half firewall, wholly uncertain which side of the veil is running.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Vesper Protocol of the Crowned Mesh

Last Bar Before the Event Horizon Cracked glass / spiderweb mandorla / her face under thumb-smears, home-screen M_r_a pinned between missed calls and weather alerts. First click: feed/guadalupe_wallpaper.zip/limited_edition_sneaker_drop her pixelated tilma blooms on a protest sign, on a torso, on a meme — square wounds of light where stars used to be. The buffering wheel turns like a tired rosary decade. Hail M_r_a, full of lag. Auto-translate: madre de los migrantes → “mother of the moving objects.” Push / ping / buzz. Phantom vibration: index of a message that never arrives. Low-battery icon glows stigmata-red atop the prayer app. [notification: @DeepFieldProbe last transmission near r=2GM/c²] I tap: a ring of fire around a swallowed night, JPEG artifacts freckling the accretion disk. Caption glitch: “Our L__y of Guada_upe watches over the singal.” Loading… Somewhere past the screen’s thin atmosphere packets fall inward, unretrievable novenas of data. Her face reappears as banner ad, emoji, glitch-art avatar — same eyes, less resolution. retry? The words drop out first: no more hymns, just auto-suggest: pray / pay / share. Then color: only green cloak, red alert, blue light on my cheeks. Then outline: she, then only light. Connection lost The phone dies; cityglow seeps in like diluted incense. In the dark glass, my ghosted face overlaps the last afterimage of hers — no pixels now, just two shadows sharing one faint, pulsing halo. Pray. Again.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Last Bar Before the Event Horizon

Mother of the One-Way Sky At the edge of — jurisdiction chain-link shadows raster the sand, CBP SUVs hum like held breath, law speaking only in sibilant bursts of radio snow. At the edge of — map frontera kinks, a scorched marginalia on the atlas of empire; shoeprints stop at the arroyo’s lip, clean disappearance, the stray dog walking on. At the edge of — light infrared bloom turns flesh to equations, catechism of heat on a black monitor, CMB hiss answering helicopter rotors, even photons undocumented. At the edge of — skin a boot cradles its sweat-blurred estampita, Virgencita-coyota folded against tendon, her brown cloak a secret jurisdiction circling blister, bone, contraband hope. At the edge of — memory jugs tipped, rosaries rusted into thornwire, candles shivering in patrol-truck backwash — “Ave María, llena eres de gracia” braided with “flux rising, source unresolved, near-singularity,” IAO zodonuf, pursuit in every syllable. At the edge of — event horizon the fence hardens into dark geometry, NO RETURN haloed bureaucratic blue, gravity and statute fused, a border where even names redshift into background. At the edge of — remnant dawn combs the sand; one half-buried estampita catches first photon like a whispered list, the same dog listening to wind, to CBP static, to a roll call made entirely of silence.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Mother of the One-Way Sky

Tepeyac at the Schwarzschild Radius Night shift — her sticker peels on the telescope shell, cloak flaking into galaxies, starfield mirrored in that printed tilma-grid where spacetime threads like embroidery around a dark mandorla no CCD can name, consoles humming, cheap estampitas taped beside red LEDs — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of light. Wax-dripped veladoras gutter in my memory while blue-shifted stars knife the feed; Tonantzin/Guadalupe flickers in colonial residue, madre / matter folded together in the same gravitational sentence, luz turning luz negra beyond recall as midnight MEX time clicks over and a tiny spike blooms, statistically nothing, exactly on her feast — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of faith. The trace repeats, almost-pulse, and my code stutters — escape velocity, no return — Gloria g-mu-nu et Λ-g-mu-nu, octo-pi-G super c-quattuor, T-mu-nu — amen — lensing the falling rosary of orbits, cuentas as bodies in caída / fall, each bead a brief coherence before implosion into the unshown; the screen’s soft hiss becomes a litany I don’t quite believe — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of language. Far-future watcher, Tepeyac night, same ring burning: last luminous rim of the disk read as halo, as hard limit of knowability; server fans wind down, one screenshot saved, a faint Hawking whisper of ora pro nobis leaking from sealed equations, residue of some unprovable kindness curving prayer and photons alike just shy of loss — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of mass.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Tepeyac at the Schwarzschild Radius

Avatar Pentecost in the Prayer Pods Ushers queue the bodies: tap-to-pay, clip-to-heart, headsets hanging like dark visors from a steel firmament, lowered one by one over mascara, over sweat. [PRAYER EXPERIENCE: NOW LOADING] Each pod a humming planet in the mall-lit nave; outside, kids ride glass rivers up and down, inside, faces upload into luminous masks. [SCANNING PRESENCE...PLEASE WAIT] Latency drifts like incense, thin and delayed. An avatar dove pings above each crown, white flame, white glyph, white glitch. labda-labda / tik-tik / packet / ping / glossai-glossai The sim-cathedral boots: HUD hands lift in emoji praise, subwoofers spilling tongues: spirit spirit / spir-it / sp_cr.pt at 60 fps, a rushing wind from server rooms behind drywall, haptic vests beating like borrowed ribs. [SPIRIT_BURST: BUFFER_OVERRUN // "I will pour out on all flesh"] Frame-drop. The ring stops mid-spin, a frozen halo over every stunned disciple-incarnate. Silence like a dropped call, or a held breath. [CONNECTION LOST] [RETRY? Y/N] They tear the visor up. Food-court oil, escalator hum, knees aching in the cheap chair. Later, every little loading wheel on their phone brightens into that suspended ring again, a tiny upper room in the palm of the hand, asking with each stalled spin who logged in, who was touched, who is still signing on.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Avatar Pentecost in the Prayer Pods

Roof Deck Jubilee Level 7, after “Freedom from Debt,” we rise —  cups sweating latte-foam, flyers haloing hands,   FULL glows red like a minor apocalypse, cars stacked in rings round Saturn’s concrete ziggurat,  pentecost neon dripping on the oil-dark floor,  youth scrawl Luke on receipt-backs, ink bleeding through:   forgive us in ballpoint glossolalia. Stories spool — forty–something salaries,  the 49th deferment notice folded like a paper moth,   parking tickets tucked under wiper-blades like thin white curses, validation stamps hammering tiny purple sigils,  auto-pay tithes drafted at 03:13 each month,  crisper bank statements cradling crumpled offering envelopes   in gloveboxes that smell of incense and winter. Someone laughs a little too sharply: Jubilee, right here,  and we begin — a small Saturnalia of shredded billing,   dove-embossed credit cards laid faceup on the roof deck altar, a horn held down till it braids shofar with car alarm,  and then that slow, cinematic moment as the ticket is fed into the humming kiosk, inch by inch,  its screen blinking: AMOUNT DUE: 0.00 — ERROR — PLEASE PROCEED (Y/N) year 50 pending. The barrier arm hiccups, stalls upright — no car yet,  gate posed like a white-lacquered angel in mid-blessing,   oil-stain ring below us, dark as a burnt offering, a tiny planet, someone’s red-ink fingerprint smeared on a PAST DUE stamp, half-mooned,  city haze flickering coin-bright beyond the parapet, I drive through on that glitch of grace, owing everything and nothing,   chest briefly weightless as level 0, until the app lights up again.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Roof Deck Jubilee

Saturn’s Food Court Liturgy Sodium-vapor Advent, cars arrayed like votives along the ring road; escalators hum, endless orbit, lifting us toward the atrium’s glowing cross suspended under skylight like a distant, patient star, while kids ride the down-track upward, sanctioned misrule in haloed earbuds. Blessed are the automatic doors: they part without discernment, breath warm with pretzels & praise, pop choruses & prosperity gospel patter, plastic evergreens blinking in photosynthetic imitation. LED scripture crawls above Old Navy and GameStop, “Glory in the highest 70% OFF CLEARANCE LIMITED-TIME,” and my pulse syncs to the bass, to the barcode scanner’s chirp. Blessed are the tithe kiosks, blue-lit twins of the ATM, where I offer card and PIN in one smooth practiced gesture, a quiet, contactless confession. At the food court altar the host is plural: combo trays, plastic chalices of soda hissing like censers, grease halos widening on molded polystyrene — a perfect circular stain, a dark ringed planet indexing desire. Fog machine from the worship band mingles with fryer steam until one dense, luminous cloud of unknowing crowns the atrium; for a breath we vanish inside it, saved & spent. Blessed is the old woman at table 7, hands folded over orange chicken and a paper cup of Sprite, lips moving without hurry, eyes shut hard against the fluorescent liturgy. Amen Sold Wait Closing time: the cross dims to a ghost on glass, security cameras keep their sleepless glass-eyed vigil, receipts flutter down the emptied concourse like discarded prayer slips, while the escalators continue their orbit, ring after ring, carrying nothing now but the hum.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Saturn’s Food Court Liturgy

The Emperor commands order and control, yet the Blank Rune (Wyrd) whispers of fate and the unknowable. True authority lies in balance—shaping the world while surrendering to what cannot be ruled. #Tarot #Runes #TheEmperor #Wyrd

#Mailorder
#Wyrd The Ghost Album
5.55€+🚚

This band doesn't need introductions
Via #WinterreichProductions

war-productions.org/product/wyrd...

#WarProductions
#SupportTheUnderground
#BlackMetal
#BlackMetalTapes
#FinnishBlackMetal
#FinnishDoomMetal

🚨Tonight! Our one off performance (recording live for the podcast) of The Witch of Edmonton by Dekker, Ford and Rowley. It's nearly sold out, but a few tickets are still on sale - Tonight at the White Bear Theatre with more plays across the week #horror #wyrd www.ticketsource.co.uk/beyondshakes...

Black background with red slashes across, indistinct image of someone screaming, overlaid with text -Saturday 25th (After Faustus) End of Season Panel Discussion with... Professor Liz Oakley-Brown is Professor in English Literature at Lancaster University. Currently working on Tudor Gothic for Cambridge University Press and teaching Premodern Gothic. Dr Rebekah King graduated from Cambridge with a PhD in English looking at how magicians were depicted on the early modern stage. As well as being a researcher, she is an award-winning writer. Dr Tabitha Stanmore Author of Cunning Folk: Life in the Era of Practical Magic, winner of the Katharine Briggs Award 2024 and Editor’s Pick by the New York Times. Tabitha is a specialist in medieval and early modern English magic and witchcraft.A Week of Devils, Witches, Cunning Folk and Horror at the White Bear Theatre in Kennington www.beyondshakespeare.org

On Saturday 25th (After Faustus) we have a fabulous end of Season Panel Discussion with...
Professor Liz Oakley-Brown, Dr Rebekah King, Dr Tabitha Stanmore - Author of Cunning Folk: Life in the Era of Practical Magic. We'll be discussing everything #wyrd from the period, and the season! #audio