The Seventh Day of Banquet.
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(Molar and Wishbone, @AchingTeethBot.) A liturgy, sacrilege, and frayed elegy. To the repast where sinners once abated their claws, from the tabernacle where yearners bared their clavicles.
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مشترکین
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کانالهای مشابه
هیچ دادهای
مشکلی وجود دارد؟ لطفاً صفحه را تازه کنید یا با مدیر پشتیبانی ما تماس بگیرید.
ابر برچسبها
هیچ دادهای
مشکلی وجود دارد؟ لطفاً صفحه را تازه کنید یا با مدیر پشتیبانی ما تماس بگیرید.
اشارات ورودی و خروجی
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جذب مشترکین
اکتبر '24
اکتبر '24
+209
در 4 کانالها
پستهای کانال
Now that we have unveiled our gates alias !OPEN COMMISSION! for undecided time which means we give you liberty to come by at any time, we also open for thick deadlines (in-rush commission), and we will be posting premade items and actively present to be at your disposal, soooo, write down more of items you would love to purchase in our board here. Thank you, Revivers! 🌹
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Oh, rib-ruining desire. Two frayed plates of meat lay bare on the buffet—looking for a throat of digest. Victuals are served, cutlery is dispensed, and hands are prepared. A church dove flails all around the dome despite the doom and the gloom that these forsaken premises ray out. For the teeth that are depleted by a drought of bite; for the abdomen that shrieks for a sorrowing prayer; of tonight, the banquet has to be commenced. Greed has not taken our sanity; the corruption has not begun before the clawmarks. For an ode to eaters, shall we murmur the vespers that were planted on our flesh?
ON THE SEVENTH DAY OF BANQUET. / WHAT TO BE FEASTED ON & WHAT TO BE GRAZED ON : WRITING’S NECESSITIES. (Grasp the Repast, @AchingTeethBot.)
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| 4 | 📝 Hi, Revivers! This is an open board for our next whatever-you-name-it.
(Alias saran jualan apa lagi hahaha ... Tipe Wording ... Keywords ... Theme ... Preference ... Selain kanibalisme dan makan memakan ... Maaf lame ... 👺 Sekalian ngobrol juga nggak apa ...)
👤 your thoughts on creative writers who sell writing goods that are mostly AI generated, whether humanised or not.
👤 Self promote for RP please =))
👤 SPM :3 PLEASE :3
👤 hi.. kalau..tema..yang..agak..modern..apakah..bisa..? spti.. office siren..
👤 Out of topic but I really REALLY wanna be friends with you guys... If I may...
👤 Hi! I'm waiting for banqueat's wording bio (nonexistent) again 😼
👤 hayii!! i wanna hop in and request 'caged bird' type of wording orr something like being a puppet on a string please :3
👤 https://t.me/BANQUEAT/84 Please kalian juga jualan icons atau editing needs karena stylenya unik banget, bagus!
👤 I do love your writing style. Please make any content channel for male with ‘Grief or Sorrowful’ as a theme of it.
👤 More... Biographies... For... Male... Please...?
👤 Since, kalian graphic designer, apakah kalian OPEN CUSTOM HEHEEH. I love it so muchhhh!
👤 Please make any premium biographies for male with “A True Devotion” themed with space to input the GF’s name. ;]
👥 12 people have voted so far.
📖 Anonymous Board
🚫 This poll is closed... | 524 |
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| 6 | THEN, finally! Mark today as our official debut as a writing store after ages of off-and-on due to our god-knows-what we almost couldn't keep up [SAD]. Thank you for your dear company from the beginning of March until the end of Augustㅡ5 months straight! We are gratified to have done this all within both of our will and responsibility. :) Thank you! | 674 |
| 7 | Ode to Eaters! Hello, REVIVERS! (Yes, our banqueters’ name is Revivers.) We wonder if you hold enough curiosity as to why we address you as REVIVERS from now onwards besides chingudeul? ;) It is truthfully thanks to Sorrel Dusk, the mastermind of our shape today.
As we hold our sole aphorism as our pedal tone which is; WHERE I END AND YOU BEGIN, we intend to portray you all as the survivors of the hellmouth which were devoured whole and eventually reincarnate as new beings that we have successfully morphed into through our favour: writing assistanceㅡthe ones who begin everything anew, leaving us in the abyss of longing and yearning of your second arrival, hence the aphorism; WHERE I END AND YOU BEGIN.
Supeeeer fetch, no? #THANK_YOU_REVIVERS. | 639 |
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I AM IN AGONY: MISERY SMOULDERS EVEN IN MY EXPIRY. / Jaded, I am, without the warmth of your company. Bereaved, I am, without the doom of your phantom. Decried, I am, without the axiom of your dolour.
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THE SALVER OF THIRST: WHERE I END AND YOU BEGIN.
(‘THE LITURGICAL REQUIEM AT THE DUSKING BANQUET.’)
(To the Banqueter of the Velvet Bones.) I am a weaver of sacrificial despair that once indwelled in your mouth. I am the wound on your neck, the one that makes you sense the deadened capillaries. I am a shrouded seam beneath your frayed skin. I am a sacrilege that lays supine on the shrine of the exiles that would await your reverence, for you are devoid of the chapped divinity. I am often adrift in a musing of you, whether your ribcages ever sheltered vultures or the skulls out of punishment, or whether you have unveiled the grain of truth. I am a mere carrier of vestment that conceals you from the light of the hereafter. No salvation would come to my grasp, nor am I capable of saving you from devastation. I am the ungodliness that haunts your temple—incites you to savour each other’s limbs until dusk repels us of demise. / (Would I be nauseous at the repentance that your Father has wretched on me?) You would neglect the gnashing teeth of mine; replace them with the anathematised writ in your name. The semblance of your heart will anchor the carnal decay of your rotten misdeeds. Tell me, Father; tell me, Mother. Whose name could I whisper beneath these ruins of predella? Whose prayer have I yet to shriek on this gaping rostrum?
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LONG-FORSAKEN CREED. / A Platter of Desensitised Offal Meats: I have fragile flesh and unholy bones. I am a ravaging fire that has yet to be untamed. You are the smell of redemption, the slaughter that ensnares my eyes and the chapel of scorched Ptolemy—the ring of betrayal.
(The Molten Collarbones.) Subscribing to our channel is unavoidable for those banqueters who are intent on adjuring our assistance. It is one of the measures to prevent mishaps from occurring within our settlement.
(A Raptorial Bargain.) We expect any revamp of the commission form to be delivered no later than two hours after initial approval of the commission sheet. That being said, our gate is still open to the newly edited form in any case you change your mind prior to the next step; payment agreements shall be done in advance solely through QRIS.
(Theorem of Devouring.) Finalisation of the writing takes around three to ten days, as it is also dependent on certain aspects such as the length, the amount, and the deadline. Note that we have full authority to file a refund to you if, by any chance, we are apart from making the cut to tie up your pieces any further.
(Plight Your Teeth.) Every vital function shall belong to its place. The same as what is written for you remains yours. We severely abjure every form of copyright infringement that might be committed in the absence of our authorisation. However, if you neglect to adhere, we will impose a penalty that is dependent on the severity. We possess no wish to catch you red-handed for a felony.
ALLEGORY OF THE HUNGRY. / In knitting syllables into something coherent, our genre lies in the fields of melancholic romance, lovesome ties, coming-of-age, sorrowful longing, cannibalism as a metaphor of love, emotional affliction, trauma depiction, and thereabouts, with some shreds of metaphors, synonyms, personification, poetic sentences, idioms, and similes.
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A MACABRE DEMISE
BEGINS FROM THE MOUTH.
The sanctum is my anchor bleeding the weight of abandonment. The grave of monstrum is your decaying body in a casket abiding in rigor mortis.
FIRST APPETITE: CHAPEL OF HEARTS.
(TERMS OF SERVICE.) Longing preserves. Grief abandons. We sailed adrift once in a reverie of Eden whereas all we have knitted is a montage of hellmouth. Hearts both deceased, but mortality was never my lasting harbour, hence your lasting absence.
SECOND APPETITE: CIST OF ANATHEMAS.
(DRAFTED CAVEATS.) From whose shore is abandoned to whom I am ashore, I keep you on tabs in genesis' echo, and therefore I pry out stranded pieces of god residing in your ribcages. Say, my mouth is full, but my blade maims you in hell flames.
THIRD APPETITE: VESTIGE OF TONGUE.
(ARCHIVED BULLETIN.) As above, so below. The violence glistens. The guilt falters. I soak myself with your dust to morph it into an axiom of sacrifice instead of treachery. Worship me godly, you are forsaken godless. I shall be your own punishment.
(Footnote). Each passage knotted is where you shall harbour as you are obligated to grasp on every essence written therein. A touch of closer approach regarding our writing assistance is certainly our pleasure. Seize our sincerity.
A SWORDMAN IN THE GUT:
(MY HANDS, A BLADE STAINED
ㅡ WITH YOUR LETHAL VEINS.)
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(SHALL I REPOSE IN A SANCTUM OF YOUR ENTIRETY). My ashes abide solely in your mouth for I am a carcass to tether. My blistered feet touch the ceiling, I shall find the throes of death and long-forsaken creed where love ceases and resentment preserves. In this oblivion, too, my limbs are tattered to shreds and lurking between teeth. I am stranded that my whole anatomy grasps the post-demise rigidity. I am holier, but am I sharp enough to peel off your dermis and escape? For I long to breathe in a demolished slaughterhouse rather than a heaven-like flesh apart from after-death touches. I am sunken and hollow, I knelt with a nauseating throb in my dismembered heart before God’s salvation.
A MORTUARY CROW AND A KIRK DOVE,
TO THE CEMETERY OF OUR SANCTUARY.
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THE ALTAR OF HUNGER: WHERE I BEGIN AND YOU END.
(‘LONG AGONISED DIVINITY AT THE DAWNING BANQUET.’)
I. (The corruption begins.) When my wrist meets five bones in your ribs. When I starve my greed and build a chapel out of my grief. When I mutter mourning prayers before I sink my teeth into your ripped limbs. I shall feed these sacrificial lambs with your chalice of damp and putrid canine, instead of doves of heaven, for naught is holier than yours.
II. (The corruption ends.) When the clawmarks I forsook are engraved into your arteries and clavicles. When I pray for salvation aloud after supping a sangraal of your ichor at a pomegranate-coloured bone-dry banquet. When there lies, an abandoned platter of leftover flesh from the morgue. My vow remains buried along with your presence as you vanish with a raging malice.
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(A Womb For Two Damned Lovers.) An ode to the ragged ribs that remain in the hereafter. / A SOLEMN ORISON OF THE GODLESS BANQUETERS: SAVOUR DOOM, THEN VOMIT.
Heart bites, no longer beats; the bites surge with the heat of a feral kiss that is carved into one’s meat. Heart offers me a grail of sacramental wine that is lethal, but the one that seeps through my throat is a mere flavour of immortalised secrecy. Heart gnaws on the mourning of my demise, but your tongue still is the one that appetises my appetite. I am not written to abandon the throne of immortality, nor are you written to starve until your rigor mortis chains my teeth with your greed, hence our far-fetched harbour to the sacred carnage. Our kismets knit as skin to veins; our stomachs are vacant—shrieking to the hellmouth where God sits and dooms.
I am no longer in despair of faith since you held a revelry on our mahogany where we commenced a sacrificial banquet of the hungry. There still lies raw flesh, ripened pomegranates, and the cadence of my name remains between your teeth that rip me apart from agony. I pray for a blade piercing through my shell of sanctum, unaware that I am my own devastating god, and your devotion is where my vow slowly decays. We are sinners and no longer saintly. We are exiles on this tattered soil that attempt to seek repentance until our eternal rest. We wish to digest our devotion, but why do we end up as the ones who are consumed by this damned notion? Until the banquet ends, until our revelry begins, in the hereafter.
AND SHALL THE DECRIED LOVE WEEP,
DOWN THE THROAT WHERE MY IRE SEEPS.
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