About The Cult of Rot™
Why? Because culture is already rotting. Memory, myth, language, even the way we perform our lives online — it’s all decay in drag. I don’t hide it. I name it, I keep it, I write through it. The ™ stays because everyone wants to brand their pain as relatable™ or authentic™. So I brand the rot before they can bleach it.
🚫 🙅♀️ What you won’t find here.
No happy-ever-after moodboards. Surface prettiness is rot in a filter.
No algorithm-friendly authenticity. Personality packaged to flatter the feed is rot.
No factory-sealed hearts. Relatable™ intimacy is rot.
No trauma-mining for likes. Pity-bait is rot.
No beige-font self-care quotes. Beige heals sod-all.
Culture sells all of the above as progress. I call it what it is: compost.
I’m not here to prettify decay. I’m here to map the spore patterns and track how the rot spreads. This space is part journal, part storybook, part holding cell — a place where culture’s veneer peels back and the damp underneath gets written down before it’s scrubbed away.
Who I am.
Former feral kid with a daisy chain problem. I grew up in South Wales on a council estate where rot was never metaphor. It was damp brick, steel dust, and Christmas lights competitions strung like survival across the terraces.
I dragged that into everything: experimental, form-bending fiction. Jewellery cast in oversized clasps. Stalking insects through fields. Essays that bite harder than the fake-nice trend ever allows.
Now I write from a miserable city where bureaucracy smiles thinly but never touches the rot under its glass. Still feral. Still bent against the beige. Still refusing to prettify what’s already decaying.
📖 👀 What you’ll find:
⭐️ Field Fragments (FF): scraps of corruption, myth, and atmosphere stitched into whatever the rot drags in: traditional(ish) poetry, corrupted lullabies, incantations × sea shanties. Short jolts. Ritual shards.
🌿 Garden Gods (GG): a bickering pantheon of insects, flowers, and feral divinities. World-building, character sketches, myth turned compost. A whole garden that refuses to behave.
💀 The Corpus Delicti Journals (TCDJ): They’re ontological essays, fiction-as-testimony, fragments of grief, myth, memory, infection, and metaphysical rot. They’re narrated by witness-survivors, objects-turned-people, and people-turned-landscapes.
Suffocating horror-documents that read like bureaucratic autopsies. Stories designed to mould under your ribs, no tidy arcs, no happy endings. Rot as paperwork, stamped and filed.
💭 Quote Rot (QR): a graveyard for motivational slogans. Every weekday I dig up a quote that’s been shared to death for easy likes and gut it. Toxic positivity turned inside out.
💬 The Cult of Rot™ chat: the public pit.
📖 👀 What you’ll find behind the paywall:
🔥 RockSolidOpinions (RSO): flagship essays. This is the main event. Blunt opinions, rants, cultural critique, overheard nonsense. Rage essays, cultural autopsies, hybrid nonfiction, not satire in the safety-net ha-ha sense but polemic with teeth. Bile where it belongs, bordering personal-political.
RSO only drops Fridays. Scarcity is deliberate. These are the anchor essays: long, sharp, curated to matter. When one lands, you’ll feel it.
I blend: philosophical argument, mythological commentary, autobiographical memory, sermon-like rhetoric and literary voice with essayist structure. Expect depth, not fluff.
I’ll eventually drag in:
🔨 Jewellery process: objects with their own mythologies, sometimes tied to the fiction, sometimes feral on their own.
🌍 Odd essays: the occasional Natural Science or Contextual Study woven in, because rot doesn’t respect genre walls.
⭐️ Field Fragments (FF): writer’s notes. The ritual chamber with the mask off. Scaffolding exposed, myth-making pulled apart. Think blooper reel. To get it, you need the DVD.
📚 Archive: rots shut after 3 months. If you blink, you miss them. Subscribers keep the doors unsealed.
💬 The Cult of Rot™ chat: the private pit.
Maybe:
📣 Audio journals + readings: my work read aloud. Maybe full stories, maybe fragments, maybe a rant about why they matter.
Why Subscribe?
Because if someone can get paid for tits, I can get paid for work that takes days to bleed.
Because you want work that doesn’t flinch.
Because you’re sick of polite metaphors.
Because you know culture is already rotting, and you’d rather read it raw than shrink-wrapped as relatable™.
Because you’ve lived through enough performance to deserve language that cuts, not coddles.
Inside, you’re not just paying me. You’re pulling up a chair in the private pit. You’re seeing drafts crawl before they’re named. You’re keeping the archive alive past its rot-date. You’re feeding the field so it remembers you.
Stay outside and you’ll only see the surface rot; inside you get the marrow.
Whether you’re bruised by systems, stuck in bureaucratic rot, tired of recycled slogans, or just navigating the daily crawl. This space is for you.
Rot’s inevitable. The only question is whether you want front-row seats.
📝 🔖 Posting
I’ve got years of journals to exhume, so expect regular drops but don’t expect a rigid schedule. Pieces surface when they’re typed up and thrown out. Some weeks it’s TCDJ, some weeks it’s GG, sometimes something feral drags itself up without warning. You’ll get them when they decide to crawl out.
TCDJ: Mondays, if the bureaucracy hasn’t already drown them.
GG: midweek, usually Wednesdays, when the garden gets loud.
RSO: Fridays to ruffle the feathers and finish the week with bile.
Sunday to fuck the week before it starts.
FF: Tuesdays or Thursdays, slipping in like uninvited spores.
Everything else is chaos on a leash.
Right now, I publish WEB-ONLY. No inbox spam. No pushy pings.
But if you want a different poison, say so.
Stick around if that sounds like your kind of purgatory. The Cult of Rot™ accepts pledges, shrugs at refusals, and keeps rotting either way.
💸 THE MONEY BIT.
The paywall isn’t a locked gate. It’s a filter. A sieve that keeps the sharpest, most unfiltered work with the readers who actually want it, instead of random passers-by sniffing for scraps or rage-bait hunters mistaking echo chambers for ammunition.
If you want to take offence, you’ll have to pay for the privilege and bring more than a damp matchstick if you’re calling it fire.
If you fancy chucking a bit in the hat or keeping the bunnies in biscuits, here’s how:
£8/month: keeps the rot fed and the essays frequent.
£50/year: the smarter deal — one payment, half price, no fuss.
£150 founding: for the ones who like to build the pyre higher (and occasionally throw something shiny on it).
Think of it as a nod of support, not a locked gate. A sub tip jar with better maths, and a way of keeping the archive open past its rot-date so you don’t miss the marrow.
Not up for a monthly tithe to the Cult of Rot™? No problem.
You can still lob a one-off for the bugs, the flowers, the next jewellery cast, or the bunny biscuit fund.
If you find us interesting, whisper it to the next poor soul.
Pledges optional. Rot inevitable. Spread the spores. The field remembers names better than algorithms do.
There’s a leaderboard too.
Not of sales, but of who’s dragged the most souls into the rot. A public altar of offerings. Don’t take it too seriously, unless you do.
