The following are selected tweets of the user Melchizekek, first known as skunk_squats, and secondly as og_nagual. Most are from the heyday of Frogtwitter, Summer of 2016. Melchizekek is notorious for melodramatically deactivating and returning within a three day span, but he has informed us that his most recent departure will be his last. He has performed measures to ensure he cannot access his account again.



Our Internet of Babel is an impenetrable hell of sustained discovery. The rush of novelty is a false Tantra. Men are fried before twenty.

America! Wicked LAN Party wherein men amass coins and rescue whores from serpents they begat! Dope Haven! Barnum Bastards! Con Country! Accursed men and their games! Games are our creation! Play is contained in them, not invented! Animals play without games! To hell with Voltaire! I’ll climb my stairs on all fours if I want!

Funhouse of mutating reflections forever dashed against the Ten Thousand Stones! There is no Way but the Way! Embrace the shards of vertigo!

Meditate on the Stars! The Earths and their Rotations! The Manifold Animalia! God is Brother to Man! Making Content is his Delight!

Parthenogenetic son of a nymph from the Super-Sargasso Sea, whence I haul my compost outbursts of barnacle wisdom! Corpus Amphibia, I am.

I inhabit Aethiopia on the southern rim of Greco-Frogtwitter. I am tended to by the Blemmyae, whom I reward with roles in Looney Tunes.

I am a Golden Poison Frog in the interstices of this Moroccan memefest. I trade insects and experiment with diets that weaponize my sweat.

Maybe memes invented us for reproduction. Each has a genetic code hidden in its dankness, an undermeaning, and we help it call for mates.

My mind is a starless night of ignorance, interrupted on occasion by bolts of lightning when a greater force courses through me. Out of the murk of nonsense shoot foo fighter clauses of the Logos, boltzmann brains screaming and disappearing forever.

I am a magnet held up to God’s television. These words are mere photocopies of the rainbow moiré reflected in my eyeballs.

The zeitgeist of post-2010 America is a disembodied laugh track entering soundsystems and murdering people with sudden, severe Otitis Media.

The shadow of progress is apocalypse. From a certain distance, who can distinguish the desire to save the world from the desire to end it?

The normie is haunted by the furious ghost of his soul, which he finds everywhere, and dubs either a social injustice or perversion.

Not convinced that most people I can see from my window aren’t autoclaved, satanically animated refuse.

Booted from the Angry Young Man factory for my birth defects! Now I play chicken with dust devils and long for a fire alarm worth flipping.

Atomized as modern man is, given metal skin, he lives untouched by the Feminine, whether it be the World Mother or one woman. He is either hopelessly subject to Her selfish children’s manipulations, or chasing the silhouette of the sacred in self-destruction. The honest expression of his soul is to be reduced to dancing shrapnel. Ekstasis of a bolide, martyred at the moment of impact.

Perhaps the creation of this universe was a kind of trauma, and our every ambition is a salt in the sore of divinity. What if scars could, after accumulating for so long, become limbs in their own right, capable of alien sensations and functions?

Reptilians calcified Descartes’ pineal gland as retribution for all the pearls we stole from Dragons’ severed heads!

Beset by broadcast tinnitus, Yankees spill their seed for recreation and don brittle armor fashioned from fossils! So much of America is nothing more than stretches of dry riverbeds where boys howl and murder one another in heat stroke. Prone in the shape of cities, our Machine God stews orgasm fantasies to grease his wheels with. We sweat from graft in his sensual kitchens.

Do Bicameral Toxoplasmosis extirpation yogas and you will Hack Time, return to the Fifth Century BC insertion point. I don’t make the rules.

Riding my slicked back is the Scorpion of Frogtwitter. As it stings itself and I to death, our cries become tweets leaving the troposphere.

In a dream, I was bestowed either afflatus or flatus, I knew not which, and the Devil subtweeted me, saying “@ me next time”.

For my 200th song from this dry well, I damn the witch that gave me a child’s voice, for which I am harassed by rescue dogs without end.

Champion of divagation, athlete of indecision, I have tested every exercise but that of commitment, of abandoning myself, of living.

Walk through the ruins tonight. Hear the tides in the conch of the dead, the outline of so much wisdom that can never be learned again.

Would that I could regenerate on the light of the summer moon in the rustling verdure of Virginia – an immortal by kaleidosynthesis. It will be possible, in some distant time, to eat and drink no more, and solely live off the beautiful.

America is the Land of the Unreal. Man’s fantasies unlatched, all have prospered, crystal palaces and castles of nightmare.

Inside every man is a violence without name, and he is challenged to silence it or let it speak.

Psychic amputees of Amerikwa! Office chair childhoods! Wastemen! Ye who come to the net to scratch ghost limbs of would-be lives! I see you!

Oh Strip Mall! I have traveled many states and have come to know your leitmotif by heart! The same ersatz Asian food, the same deep-fried chains, the same snacks in supermarket rows. These derelict, potholed parking lots like the moon’s surface, stretching to all horizons, they pollute my dreams!

I did excavate, from the Amerikwan wine cellar, the secret murder of the anima, and at my touch she jolted to life, saying “choke me daddy!”

The telos of the blackpill is to reach the extremum of night, a frenzied automatism, a katabasis into the Nowhere of the senses.

Pokemon Go will birth a World Asylum where the only group therapy is to role-play sanity! Nothing will be true – everyone will be committed!

This country has become a Mt. Dew kidney stone that God – with sweat, blood, and tears – is trying his best to pass.

Let us hope fantasies of postmodern dystopian hellscapes will be as fun in the coming postmodern dystopian hellscape as they are now.

Pity is the parasitic muppet of compassion. It celebrates sufferings in the theater of the mind, as if it were their director.

Multiplier of duplicities, manufacturer of doubles, God’s horseflies follow my odor from heaven, and I lure them into a funhouse of tongues.

Finding God’s vivarium unsuitable for the torment they longed to share with one another, men invented their own: cities.

Into the Willendorf’s folds, ‘neath her crabbed chevron, Gog and Magog of bacteria, Amazonian speakeasy of plagues, into that place goes man. There he joins cortèges of disease, there in the Fat Matriarch’s Gash, there he swims and blows bubbles on the surface of her asbestos eggs.

I am crooning into space for the asteroid assigned to my extinction! (But they say sound does not travel there).

That I can take a walk on these lovely country roads, and upon meeting an installation of roadkill, feel brotherhood! A sacred privilege!

Urban decay is the poetry of post-industrial weltschmerz. The language of our nightmares is collapse: bankrupt boutiques and asphalt haunts.

A parade of moths and zappers, everywhere I look. I live under a sky painted by my health.

Bowed heads in septic chambers where festering is measured in a thousand contradictory, improvisational metrics – they call it scholarship.

Ahead are olympics of nausea, sales of transgression, memories of dignity bled of profit until they die and obscenity can be itself again.

Sequelae of sedentary youths warp men’s lives. Every aspect of their ideologies, every signal they make comes off as compensation for it.

Standing athwart history, yelling “gotta go fast”

The air holes of reality widening on my bumpy delivery, little faces in every spangle of light mumbling “that’s where you’re wrong kiddo”.

I dreamt I was a dung architect. I slaved for years, all alone, building a city from my own waste. Its geometry was holy. No one understood.

There is a passage in the heart for doubt that is without end.

In the 21st century, men invented over five-hundred new words for unknown pains, none of which were recognized by spellcheck until the 22nd.

Lilith of the thousand-spread hyperlinks! Lilith who leads men astray! Lilith the contagion of horizontality! Lilith, diffuser of attention!

Men with selves all cut-up, mottled with lacunae, gaggles in the street like museums of maimed sculptures, broken Muzak hymns orbiting them.

The errant young come to me and ask, Melch, how do I pierce this fog of Kali Yuga? But amnesia is its very life, so they forget any answer.

Failsons in sarcophagic bedrooms! Is Earth not an aviary strewn with carrion to you? What punishments, beyond your ken, await you in death? Agony, agony, agony! The world is an escalator of agony to you! The Gargantuan Mall of Dreadful Night! Maze of bargained sin! Caveat emptor!

Men flocked to exhibitions of the professional corpse, renowned for playing dead, and lectured on how he was alive for fear of joining him.

Here lies Melch, nowt but dust, who did imbue a froggish fetish with his myriad insincerities. They haunt the Global Porn Aggregator still.

Here on the “web”, Grown Men are unmoored from chains of oath and axe, and Irony has its Saturnalia. We pluck our shared nerves like a harp.

To poast in all your silence, to force memes in a vacuum, to outlive all men and shuffle on through captchas of their distant, stoic faces.

America exsanguinating: its rivulets describe groping fingers, dendritic skid marks coagulated as highway memorials wherein we live and die.

Exploring the States, one drifts in the unbroken outcropping of roadstops and gas stations, a fever dream of rotating props caked with dirt.

Like the Tiger City of human skin and sinew hidden in the jungles of Malay, I will someday retire to a fortress built of my looted content.

“Make Donald DRUMPF again” I say, and my laughter echoes in canyons of melted glass, chiming rebar blossoms. Is that skeleton smiling at me?

Mommy holds my hand while we wage war on white men and God, all from the safety of this mini golf course beyond which memory does not exist.

Stranded in the shells of a home that unfolds as a resting place. A mise en abyme of burial and infinite occupancy.

Advertisements project pseudopods of light and sound, agglutinating viewer with viewed. Nerves blacken, memories like empty cells amass…

Techno-Eschaton sings its soft song of death in fibers of the web, and I sing back: “say that to my face fucker not online see what happens”

I will soon escape this catacomb of Hearts and Ouroboran arrows to watch from the stars as you beautiful souls make it to the Funny Papers.

The Lord of Flies rattles dice in his hand and casts pearl seeds across the firmament, so men say they are born under different signs.

I descended into Mt. Etna, discovered a neuron bush from which fulminates are pestled. I am investigating singularities of caput combustion

Their gardens harbor rows of theremins and wasp nests encased in glass. Contrapuntal melodies swell out of noise, they pretend not to hear.

Toxoplasmosis mutates into symbiotic intelligence, education regulated entirely in low-bandwidth lolcats, non-feline learning inconceivable

Somewhere in the swamp of futurity, free from the Nasal Sonar of Cybankers, those spine-tingling banshee cries ring out…REEE…REEEEEEEEEe. Oh, the chains creaking on the dark floor of history, nightmare of normies from which we struggle to awaken…Tendies Be My God. For if a man were to make himself into a Tendie of flesh, he would be free from the game of saving Good Boy Points in endless debt to God… I foresee a fire of good boy points, a devaluation of them, and a jungle of memes and piss bottles looming like a storm on the horizon…

Gov’t should be run by a cabal of eternal toddlers who have frequent near death experiences such as those depicted in Heaven is for Real.

Ask not for whom the funhouse is fun, it is fun for you.

Stacy negging you in sewage sonar of marrow circuits. Stacy negging you in slag canals of psychic Saturn. Pine no more, I offer Another Way.

The content farm begins in your own body, and as a child you find that it extends outward, demarcated by brand-lines and circling moderators

Even in the crops of the humble meme farmer, there are unexplained circles, spine-tingling cries and yelps, foreign smells, unknown weeds…

In the delta of dead malls, frogs in floating coffins Tibetan croak at frequencies that separate their body into autonomous units of revenge. The collapse mindset begins as the discovery of a carcass in the world, as in the Gospel of Thomas. Undead frogs become alchemists of meat.

We are voyagers in alien reefs, eating coral that endows clairvoyant gut flora. We tangle in the fog of war until our names are effaced. After torrential rain, when matter becomes fluid, the frogs come out to play, dressed in the ornate armor of mud’s many hardened pleats.

Is the content farm willing to produce food, but not able? Then it is barren. Is it able, but not willing? Then it is useless. Is it neither able nor willing? Then why call it a farm?

For vaulting into her garden and offending the hag tyrant of the Kwa, we were all transformed into frogs and exiled to this isle of the net.

Leaving your tube-apartment, you run into a couple of obese kids telling each other “kys” between what appears to be telepathic greentexting.

Each night you wring out the evil spirit, but it returns, demanding stranger fantasies, whispering of a place known as “robot nine thousand”.

I lie in the desert of my brand, my tongue shriveled, my soil made infertile from vanity. My content fades, I have no tears to shed over it.

Shivering out in the dark, swathed in yellow, patchy memes, scooping flavorless content from inactive accounts – this is what it comes to.

I guard this dank swamp. Initiates come from far and wide, risking their life against bestial insects, just to lick my intoxicating slime.

Retrochronic undertow from the maw of the integrated content farm manifests as at least a fear of and at most a violent aversion to silence. Time has been Incorporated by Zuck’s extended body. The dissatisfaction of expressing your alienation is incredibly reliable bloodflow.

I think I have long since passed the prodromal phase of irony poisoning.

Having said everything, meant nothing, admitted ignorance, continued speaking, bared your vanity, and failed to burn it away, here you are.

Frogtwitter, with its terminal dedication to abolish order and avoid work, its bipolar mode, resembles every failed Avant Garde movement. It is an ongoing, neurotic cipher without rhyme or reason.

To become men, we went down to the cave of scrap metal where the medicine frog danced and sealed our soul in a doodle on the wall of memes. They say one day a heat wave is going to come and melt that wall away, then there will be nothing left of us.

You’re crouched over the content monitor, jittering from stims, maxing that maxilla with Turkish gum, and you jump when you see an opening. Don’t blame the game if you’re left in wipe-out city once the caffeine and pemmican and probiotics run out. That’s the price you pay… Talk all you want about how you “regret” it, how it was a waste of your time, but I remember your eyes when your custom pepe blew up.

I follow the gulch of millennia, winding through misshapen tombstones with weeping Brendan Frasers in relief, no date or name, only “JUST”.

All content is formed and undermined by differences in force that propagate contagiously. Every account is haunted by a secret swarm that rears its head at the limit of its poasting, an infernal participation, a happening.

Melch’s vision: tubular Eden of musical plants, fruits so sugary they cause seizures. Aerolith selected supermen only legal profession.

Melch goes to bed, sinks his body in the pond of the impossible, guided by soft music to the timeless carnival where frogs swim forever.

There are sentries in the midnight content farm, insomniac posters keeping watch over the incubating think pieces and memes of tomorrow.

/r9k/ opened a portal to a Burroughsian pain dimension of excretion and the wailing of the unrequited.

I see protected activity on my tweets all the time. I see avis of boarded up accounts staring down at my plebeian electronic street life. What precious things take place inside? Are they quoting me? How many negs have I weathered without my knowing, shared among Elite Circles?

I am a lowly tinkerer of content. I sit in my beige content sanctum, surrounded by the dangling husks of my old posts and their hollow eyes.

The Earth is a deafening clamor to me, its flowers alien mouths, its sun a searchlight. My content is the little armor I can construct.

My brand is motley, misshapen. I have nothing to sell you, no advice to give, no direction to provide. I have only my memes, made with love.

For too long have I been a gargoyle of the mind, seated in my eyes, scaring away the real from implicating me, keeping thoughts from leaving.

I am harassed by impossible sensations revealed in rays of sunlight like germs under a microscope. I love most that which never could exist.

There is a band wound between me and the night, and with each poast, it becomes tauter, and I am closer to joining the invisible. I am always reaching for those hallucinatory hinterlands where time loses its footing, where hours enter a terrible freefall. How could one resist the frenzy of those exotic worlds that burgeon from shadows, lacunae in thought, powered-down buildings, closed eyes?

Oh, the loneliness of content! The orphanage of poasting in the vastness of night!