.there is a bodybloodless and pale,with dirty handstrying to wash it alloff, because if shecannot see it there'sa chance it won'texistso she buriedthe blood in themud with her babyteeth, asked theriver to take itaway, felt her bonesheave a sigh as shelay them all downon the banklet itallslip away(and no doubt he will say she was crazy, this bitch, with her tongue and her teeth and her mind)
.i rememberedthe conversation with the anesthetist,he said place your thumbs over your eyesand press gently, and i replied isn't thatlizards?and no i can't feel my hands but i'mnot really bothered, i will sleepsleep and sleep, i won't need them,and please keep an eye on the sea til iwake, it might pack up its fish andgo travelling, it might leak throughthe holes in the earth like a sieve,all the shipwrecks and sharks willbe homeless(i don't believe in anything, and that makes me a liar because i believe in that)
.and god-i saw the moonleaking into the sea,a great big silvery slickon the wavesand as i held my hands upto the hole in her side,she smiled and soakedinto me(gentle, gentle, she doesn't have long)
.i will marry the moonand adopt a son, teachhim not to play with thehearts of stars(but he will)i will bring home a man,give him hope, hear himoutand then coughup his gutson the floor(i will end up there anyway, might as well say a prayer whilst i'm down there)
.i can almost hearthe soundof everything -foxesweepingon the bodiesof rabbits, idid not meanto, i did notmean -howling andhowling,the deer inthe headlights sayingi told you so(and do you hear that? that's the sound of it all caving in)
.i don't believethat if you can dream ityou can do it,cos i once dreamt thati killed atlas,i tore him limb from limb and theni stabbed the globe he held,watched itdeflate,and sometimes i get sadabout the children in the worldwho will choke on all the wordsthat they'll never learn to speak,and there's a baby somewhere garglingthe meaning of his life,and he's a little bit upset that youkeep wiping itaway(i have no words for you)
.lies can slipthrough your teethwith ease,the truthgets caught inyour throat(i wish it was a lie, that i'm your flesh and blood and i wish it was the truth, that i hadn't been drinking)
.confess;let thosesquirmingthingsinside youhatchand falloff thetongue(i'd rather walk myself home, bare feet cold on pavement)
.and goddess,this isn't something i cansweat or starve out of me,i'll have to write and it willbe madness,see i've often thought aboutplacing my head in the pestleand mortar, i wonder if i couldgrind out the hell inside, becomea red pulp on the worktop, andeven the oven keeps tutting at me,it's so easy, just open the doorstick your hand in, feel his forkedtongue on your palm,orange lover, youknow you'rea cowardfor thisand it's truethat the dead are never reallysilent, they grunt and they groanin their damp soil sheets,toss and turn overagain(fill the bath with water, and just drop me in it)
.my bedroomsuffocates me,so sometimes i climbout the window andcurl up on theroofinstead,there used to be a treedown the side that kept hisarms open for mebut he said i don't thinkyou're ever gonna knowhow it feels to bemidasor medusa,you know you'vealready got a heartof gold and eyesof stonei said nowyoudon't getto touch me(i can drop down into the alley from here, or sit with the cat like a gargoyle)
.i want to scrapethe shell off the earth,try and give birth tosomething muchbetter,mould it and feed it and let itset out on its own to beloved,and now, bear cubdon't be sogrizzly,they'll make goodmoney from mum'sclaws and coat,mount her head on thewall by yourbrothers(always dreaming of a blind alley, and this is not a poem, just another ball of paper, throw me into the sun i want the last of the heat to be mine)
.he said there are a lot of things in lifethat don't make sense,i said i know,like that time i laughed so hard at the wakei had to stay out in the garden making small talk with the smokersfor the rest of it,like the time i shut myself in the garage and went to sleepin the backseat of your car,and how i'm not at all religious but i sat in church that day withmy hands clasped andi prayed,how i kept the windows shut that sunday so what i prayed forcouldn't get in,like the time i watched her throw your stuff out on the driveway,and when she managed to smash those plates even withher broken wrist, how most hearts start to sink when tempers rise,and the time i wanted to cradle that dead pigeon i saw at thetrain station, and you told me to answer the phone and i wouldn'tbecause i knew it was you,and when the night comes calling i always let him in,i'm never quite sure who he is, but he sayshe's paid for it so now i better fuckingdrink it,he says haven't you learnt by now
.i can't give youthatbut i can birth youa godwith my eyes instead,pray to him hard withmy tongue(take refuge when he wakes)
.some need to know lifelike the beasts do, the heronthe stray dog the cobra the salmondead in it's stream,but i want to shed out of my skin,don't want to be no white ghost no moreand i met a magician, got rid ofthe dirt in my mind,pulled my memories outof my temple like napkins,made a mess i couldn't clean upon the pavement outside, no tip for him,you're gonna have to excusethe mess in my soul, i wasn'texpecting visitors,been pleading with words for anexplanation, came home late last nightsmelling of someone else's ink,i think i saw the light then buti heard the darkness too, i kicked themout, now it's just me and mycrazy i keep in a tank,watch him grow limbs and climb outover the side, and now sometimeshe sits on my lap and i stroke him,but he's getting too heavy to hold andhe's starting to speak for himself,says don't drink that be goodi need you and you need me and youknow it, i don't think you can evertruly know someone until you can admitto yourself t
.i neverlearned thelanguageof flowers,never knewwhy thenettlespat itswords at mewith venom,why thosegreenforkedtonguesleft asting(i bet the sheep don't lose a wink over the starving wolves, either)
.there are some things i've seen and heard that reallyget to me sometimes, like those birds and mice with teeth markson their little red raw thighs,rotting flowers, i recall he said this is a waste of timeand you're a waste of space, it's just impossible to holda conversation with you these days,let it go, just fucking drop it,keep your mouth shut unless i sayi think i froze to death last night, my fingertips turned blue,i heard a cloud say fuck you boy, did i come all this way for youto say that i look like a rabbit,better places i could bei've seen my shadow put two fingers to her headand pull the trigger, heard my echo laughabout it with the walls, and every timei hold a match i hear itwhispering to me,if you don't want me to burn you,then you're gonna have to blow meouti heard that you can't tame a lion just by pullingat his mane, i heard that blood feels goodon porcelain and not just i
.i ami amhiding poetry under the sheetsthink my heart might be beatingthe shit out of meonly thing up there is theclouds, and they don't givea fuck either, the only thingdown there is the dirt, andthat's what you are, you'rea liar(he will say you're gonna have to lower your standards a bit, got a room downstairs might be more suited)
.watching the skychurn itself thickerand thickerthe birds tireand drown asit sets aroundthem(no fight, and no flight either)
Barb WireYour barb-wired brainwon't let me in,and I'm getting cuttrying to jumpthe fence.
Re-thinking art. Your help will be appreciatedHey friends so I haven't made a journal in awhile... and I've been thinking about a lot of stuff...So I guess i'll just jump into whats eating me.My art for the past year or so has been bothering me, I'm posting stuff that i'm not really proud of and there are always this I notice that kill me about my art style. Because my life has been busy, stressful and kinda shity lately I haven't really had time for art (or at least art I enjoy)<-- and by that I mean that because i'm so stressed and busy when i finally get to draw that I just draw what I'm comfortable with because i'm not enjoying what i'm doing enough to push myself anymore))) One of my best friends was saying that he thinks I should start posting stuff that is outside of my comfort zone and exercise my talent more. So bam. I'm gonna.As an artist I feel like I'm getting more and more stuck with what I'm doing, My friends are all improving around me (which is awesome and I love seeing you guys impro
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tenderedby old age and wiping away childrens' cryingso they were leathered and carefully paintedwith a veneer of the dust made by old books,but when he read to me the pages didn't shakeand his throat didn't contract about the wordslike they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-deadand carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.I see the fear of burdenship as the only thingthat makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my heroas my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
Growing up, Having a TasteIn the opinion of each of you readers here, what do you suppose it takes to be a professional in order to be accepted in the world of job opportunities and working for the big name companies (in the art department)? It has been a thought that has been recycling over and over in my brain for the past week or two about what it comes to when recruitment comes into play; I have been told and listened in on professors in the field that it is about confidence, other times about hints of pride to hand over to the recruiters, though there is no talk of grades. I suppose that, in the end, grades are letters that signify how good you have been at specific subjects but not at what you plan to achieve in or be given acceptance into.Neil Gaiman told us that whatever we wanted to do that there was no plan, but to just do it.Honestly, that is fine. Very well. With hard work, with determination, with opening our minds to new things and learning from those things we can accomplish our greatest
WARNING: Paypal ScamHello again!Sorry for spamming but I think I should let you guys know about this~Just a warning, so that you guys are aware of it, although I know this was not the first timeOk, an hour ago I receive an email from 'Paypal' telling me that I have an unfinished transaction~It says to click the 'Log In' button which was in the email as well and told me that they will lock my account if I don't do what they told me~But before I click it... I was thinking and realized that I haven't bought anything online for almost 1-2 weeks...So, what I did is, I still clicked it to make sure what is this email about and it directed me to the site called 'Peypal'I was like... 'what the heck is this?'Of course I didn't log in... since its obvious that it was a fake siteThough, they make it look like the real thingI am glad I checked the URL before logging in... I should have Print Screen the fake email...but once I forward it to the Paypal Team, they told me to delete it immediately~
Keep your secrets, wolfgirl.I have been suffocatingon the stars of my pastlike horny gentlemendo with innocent lookingwolfgirls at 3am- their bitefearless as thieves.My lilac lungs are breathing indust and the tears of Saturn’snameless moons,while the rest of me -well, shes warm off wineand poems leftunfinished.
.my soul is still splattering blacknessat my brewing fate;terror has my feet fastened to the starsof the unforgotten, & yet my heart isready to bleed crimson for you.I'm armed to love again,becauseyou kiss with the faiththat was stolen from me.
Sweet CornHe shuckedher cleanto the spine.Broke off the gold untilnothingbut the stalk remained;bareand broken open.The ribcage spilledher secretsand gushed her painupon the sheets.She lay in the bloodand wept, for the lieshe had lost.
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
.mother i'msorryand brotheri worry aboutyouhe's deadbut still livinginside me iknew thisfresh startwould havethe samerottenending(gonna build you up nice and bitter)