Friday, December 18, 2009

Interview With One New England.

Hey reader friends,

Please read this article about me on!

Thanks to John Cafaro for taking the photos!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Bookends: Dante's Divine Comedy

I made these bookends for my brother.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Forgotten Images.

I forgot about these drawings for a long time. These are a couple from a great batch of drawings that mysteriously disappeared about six years ago. Artifacts if you will.


Fish Girl

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Slow Progress.

The Beast

People love me from far away, and from far away I’m beautiful. Like the Earth from outer space, one could never imagine the bloodshed and filth that is a part of me; a truth beyond the exquisite white, blue and green marble that glistens in a black vaccuum. If I could just tell you, somehow, I’m doing my best to be a part of the Universe. My oceans are deep as the eyes of God, and filled with terrible monsters that guard the treasures of the soul. And like the Earth, I am alone in this black sea overwhelmed with the life that has been granted unto me. And like the Earth I should want to move toward the sun, that the light may consume my wretched being and return me from whence I came. And with my soiled surface, and the despair that bleeds from the sufferings of Man upon my soul; the glorious mistakes of chaos and the way she trips in patterns on my skin, I shall one day fall gracefully into the fire that has embraced me, and given me life despite all the death I’ve bred. I am a waif, stranded in Space and without Time, to be seen only by the sun. Should you take me by the hand you are not human, but an angel; for up close people hate me, and up close I am hideous as the Beast that guards the Jewel.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Friday, October 30, 2009

Quote of the Day.

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man."

- George Bernard Shaw

Thursday, October 29, 2009

The Dream (Cont.)

“Time for Dinner!,” read the blaring mahogany letters on greenish, black cardboard. Last night he indulged in Asian noodles, restaurant style. Tonight Mother Cubbard prepared for him a two dollar treat, traditional lasagna, just like the kind you would have in Italy. In the commercials she had assured him that the only difference was a thick plastic veneer aiding in the ability to last forever under the right conditions. These meals didn’t suffice for a hungry old man. Being long retired, he could not afford to buy two of everything. Years ago he made himself privvy to the information that a large batch of mashed potatoes every three days would supplement the scarcity of frozen dinners.
In the morning his energy was provided by a full pot of coffee, heated up in the microwave occasionally throughout the day. If his stomach pestered him enough, a tuna fish salad sandwich in the afternoon would alleviate it’s nagging.
“Joe, Joseph!,” Once the shrill voice accompanied the relentless rapping, he knew he could no longer avoid answering the door. In his armchair with Peter and The Wolf, his two furry comrades, resting at his feet, he cracked open one eye slightly to see the sweet face of a lonely sorceress peering through the distorted glass of his living room window. This had meant, of course, that she had maneuvered herself past the bushes to get an exceptional view of him, attempting to determine with the help of her charm whether he was truly asleep or refusing to acknowledge her presence. He called her, only half fondly, the mad angel. She was nothing but a sweet old woman he deemed a prime candidate to exemplify the definition of off the rocker.
Feigning a startled awakening, his eyes snapped wide open to view such a mundane vision of this worldly, yet primordial face, advertising a giant plate of cookies. She always had something to lure him from his ignorance, gloves that she had knit, a nice hat she had picked up from the thrift store, insisting that it had needed an owner.
“Hi Martha!” His attempt at nicety had failed every time. “Oh don’t you ‘Hi Martha!’ me, I just came to give you some cookies that I baked. Have you any of that lovely tea of yours?” His face had noticeably dropped the charade. Grumbling to the kitchen, he had pulled out a giant package of supermarket brand black tea that had been sitting in his cabinet for at least a year. He made Martha a cup and heated himself up some coffee. She had once rambled on and on about stories of past loves, which secretly to him were quite interesting, but now she only briefly talked about her bird, Wendy, as if it did anything at all. The rest of the time she remained silent while they ate cookies and drank their preferred beverages. Anything he said was silent, spoken through a nod or faint smile.
At times, looking at her was distressing. Her hand gestures were shaky confessions of a growing weakness. Her increasing negativity as the years had passed disheartened him, though he knew that he was much worse in comparison. He was subject to every expression she had ever made in the sixty seven years of her life through the map of emotion on her face that time had drawn to validate its existence. It was simultaneously beautiful and frightening to him. He had known her for what seemed like an eternity, for she was nothing but his female counterpart, once alive, now only alive in the process of reflection.
At times she would comment on his state of mind, or his well-being. He didn’t need to say anything, somehow she had known him, and he wondered if the map on his face was as telling as hers. Sometimes she would even mention his minor health problems, an upset stomach, an afternoon headache, giving the reason for it and prescribing the proper home remedy. He had concluded that she was some kind of soothsayer years ago. In reality he was aware that Martha was merely an intuitive old woman who had lived quite a life, and himself, a very obvious individual who had given into his contempt of existence, fortunately without relinquishing his soul. Though he was never prepared for the lady, he always hated himself for adjusting so quickly to her presence. When he opened his mouth to make an excuse for him having to be alone, she would never let him speak. “Ah!” she would say, “I know.” Without a goodbye, she would make haste toward the door, slamming it shut, as she would never allow herself a pathetic, whimpering exit.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

The Dream

He had just awoke from a dream in which he had heard an untracable yet familiar voice. It was soft, and flowed song-like, resonating throughout the rest of his body after entering the faculty of sound. It was the voice of a face in the clouds that one is certain must be the apparition of an angel manifested through physics. The words had faded quickly, as in the next second after being witness to this angel, the cloud moves, distoring the face into that of a demon, if not abolishing it altogether. This was Nature’s way of aborting madness, that sanity may keep it’s reign in a mundane world.
Clear as day he had heard the voice of a woman, “To place human hands upon such timeless, tender skin, brighter than a sun that blinds the seer, yet leads the blind toward sight; to gently pull rough fingers through the comforting tangled tresses of the Night; to mount yourself willingly upon the pale horse, embarking on the equisite journey of The Beginning, you must be willing to breathe in the crystalline remnants of a pulverized heaven, to desire what you shall never obtain for yourself. You will find me by a black tree against a blazing sky, and before you I will appear for one eternity.”
He wondered in circles why a man like him would have such a dream. He was aging, hardly anything but a leather suit over a pile of orderly bones, protecting a mass of misfortune in the form of perfectly healthy organs. The amount of times he had hoped for a fatal diagnosis from his worst enemy, fondly regarded by him as “Doc”, were inumerable. He accepted life as suffering and often introduced himself facetiously as Jesus. People often gave him a sideways glance, laughed nervously and quietly assumed him a victim of dimentia. He was an accidental birth, admitting his lack-luster attempt at living to those around him who had wanted to help. The torment had happened slowly to those who loved him. Once warm to him, his relentless selfishness caused friends and family to fade into the cold boring shadows of objects lifeless as household furniture. They now resided in a forgotten darkness, made existent only by the sickly yellow light in his livable apartment. They were as good as dust, shedded cat claws and hitchhiking twigs he refused to sweep.
His only admitted claim to feeling any fondness for another human, was that of a girl that once lived three houses down from him. She was a grade above him, and seemed to house the wisdom of an old wort-cunning witch in the darling body of an animated porcelain doll. He was certain that she knew exactly how the universe functioned, this fact made obvious when her psychic magnetism caught eyes fixed on her luminescence like a growing plant to the sun. In these moments he would look away in humble fear that his darkness would shade her light. Admiring with desperation the perfection of her being, he had waited for her to pass his house daily. She was always adorned in the prettiest dress, accented with the most pristine beret, and walked with the grace of a soon-to-be goddess. When she stopped, she was always poised perfectly as an immaculately carved statue at sunset. He had always walked behind her in reverence, and found speech unworthy in her presence.
The days of childhood were without clocks, passing slowly with such activities as watching a catapillar on it’s travels from branch to leaf, that it may dine in preparation for it’s coming out party. Awakening one morning to find himself trapped in an ancient decaying body, his physical self revolting against him with sharp occasional pinches and persistant dull aches, was an event he could not explain. He blamed his teacher, Mrs. Godes, for teaching him how to read time at the age of seven. How long it was before that he had watched the little catapillar was information he couldn’t, nor wanted to summon. The pasttime of watching nature in it’s miniscule changes was always his favorite. Her small consecutives changes purposely muddled together like gestures of paint on canvas, created a picture so majestic that the unattentive would call it a “miracle.” It could have been a minute or ten, a half an hour or an hour.
Now when he was witness to a spider weaving its fine silky threads around an hapless little fly, he had felt the minutes wrap around him, one after the next, until he was trapped inside of an hour. He knew that he would soon be hearing his mother yell from afar, “Dinner!”

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Lonliness (in progress *detail*)

Lonliness (in progress)

A Man I Knew.

A Man I Knew

Old faces scorn with royalty
In city fa├žades
The booming command of pleasure
And money is
The new scent of the season

As the dressing on the trees
Burns with age
A fire bleeding red
The wind hatches goosebumps
On Summer’s skin
And sings to her
The enchanting lullabye
Of Death
Her exit music
Blazing a trail
For Autumn who shall let us know
Dying is beautiful
And comes in many colors

The buildings stay the same
The human fails to change
Desires without love
And wants without

The lonliness in a defiled body
Perfectly scathed with an ugly discrepancy
Bores a hole in the heart
Of a would-be saint

If only the Earth hadn’t seized him
Before the Sun
The World's frog-like tongue
Chewing him up
With it's monolithic molars
And passing him
Through the asshole
Of a raped Reality
A digested, mutilated
Sanguine massacre

Flesh and Shit

Perhaps he could
Endure the seasons


He descends
With the leaves

Wednesday, October 7, 2009


Sophia Perennis


With Love From The Sea

Upon purchasing my newfangled Nikon Coolpix, I have deleted my other posts with pictures of these masks, since they were taken with Photobooth. Unfortunately the format on blogger doesn't do much for photos, as the size standard is very small.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Kingdom of Shells

I am happy to say after much painstaking obsession and grueling dissatisfaction, the Kingdom of Shells prototype is finally complete!

It is preferred that the individual listens to this through headphones, as there are many nuances that can be missed through run of the mill speakers.

I will most likely be making copies at some point next week.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


"Love is the state in which man sees things most decidedly as they are not." –Friedrich Nietzsche

Sketch and Composition

Materials: Charcoal on 24"X30" wooden board.

Upon near completion of my newest album I have become extremely visually inspired by many things, to the strange pinnacle of madness. It is necessary to be wary of insanity, at times the colors can become too bright, the shapes too sharp, and form too mysterious to even begin to ponder its existence. Alas, this is why the artist and musician creates, and the philosopher writes.

Without manifestation of such observations, these things are not purged from the brain. The brain is a computer that at times, to function properly, needs things cleared from the hard drive. To the brain, an "art" serves as an external hard drive. It is a documentation of a thought, feeling or observation, that once explored fully and put into form, no longer needs as much attention. If this process does not occur, such thoughts and observations can build up in a brain, coagulate and create nonsensical thought tumors, bearing a sickness that deteriorates the mentality of the individual. This can take away one's humanity, only to portray them as a malfunctioning machine, with a frozen or flashing screen or an arbitrary systemization.

On this note, I recommend the film Seraphine:

Bleeding Hearts and Forget Me Nots has been put on the back burner, as the interest in such subject matter was largely intellectual and also related to an issue I feel that I have portrayed more accurately through sound in Kingdom of Shells through the track titled "Mnemosyne".

For motivational reasons, I will document the process of my current paintings in this blog.

The above sketch is a brief, intuitive image that came to mind one day upon an informal meditation. I will elaborate on this image and post pictures as progress ensues.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

New Visual Works Exclusive to This Blog Cont.:

In order of appearance:

I Don't Love You Anymore

New Visual Works Exclusive to This Blog:

In Order of Appearance:

Cicada Girl
Bell Eyed Angel (Belial)

News and Updates.

News on the music front:

Sophia has contributed two tracks for Starkweather's new release:

"Our next release on Deathwish, This Sheltering Night, was actually recorded before the split with Overmars at various sessions throughout 2007-2008 at DeadVerse Studios. This is six Starkweather songs ("Bustuari," "Epiphany," "All Creatures Damned And Divine," "Broken From Inside," "Martyring," and "One Among Vermin") and features soundscape interludes created by artist and musician Elizabeth Jacobs, under her guise as Sophia Perennis, and Oktopus from Dalek. Also adding textural flourishes on some songs is Forbes Graham, ex Kayo Dot and long-time auxillary member Bill Molchanow. The entire album can be played as one continuous 73:41 piece or as separate tracks. A release date and other specifics will also be announced soon."

To view this entire blog please visit Starkweather's page:

Sophia is also in the process of completing a new release titled: Kingdom of Shells

(To hear tracks from this album please visit my myspace music page:

I will gladly mail anyone my first release: Dreams of Drowning, for free as long as I have remaining copies.

Other general future creative projects include:

A possible video collaboration with Roger Karmanik of Brighter Death Now

Thursday, September 10, 2009

The Human And The Universe: All Parts Combined.

Part 1: The Game (Excerpts from "The Human and the Universe: A Picture Book")

"What is that creature over there Mother?"

"That is a human, Little One."

"And why does it look so sad?"

"Humans are an incredible animal. They are the only life form on this planet that cannot see."

"How can they not see? Do they not have eyes for such capability?"

"It is a different seeing, Little One. This creature has been stripped of many things which those of her kingdom value. Like many life forms in the physical realm, she experiences suffering. Unable to awaken her spirit, her state is like that of a deep, dreamless sleep. She walks with one foot in Hell."

"What is Hell, Mother? And why does she leave her foot there?"

"Hell is the place without Hope. She is unaware that she drags it around her heel. For she is sick, and her faculties for detecting the wretched odor are impaired. She poisons her body with many earthly favors, likening them to candy."

"What is the purpose of their existence, Mother, if these creatures are in Hell?"

"The purpose is a large game of Hide and Seek. For the Universe is playful, and this is its favorite sport. But part of the game, Little One, is that The Seeker is unaware of the game. The Universe makes strange noises called music, and leaves pretty things such as shells, jewels and flowers, strewn about affirming it's presence. Sometimes it grants things in a timely fashion, but humans misunderstand their purpose, and call them "coincidences", the uncanny side affect of probability.

But the Seeker is taught nothing of these things. She is misguided by a world that is unaware of the game. It is a world that creates smaller, unimportant games to distract her from the big one. She lives in a paradox, where the big game is less obvious than the smaller ones. To see the game, you must become as big as the Universe. But it is hard to be big when one's infinity is cramped inside a very small vessel."

"It seems like a very cruel game for the Universe to play! Why will it not come out and say, "Here I am!"?

Part 2: Madness.

"Little One, there is a thing in humans called Madness. Often times, when the Universe does this, a human will mistake the profound greeting for Madness, and deny the existence of the game altogether. Even if the human does not mistake this greeting for Madness, she will be compelled to share this knowledge with others. Since most are unaware of the Game, they will mistake this for insanity, and convince her that she has a disorder of the mind."

"What is Madness, Mother?"

"Madness can be many things. It is caused by earthly things, such as misery, which are aspects of misfortune. Misfortune manifests itself primarily in events that cause the Seeker to draw the conclusion that what is good is ultimately inaccessible. One event of misfortune changes the perception of the Seeker. When these things happen, the human falls under the power of Evil."


"Evil is what happens when the Universe does not get attention. Much like an earthly child, when it gets its attention from engaging in acts of Chaos in one seeker, instead of leaving its presence through beautiful things, it will begin to to leave its presence through tantrums. For it would rather be recognized for its destructive power, than ignored altogether. Often times, this causes a madness in humans called depression. Depression is a state of being that distracts the Seeker from the Game, and causes her to exist in a world of personal perception. Because this perception is not Truth, it is delusion. Born of delusion are many illnesses. This is called psychosis, and it further blinds the Seeker."

"Is this why the girl yonder is so sad?"

"Yes, Little One. This is why she is what you call sad. But it is not sadness that afflicts her. For it is greater and darker than sadness."

"Then what is sad?"

"Sadness is the inability to experience goodness. Because its very state insinuates that one is attempting to connect to what is good, it is good in itself. This is a necessary state of being required to connect to the Divine. Sadness is also experienced through loss. To want what is good, when what is good is gone, is sad. Sadness happens often when those we love pass. It exists through remembrance. It is a profound emotion that is a bridge between what once was positive, and what shall be positive again. It is necessary for the Seeker to cross this bridge many times in life. Through this emotion, one experiences the existence of the Circle.

"Then what is depression?"

"Depression is what happens when one stops in the middle of the bridge and misconceives it for the world, unable to see the past, or the future. Depression is inertia. If the human does not continue to move, it will not become aware of the Circle."

"What is the Circle, Mother?"

An Aside: The Circle

"Why Little One, the Circle is the Universe!"

"Then Mother, what is the Universe?"

"The Universe is the Circle!"

"Why is it then, that you call the same thing a Circle, and other times, The Universe?"

"Sometimes, Little One, a chair is a chair. And the chair is always a seat. But a seat is not always a chair."

The Human: Part 1

"I am here at the edge of the world, accompanied by this nauseating selfishness. The ability to know and the lack of sight that plagues me is a torturous paradox. The only reason I fear death is because it is ruthless in its attempts to pull me toward it.

The ocean is a giant corpse, feeding colonies of life. It doesn't freeze because it is so large. I want to be cold-blooded, as a mermaid, with unruly hair to pluck tiny dead fish from for an afternoon snack. I long to be as vast as the ocean, to swim with the horizon as my goal, until my lungs are breathless, and my muscles without power. First my body will exhaust giving way to weakness. Upon my final gasp, the water will be my air. Devoured by the sphere I am trapped upon, I will relinquish a fear so terrible, no longer a prisoner to its desire.

For many years I have ceased to let the Evil tempt me. In nightmares it is personified by a greedy man, lusting after a burning soul. It has taunted me desperately, "Why won't you give me a chance? Why won't you let me have you?" It seeks me for the shadows, thinking I may be their light. It does not realize I cannot shine for it. I will only become a part of the night, black as the void it despises. Should I let it win, if only to end this arduous battle? Should I let it win, if only to stop playing this tedious game?

My surroundings are glorious, leaking splendour for my eyes to see, my skin to feel, my tongue to taste the sweet and salty tones of the atmosphere. Everything emits a divine ray of beauty! A speck of sand, a seashell, the graceful notes the wind carefully plays through the windows of the old house yonder. I swear, it laughs carrying the ghosts of gleeful, singing children! It is a small preservation of innocent days, as though something has sent it to guide me toward life...

But I'm afraid I have not been graced with the heart to believe that these things are nothing more than little dolls sewn to imitate life, mere fabrications of an intense fantasy, born of madness."

Part 3: Faith

"Mother, if the girl over there is depressed, is she also sad?"

"Yes Little One, she is also sad. Some people lose their sadness and fall into a very deep depression. In a very deep depression, apathy occurs. Apathy is a lack of feeling, and it is a very dangerous state of being. Evil thrives off of this. Right now, the creature is able to know what she is going through, and this makes her sad. This means she is still aware of something good. Her journey is slow. It is very possible she will move towards the darkness instead of the light. Right now, the shadows are much stronger. She is losing faith. Without faith, nothing is possible.

"What is faith, Mother?"

"Little One, faith is hard to comprehend. Great humans have said that faith is the evidence of things not seen. One can have faith in many things. It is very important for humans to have faith in each other, faith in love, and faith in themselves. This is a type of knowledge that does not have its root in scientific proof. It is what great humans have built the world on. It is how humans have travelled to space, built massive structures, and survived many hardships. One must have faith in oneself, through this only can a human have faith in others, and only through having faith in oneself and in others can one have faith in love."

Part 4: Love

"What is Love?"

"Love, in the world of humans can be an unfortunate matter. Love in the Universe is a very positive thing. Many humans do not understand it, and they mistake love for many earthly pleasures. They mistake it for need and comfort, and fall short of experiencing such a grand state of being. Sometimes they may have an idea of love, but do nothing to nurture it, and it dies. It is like a fish that, once caught, you must keep reeling in. If you do not, and are not careful, you will lose it.

Some people are greedy, and when they catch this fish, they skin it, put it over fire, and eat it. This whole process is lustful, and the end result is indulgent. They continue to do this every time their line catches, eating every fish in the sea for their own gluttonous pleasure, never knowing if Love may come of it.

When the fish is caught, it is a life force that must be kept alive. It can get very sick sometimes. Humans do not recognize this. Instead of nursing it back to health, they choose to kill it, so that it does not suffer. Much like a pet animal, they accept its death, and they move on, often times making the same mistake again."

"Did the creature over there make such a mistake, Mother?"

"Oh Little One, she has made this mistake before, but so has everyone in their youth. She has learned her lesson in this matter, but those she comes across have not. No longer has she the heart to feel the things she knows to be true. To her, they are now lies. She likens them to Santa Claus, a mythical man who brings presents to children one day of the year, and others from his fantasy realm, like the Tooth Fairy, who collects the lost teeth of children and leaves little gifts for them in exchange."

"But Mother! That is so silly! For Love seems more real than childish fairy tales!"

"You are right, Little One, but this is why she does not believe. She has not met another who tries to keep love alive, as she does. She does not have faith that love exists, because though she's felt it before, she cannot feel it now. For her, half way through the line broke, and her fish swam away into the vast sea. She does not believe she will find it again, and her growing madness causes her to deny that she was ever close to it, that it was perhaps a large, dirty boot after all."

"Won't she keep fishing?"

"Humans have a thing called pride. If one does not have pride, they feel like a fool. Fools are those who waste their time on idle things. They are stupid, and never learn from anything, repeating the same mistakes again and again. She is afraid of being a fool. For she does not want to search any longer for something she does not know to be real. She is stuck in the middle of a great battle. The light is love and faith, waiting for her to return, but she does not yet see it. What little light may catch her eye is but a pin prick in a giant sheet of black. The darkness is winning, as it often does."

"Why is it so hard for humans to understand these things?"

"Humans live in an overpopulated world that is dense with lies and religion, made by many who have succumbed to the delusion of madness, all claiming that they know the Truth. Because of this, they do not know how to find their own way toward the light. They are misguided. Those who understand that others are misguided are often victims of such false answers. For they go through much hardship and pressure from the mad ones who narcissistically desire the naysayers to share their vision to validate their own delusion. Because there are many imitations of knowledge, it creates an expansive forest of fallacies that make it difficult for the Seeker to find the Truth."

The Human: Part 2

"The heart does not grow wearing of beating. Our lungs barely cease breathing, second by second, weaving minutes into days, stitching days into... years upon years our blood just keeps circulating sapphire blue through our veins, blood vessels like small solar systems, forever sailing through space and... I had believed that love could last this way, if only as long as it would take to number the stars on a country night.

But it is just a pitied, fair little flower, frightened of being submerged in a monster rain, and wilting below an ambitious sun. It is not even beautiful, like a fierce weed, enduring in the strangest of seasons.

Our hair will keep growing even after we're dead; the illusion of life that is love."

Part 5: Trust

"Mother, if Love is just a fish, why do humans seek it so?"

"Oh Little One, Love is not really a fish. Love is indescribable. Love is the Universe. The Universe has a process, it is its own life, and everything that is a part of it shares that process. Humans seek other humans to validate the existence of the Universe. Their relationships help them to develop attributes that they may otherwise lack. These attributes are often keys to the Universal door. Through faith and love in other humans who are on a similar path, it is easier to seek the Truth. Certainly you've heard that two heads are better than one. Two hearts are better than one also."

"What about three hearts, or four hearts?"

"Three hearts and four hearts are wonderful also! This is what is called friendship."

"Does the creature over there not have any friends? Is this why she is depressed?"

"No, Little One. The human is very much loved. She cannot feel this love because she sees others as being on either side of the bridge, while she remains in the middle. She feels as though her friends and loved ones walk back and forth, but she does not know where they are going. To her, they just appear and disappear like ghosts. Friends are different than lovers. They are there when you need them, but often are not always in sight. She is what they call heartbroken. Time and time again she has met many who have betrayed her. They appear and stay for some time, promising to walk her to the other side so that she will no longer have fear. Instead, many times, others have turned on her unable to recognize their own fear. Because these kinds of humans are unaware of their own shortcomings, their faulty perception can turn loved ones into monsters. They have often tried to push her off of the bridge, to her death. Now she does not know how to trust another."

"What does it matter, Mother? Why will she not just keep trying?"

"Because Little One, persistence requires faith, the element that she is rapidly losing grasp of. In her hand as sand she closes her fist tightly, unaware that such things require not a fist, but an open palm, that she may keep it in sight, ready to hand to another. She cannot see it, she only feels it slipping through her fingers, as though she is a human hour glass running out of time."

"What will she do if another arrives with the same promise?"

"I do not know Little One. It is very possible she has enough faith to try again. Right now, she views humans as animals who seek only physical and psychological comfort to help ignore their own madness. They mistake this for love. She does not think anyone knows how to consider anything sacred."

"What is sacred?"

"Sacred means having a divine quality. If something is sacred, it is a manifestation of the Universe, or what some call God. It is not something that is easy to touch, and if one is lucky to feel even a small indication of this, then they must practice connecting with it, that it may grow."

"If she knows all of these things, why does she not believe in them?"

"Oh Little One, through others she has found much doubt. It is others that are mad. Again, she lives in a paradox. The world is sick with its own insanity, but she believes that she is the one with an illness. For she is different. In the world she lives in, the majority is considered righteous. In many ways, she is a victim of their illness. She has lived with this illness before, resorting to empty things like poisons and self destructive behavior, believing that power lies in trade, and that she must fill her life with frivolous desires. But she will never again resort to this way of living. Now she will either stay, or go."

"Go across the bridge?"

"No Little One, go below the bridge, toward Death."

The Human: Part 3

"It is getting cold here on the shore. There is no longer a crisp, animating breeze, but like an invisible sword the wind scrapes against my skin, leaving thousands of goosebumps as miniature armies, evident of conquest. Should the sun retreat into the sea before I am ready, I must go home and prepare to live another day of this. Some moments I am more above than below, the sun never sets, for it burns brilliant in the pith of my heart. My human body suffers the rich, exhausting fire of all that is sacred under this relentless star, even when its physical incarnate shines only for the other side of the world. If in no one and nothing else, I trust the sun.

But darker moments have over stayed their welcome, and grown like stubborn vines, stretching into days beyond days, entering shadowy expanses across time. The sleeplessness has already crept into my eyes, prying them open in the most exhausting minutes. Life has already seemed too long.

Surrounded by blackness, those I love the most are strangers in their own little plays, belonging to another life I cannot touch. If I tear off their masks, only death will be revealed. I cannot join them as I've done before. Pretense is no longer an option, for in time the imagination fades, and role playing is too much work. Who and what am I if not like all the rest! How conceited of me to feel different! The madness is taking its toll."

Part 6: Two Worlds

"Mother, what is the girl doing now?"

"She is walking closer toward the ocean."


"Because Little One, she is leaning toward a decision. With her feet in the water, she is attempting to realize what it would be like to jump off the bridge. Her faith is waning, even more than before, and once it is gone it will be taken by the wind and spread out like ashes in an entire shore of sand, and she will not be able to pick it up again. There is a lot of love in her heart, but she has chosen to lock it up, and she has thrown the key into the sea. She thinks that by doing this she is saving her love for the Universe, not wanting to waste it on things she believes to be petty, like other people and their society. She does not understand life as a human, and would rather be an inhabitant of the ocean. She believes that only through death can she find the key to unlock her love, and only through such abyss can she find the proper fish that will carry it far throughout the seas. Her mind is very sick now, and she has created many romantic delusions born of her dilemma. She will die only for the sake of poetry. If she should choose to drown, it will not be as in a dream, like she imagines. It will be very real, very frightening, and very painful. Though there is a part of her that knows this reality, she is willing to accept the pain to achieve such a desperate fairy tale. She thinks she will turn into a mermaid. Such a dream will be her last attempt at finding beauty in this world. After this, she hopes that death is nothing but lack of consciousness. For she wants to return to the place she does not remember. The void prior to her conception."

"And to think, this is all because the Universe is a large playful child that wants attention!'

"Yes Little One, but the Universe is what has given life and soul to all humans, and all creation. How selfish would a human be not to accept and appreciate its gifts? When humans are selfish, they do not fulfill their purpose. They wear costumes that are called 'personalities' and they believe these personalities are who they are. But who they believe they are could not be farther from the Truth. So they go about their days as empty shells, and wonder why they suffer from things called stress and confusion. Then they take medicine to heal these feelings. But it is not real medicine, like love and faith. It is a drug, to help them cease thinking, or to help them sleep, or to create a false sense of happiness. The Universe has tried to help these people, but since they give nothing back, the Universe gives up. It no longer wants to play, and it leaves the selfish individual to her own devises, in a world that is only a stage where people are puppets ruled by egos that are created by society. It should be the goal of every human to find their soul, through it they can say hello to the Universe, and in return the Universe will tell them what their purpose is."

"Is the creature over there a selfish individual?"

"She is trapped between both worlds. One is a world where she must keep a personality, and the other does not wear a costume. She is in a place of isolation. Though many humans suffer this fate, they cannot see each other, for the atmosphere is dark and foggy. She does not comprehend either world, and she feels disconnected from both. It would be in her best interest to learn to travel between the two realms, but she can only conceive of all or nothing, for she has yet to understand balance and acceptance. She has many lessons to learn should she choose to stay with this world."

The Human: Part 4

I don’t think I can fathom how to love anymore. I have ceased to remember days when the flame of intuition washed over me, adorning me in the glitter of such divine virtue. Those days were glorious in nature! Despairingly young, the sinews of my heart were unrivaled. Something has changed. The sinews have snapped, and I can no longer hear my heart beating loud as it once did. It seems that any faint patter that sounds is merely an echo from the past, carried here by the long, cruel arms of memory. And if a person does not love, of what use are they? I have seen these people, only their intellect survives. They are hideous, wearing black, petrified hearts upon their sleeves as emblems of destitute lives, with hopeless histories and faithless futures.

I have but one grain of faith left in my trembling hand, but one tear of hope to cry. Could this be enough to birth an ocean of hope, a shore of faith? Where the earth meets the sea, this must be love, for it is the world!

Wait, what is happening? In the silence of my mind I can hear drums! What strange music for madness to play! There is a laughter that tiptoes into this somber air. And something whispers sweetly in the atmosphere. It all comes together like threads weaving in and out, an attempt to mend that crucial organ.

An illusion of music, that’s all. Like hearing someone call your name in a noisy crowd, it is nothing. It’s as silly as thinking the voice of the ocean can be heard in a shell! It is dark now, and returning to the comfort of material shelter, with such companions as books and music, and pretty images of things on walls, seems an impossible feat. Rather I would freeze to death out here! But I have all night to think, for sleep is a friend that does not come around often.

The Passerby: Part 1

What is a girl like you doing out here this late? I have been watching you sit and ponder, thought after thought past the bedtime of these parts! You have been out here since dawn daydreaming your own demise!


What makes you think you know what I ponder? I have only been thinking about how pretty the sun is as it rises and sets, contemplating it’s early morning strength and meditating upon it’s weary shine as the day progresses. I think only of simple things, and they amuse me enough to stay curious about life.


My girl, you speak lies! You have been staring at the ocean with love in your eyes, and as the tide comes in and kisses your toes I have seen you smile, you live only for the affection of the sea. You slowly relinquish any affinity you may have had toward other things on this earth, family, friends, memories, responsibilities. Anything that reminds you of daily life you shove into the heart of forgetfullness and choose to become entranced by the hypnotic music of the vast mystery that lies in the water before you. It is a haunting and beautiful release from the weight of humanity you desire, to be consumed by such a magnificant power, a symbol for you of all that is unknown to man. If only you could return to where you came from, by way of the water, this is what you think. Everyone who seeks death has their own transcendant vehicle that will take them there. I once knew a girl who committed suicide in a wild garden, thinking that she would decompose into the earth and flowers would sprout from her body! And you think yours is a solitary story, but all fantasies consist of more than one character, and are repeated throughout all parts of the earth in various manners. Even without me in the pages of your sordid tale, there are others that can read your words. Your face is riddled with paragraphs!

Whether they be animals or spirits, the sun or the wind, you are not the only one reading what you write!


I am the only one here, save the ocean! I see nothing else in the scenery before me, now that the sun has itself been extinguished by the horizon. It is just I faced with this incredible, majestic beast of a world upon this earth that we call the sea! The moon and the stars as well I suppose, but their function is surely to dress the sea, enhancing it’s natural beauty. And I could sit here for an eternity and dream of drowning in this vision! For I should be so lucky that such a godly thing would consume me! And I don’t have any concern with the thoughts of others, let them think I am mad! I have been in love with the ocean since I was a little girl, and nothing else could cause me such misery than being bound to this body, cursed with the brain of civilized men yet blessed with such spirit, in a constant battle to live in two worlds, yet belonging to neither! I want to be the ocean, to rise from the surface into the sky and transform into a cloud, and feed the earth that I may exist in every natural living thing that grows!


Says the girl who thinks only of simple things! If you long to be the ocean, why have you not yet stepped into the water?


It is nothing you nor anyone else could understand.


It is the music of the universe that whispers things into your ear, is it not? It is the ocean itself that mumbles what you must do, but you have yet to learn to hear such things properly. Your spirit is not tuned with the music, and thus it fails to process the notes. Then you lose the rhythm, call it a delusion, and enter back into the fog of uncertainty, where there is only, as you said, a little storybook girl and the grandiose ocean; A backwards version of The Little Mermaid! A sad weightless spirit trapped in a prison of flesh and bone, longing for it’s release through death.


What nerve you have to narrate my thoughts!


Well perhaps you should close the book and enter the sea if you wish for the story to end. Otherwise, like I said, the words shine like dancing flames in the dark expression clouding your face, and your tears are merely metaphors laced through your story to emphasize the sadness of it all.


I haven’t any tears! A girl like me does not cry! What you think is evidence of sadness is only a result of a bitter and salty wind brushing past my eyes!


How stubborn you are! It is better to cry than to remain in a state where one cannot cry. In the eighth circle of hell souls are blessed with nodded heads that their tears may fall. But you are almost always in the ninth circle, with your head looking up in the coldest of atmospheres, and your tears freeze unable to fall from your face. You are the picture of death, and may as well step into the ocean. In your heart you are already there, my friend. What is it that you are waiting for?


I am waiting to grow a world of hope with this last bit of sand in my hand. But I may as well give it to the wind, for I feel I have run out of time.

How is it that I can see you? For I have not seen anyone for so long, nor have they seen me! People pass by the shore, at times they run past kicking sand my way, and even then though I see their footprints and feel their urgency, they are just ghosts to me, and I to them.

And how is it that you can see me?


I am a part of your story, my friend. You have written me in, whether you realize it or not, for a story like yours would not be complete without a character of my nature. And I have been in many stories, and I have played the part of you in this one in another life. And you have played my part as well. I am here to show you how this ends.


This is not a story, and you do not know how this ends. This is life!


Is life not a story of which the poets and great writers continue to narrate throughout the centuries, illustrated by the divine works of legendary artists, from Michaelangelo and Picasso, to Redon and Bacon?


Hardly a comedy or fairytale, rather a tradgedy, this life you call a story!


A tradgedy indeed! Open your hand.


If I open my hand, the wind will rob me of my last breath, my last heartbeat, it will throw me into the sea!


You do not trust me. That’s reasonable, but listen to your heart.


I have not heard it for some time now, though I know it continues beating.


You exist wanting to be ruled by intellect, but even as you focus your thoughts in what you call the rational world, a physical world ruled by fear and emptiness, scattered with empty shells. This is what you and others name Reality. Regardless, the energy in your spirit screams with color, like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar, dreaming of fields speckled with flowers and at times almost tasting their sweet nectar. You pretend, playing the part of a demon with a veiled face and cruel eyes.


I am a demon, an empty shell with hollow eyes! And even if it is an elaborate costume, why would you risk believing it was anything other than real? For if I am a demon, I could devour you in the moment!


Look away from me and fix your eyes upon the palm of your hand. Is it not opened, and filled with sand? You were not paying attention to your true desires. What you call a violent wind has yet to rob you of your faith. When you have a fear of loss, you hold on tightly. It is not in the nature of trust to encompass fear.

The moonshells attached vehemently to the rocks, it is the snail that is strong enough to hold on, its armour is merely a sheild. There is something inside you that wants to live, to fight the sapphire waves of the sea which promise beauty, but will do nothing but break your shell, and bear you again in a new one. In life, you have a choice; to live, or to die. Suicide is a brilliant creature. For it is as a fox, a very sly trickster.

Nothing has an end, nor does it have a beginning. Moment after moment creates the circle that is time. Birth is a moment, death is a moment. Happiness is a moment, sadness is a moment. One after the other, and nothing lasts. For existence is a pendulum that goes to and fro, between darkness and light, positive and negative. This is the nature of balance. Nothing would be complete without it’s opposite. Walk into the sea with your delusion, you’re uncertain belief that death is an end, and risk the chance of living again. The Universe is very aware that self inflicted death is cheating. You are half way across the board in this game. Existence is not something you can destroy. If you quit, it may not be an end, but an avenue for you to return to the beginning of life, the very thing you are trying to escape. For you to return to the beginning would be an error, an unneccessary loss of all you have learned, and a chosen failure.


Who are you that you think you know such things? The man who believes largely in spirit and puts little stock in science and the physical realm speaks of “balance”! What if death is a strict end? What if it is a deep, dreamless, dark sleep. What if life is a one shot deal that I do not want? What if a bullet, a razor, a dip into the cold massive void could alleviate this? What if we are merely empty shells with nothing inside, and what if I do not want to exist as an empty shell anymore? Let the waves perish me! For I would rather exist as nothing than be something with nothing inside! Who are you to speak such promising lies!


I am a friend, that is all.

Part 7: Shells

What is happening now Mother?


Little One, the human has done to another what she fears others will do to her. For she is like a wild animal that has been trapped and beaten numerous times. When someone tries to pet it, it will bite. When someone tries to give it food, it would sooner starve for fear of poison. She has attempted to push another off of the bridge, but he is further along in the game than she, and understands her position. She is wearing a costume, and pretends that she is but a shell. She attempts to believe in this because in the physical realm, things can be processed with the five senses. In the nonphysical realm, things can merely be felt, thought about and processed with a sense that is not focused on in the current society of humanity. People fear trusting these things because this realm is unexplored by the majority. People must be reliant on their own discoveries and consequently their own deductions when it comes to such things. It is a solitary journey that is meant to nurture the ability to trust and have faith in oneself. When this ability is nurtured, the gift is connecting with others, and realizing that you were never alone. It is the most difficult journey, so much so that many do not choose to embark on it.


Why would humans only trust the physical realm?


Because instead of understanding the duality of the physical and non-physical realm, they focus primarily on the physical realm. For example, emotions can be induced by physical chemicals in the brain, but we think of emotions as metaphysical, or of the mind. However, these two things are interchangable. We can control these chemicals through our emotions, just as much as these chemicals can control how we feel. This is an example of the nature of balance. If we develop the habit of becoming a happier individual, the chemicals will follow suit, and the nature of a person changes. If we persist only in misery, and do not believe we have the ability to change, our belief that chemicals are causing the misery will allow them to take over. It renders an individual powerless. What humans do not understand is that things always start first with an idea, an energy that is born on another level of existence, and passes through various realms until it is made manifest in the physical. Even this is evident in science.

The Human: Part 5

What kind of beast intrudes upon a person’s misery and attempts to rip away the one feeling they have that keeps them from heartlessness? How ruthless must one be to impose their unfounded, frivolous beliefs upon another!? I do not care. I do not care anymore! What have I left but the way that I feel? For I feel as a shell with nothing inside, and I must live as a shell or be nothing at all. And I should rather be nothing without the shell, for such an object is a lie! Who would desire to be beautiful, strong, smooth and indicative of life when there is nothing inside? There is not a soul in the world who would want to become a mask! What is a mask if it cannot be worn? For there is no one anymore to present such a shell, to wear such a mask. I am a costume, not a person wearing one. My essence is nothing.

And yet there were days that I believed in more. But I was naive back then. Suicide is not the trickster, it is he who calls himself a friend that is the sly fox! And I must defeat him before he defeats me! This sand he has given me looks more like dirt! Yes, it is dirt! Yet I cannot bring myself to fling it to the wind just yet.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


A formless shroud, a faceless head, lacking as if a sad butterfly without wings. This thing, it crawls begrudgingly across the sky, leaving a rift in Time, a wake in the pessimistic imagination of a failing God. As a great boat in a small lake it forges Chaos, and all the humans in the world clutch to the shore of reality, screaming at its wild fringes that flow divinely like the long skirts of maidens dancing. The people laugh maniacally in fear that a beauty so great could steal their minds and render them artists, musicians, philosophers, useless prototypes of a dead past in a world that cannot be revived, and will not see a Golden Age again. This is how the creature attempts to sing; through the lamenting tune of a lost soulless insect trying to rub its legs together, wanting to chirp cheerfully like a cricket, but yielding only a tiny resonating ring buried by the loud sounds of a suffering humanity. It drags its body insipidly through Space, does not give up in interrupting our paradigm, and occasionally smiles as it pesters God to stay alive while He dreams of Suicide. And those that can hear it call it faery music, the laughter of ghost children riding the wind, or a sigh of relief from the voice of Love. And those with the sensitive ears will clutch onto the fringes to hitch a ride on the skirts of the maidens that dance beyond Death, for no other reason than to hear more clearly the notes in the song of such promising little bug.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

The Artist in the Art.

This is a good promotional shot!

Photo courtesy of John Cafaro

Friday, June 26, 2009

Mother Nature.

I reconcile this garbage field of thoughts with memories of playing house, daydreams of past Love, and fond images of innocence, as I sink into the quicksand like a thing without consciousness; a traveller’s boot, a voyager’s hat stolen playfully by the wind. Deeper still, I sacrifice slow inches of my body, a slave to Master Deathwish. As he calls, his echoes ring filling this cavity with Melancholy, I feel the pull around my swollen neck and like a puppet, I begin to dance as the Master sings, “Rest with me, I’ll give you everything, the soul behind the Universe, the world beyond the dream.” I bare my neck to be pierced willingly by heavenly, marble-white teeth. I close my eyes to meet the blackness, but all I see are cascades of flowers, painted the colors of a sunset as its fire bleeds into the sea, and I wonder, who has gifted this to me? I feel the breath of a cheating god against my costume skin, the teeth are caked with carelessness, deceived by my Master I battle the sand, emerging from hell to meet a lonely land embracing a sad sky, and I sing, “How quickly I can forget, Mother, how quickly I can forget. But I have not left you yet, Mother, no I have not left you yet.”

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

I Have This.

I have this and not much more:

Enough spare time to enrich the mind, a humble solitary way of life that satiates a minute of longing, an hour of need and turns a dreaded future into an acquiescing past.

I need this, and nothing more:

Pretty, painful pictures to prevent the descent down to the primitive pith of desire; a beautiful, bloody, black and burning mud.

Sometimes I close my eyes and hold my arms up from my sides, and imagine that I fligh so hy to meet the gods, to enact the dreams trapped behind a child’s lies, to behold the gracious, glorious prayers devastatingly unanswered by the Truth; silly wishes of fools who believe in things. It pulls the taffy laughter from my machine soul, it smashes the salt water tank inside my eyes, it turns me sticky tar black and diamond white, abolishes existence and gives me the exquisite taste of a delicious death. Up here in outer space we are spiritual snakes, the body sheds as a thin slip of skin, the mind dissipates losing itself inside the ether like a fog into the clouds, and no thing matters.

I open my eyes, put my arms to my sides, and feel alive for a day.

Saturday, June 13, 2009



See there
What is that?
It stirs, jerking
Beneath the crust
Writhing like a black snake,
An unsightly, giant worm
Choking on the earth

Beads of blood form
Mixed with soil
Like dull rubies
Struggling to shine
The rocks cut and
The sticks pierce
It’s thick skin
But nothing kills it

It’s cries are painful
Yet precious
Like echoes of music from
A time before Time
Chasing a dry wind
Over acres of dirt
In a world of sleep
Searching for open eyes
And attentive ears

It sings a song
Of aching
Like a ghost
Wanting a body


That it was once human

Humming a lullabye
In rememberance


A eulogy
For the death of


Monday, May 25, 2009

Destination Nowhere


Through vibrating eternities
Inside of a black universe
Trespassing onto invisible worlds
Beyond starshine, moonlight and sun
I have travelled,

Destination Nowhere,

And was never afraid,
Not once.

All the bewitching visions
I now see
As I've landed on a blazing planet
Have lifted the lids of Love's eyes.
Ballerina flames dance
Elegantly, underneath a glittering
In a planet made of precious stones
Dusted on a cotton-candy canvas,
The divine light from above
Paints the waters below
Deep shades of Eternity
And I am re-created,


I should be a thankful voyager
Feeling blessed and


But I was never fearful
Until I came across
This place.


I have unconsciously become my art.

Photos courtesy of Aaron Piccirillo

Friday, May 22, 2009

Chicken Scratch II

Chicken Scratch II. (A collection of older works)


Life is but a dream!

Lettuce phase it
We are the young of
A scorned and murky past
Still playing house

Nothing will faze this
She cannot

Face this

He was aging
With an unloved
Mask of a face
Who drove a Harley
And took her for
The ride of her life
When she was 9 and

Much more

When she was 4

Let's just erase it!

We are nightmares and
Evaporated tears
Disassociated into
The vast atmosphere
Always fucking the horror
As if we can seduce it
Into submission

She tried to race it

Dropped out while she was
Giving head

Standing in a seasoned
Song and dance
So merrily

Merrily suffering

Cute and cold
Like a snowman

Wanting the sun


Once I had a vision

One ice had dimension
The touch was frozen pain
The result was lack of feeling

And I

Became a monster

A mermaid
Untouched by waves of apathy
I was numb inside the water
Until the water felt warm to me

I know longer shivered I
I was covered in a cold glimmering


My teeth didn't chatter I
The world with primordial screams

As an immortal cold-blooded
Beast girl
Love was not in sight for me
At the edge of the world nothing matters
Frostbit black by the son

In the see


I don't think I can I... I think I might. I don't want to see the walking lie, buried in a flood of sickness, sucked inside by violent tides. I don't think I should I... I think I will. The way that faces blur in photos, the way that light can keep the past, it haunts my vision, bleeds my brain, reinforces that eternity is just a love that's fading fast. I fall underneath the demi-gods, I rest beside the shore, my heart is floating in sea-filled lungs, I'm breathing in the blood. And I don't think you can't I... I think you won't.

And I think I can't just lay here anymore.
And I think I just can't lie here anymore.

I'm composed I... decompose... Underneath the killing sun, that brings a world to life.
I decompose and I... suppose... That this is what is right.


Us here
Royalty in despair
A queen touched and pulled
Scraped and bullied
Driven into the floor
Like a nail

Just hammered

Driven up
A white wall
The delirium in
Her smile
Colors her eyes


Her king so other worldly
His heart sew Yesterday
Too out of touch to snip the threads
To free him
Too out of love to bring him back

Just a patch on the past
Just a nail in the floor

Stuck drunk and
Too board to
Fix it

Us here
A kingdom in ruins
Just a punk and
His whore

When our costumes got
Two dirty
We couldn't wear them


Won to Three

I wish I was a white skinned
Blue eyed girl
With a gold-plated smile
And a silver scent
To sniff out the 95 in your lies

I had to scribble my name
About a hundred times
With a rock on the sidewalk
With a pen
On my hand
(With my nail
On your skin)
Before I felt like myself

Two for sex

Choking in the upheaval
Of circumstance
I am
Just a bitch
With a face
That looks like
A faint reflection
In a water glass
With a duress
Acquired through
The bullshit in your

(Remind me how to
Dream without drinking)

Of course, I'm young
You could say
Barely alive

A baby almost

But not yours


Slip deep into the little sounds that make a day go by, and find yourself in the middle of the universe with all the heroes who have died. I told the ghost of Superman not to save me when I was caged by the echoes of a sad disease. I said, "Superman, if you try I'll bash my head against the wall and step inside your life." He just looked at me and sighed, then disappeared back into some child's mind.

What have I done? Oh what have I done?

The cars go by, the minutes waste, my stomach growls, my heart beats to keep the machine alive. These things, everything, just to keep the machine alive.

Screaming knives and violent eyes with violet subservient lullabyes, a touch of death, a loss of faith, a dismissal of love, just to keep the machine alive.

The quickness of a rotten moment sneaking into time is faster than the speed of light and larger than Godzilla. It destroys the cities in my world, forces the eyes into apocolypse vision. You walk outside one day and everything, just everything is dirty or broken.

How did this happen? Oh how did this happen?

I gave up before the sun came up.

I tried to make it without heroes. I tried to make it without weapons. I tried to alter reality to my liking, imagine myself outside the cage. I was strong for a moment, then I started to feel myself slip away, into the sounds of a day.

My ghost disappears into a child's mind.


I cut up the sun into little star shapes and dressed my house in them. My house caught on fire and I felt the burn of Satan's wicked beauty. I love the way this numbness feels. Myself, I am a writing eel out of water, seething in this one true gold, (I have a mind that feels so old). The wrinkles in my skin start to bleed and as I burn I can see God in the red puddle on the floor. I say to Him, "Oh God oh Lord I just can't take anymore! My left hand is growing bigger t han the Universe!", and he says:::: Dear child, I do not exist and;;;;

I say

""""God I know your lies are just a trick""""



We see
A Child and their naked games
Adults dressing up as if they know what it's like to

Stung by the sting we sing

Fuck you
And your little girl games
Your bold vaginal ways
And your bald pineal aggression
The way stupid sluts
Long to be raped

(God you look like such
A cunt in your diaper dresses)

Why don't you just
Go out and get laid
Stop pretending to be a real boy?

Just look and
Cinderella is covered in pumpkin seeds
Goldilocks is torn to bloody pieces
By an angry little bear.


Vacant possessive Man hands
Molestation mistaken for Desire
As if I wasn't any girl
And wasn't just a fucking CUNT
To U.

But I know the relationship
Between a stamen and
And I know the power of
The Sun
And your lies are
Written all over your I's
Your mind is diseased with
Sex and Buddha.

If I had a cock
I'd rape you up the ass
REAL hard
Pull out your rectum
And watch you walk around with it
Between your mutt-legs
And then I would laugh
And ask you
"How does it feel?"

Be very careful with me


I have a vicious intellect
A strategy mapped out in my mind
That I don't waste on things like

A revenge so sweet it makes me sick
I could kill you
And find love in your blood


Peace on your Deadface.


Scum fuck bum in the corner pissing on concrete oh baby I wish I was you cuz your drunken carelessness is so goddamn cool and maybe we could get married cuz I'm a sidewalk shitter and I don't give a fuck. Let's fall in love and you can beat me and I can scream in your ear sounding like the world's largest buzzing CICADA but you won't kill me cuz then you can't FUCK me.

(My volatile behavior may not be wrong or right but I know what I have to tell myself to be extricated from a perpetual demise that is comfort.)

Must I be an icon to my own relentless self? An image that has an autobiography? A person with pain? Someone who slipped through the cracks? Not a lawyer. Not a doctor. Never a wife or mother.

I refuse to be human. I refuse to understand the pretense that is communication between one and another when a person is a country with their own set of laws and their own tongue, and their own rotten fucking politics. I refuse to sign the treaty. I will not end this war when a person hates a person underneath the delusion of this tyrant we call LOVE.

I will not SMILE AND NOD.


Filthy diseased misbehaving
Rabid goat-faced daemon
With the light of
Oozing out of your eyes

I will squash you
With these dancing shoes
I will watch you
Bleed out the Evil
In an Angel's secret body

And like a dog
I will lap it up
With my sloppy tongue
And call myself

(Mr. Goatface Hellsoul)
You will be
My lamb.


Ease my mind with a cold metal rod, because a pillow never works and the silly sun through my purple eyes is just a cancer in my heart and I cannot flip that switch without sawing through a bone which is something I refuse to do because

I don't really know if I can heal anymore with this autoimmune disorder called Living. (This could be a throwback to a surreal time when I had butterflies and enemies in my mind, self seeping into days past a memory of you like acid reflux. Fuck. You are the most un-inlove creature I have ever met, but when I watch you climb dinosaurs I must admit, I love you very deeply, like someone, somewhere loved a man named Hitler.)

That little smile, chaaaa... grin on your face must be erased in a vehement effort on my behalf to eliminate you from the opportunity of Presence, even behind Memory's bitter bars. Because you don't deserve any gifts.

And anyways I'm sitting here listening to the Past not understanding how to remember time between Us and Now, and I feel detached and unsympathetic, like a brilliant sociopath committing suicide in some attempt to feel empathetic but

The Death is The Cure and I remember our futle attempts at fame in our heads cuz we were...

Really something else.


Dear Lovely
Has shit in her head
The bowel movements
Of her brain
Has castrated
The only Power
The 1 Love
Surrounding her
Soiled nostalgic
That bears significant
To Never-Time

Dear Lovely
Is Ancient and
Feels shrinkingly small
Like a maggot-baby
Trying to reach
For a cookie
In an empty house
That does not exist
Trying to speak
So she can say
"I love you Daddy"
To a face

She is the kind of animal
That screams
"Help me, I'm drowning!"
In the middle of a desert

Dear Lovely is temporary
But she will not die.


There is nothing here but the tedious drag of empty seconds, memories of cavities like caves with jagged walls that are too sharp to touch. I remember this aching. A solitude so slow it leans in and kisses me like ice on a hot summer day. And then I fall in Love. Ultimately unconsciously numb skin so dead that a cut never bleeds. Head so gone I see roses spill from my wounds instead, onto the carpet, and the isolation turns reality into a winter wonderland only I can see.

An ancient stillborn comatose heart stitched inside, made of cloth and filled with moths IamtheghostthathauntsthishollowplacewhichIdespise.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Friday, April 3, 2009

Sometimes Art/Art Sometimes

Art sometimes, often times, has a way of failing us. It is a feeling of sickness that cannot be forced out of us. When we try to vomit, we haven't eaten enough, digested enough for the purging to happen. There is no expression, no substance in what is revealed. It is just water. Sometimes art is ephemeral, meaningless, and disposable. The meaning is nothing. The image is not powerful enough, and even embarrassing. The result is a necessary failure. It is something that tells us that it is not meant to be born yet, if at all.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

On Makeshift Eyes.

When I hand most people my business card, amusingly enough, the reaction is almost always the same. The URL is recited: "Make, shift... eyes?" which is often followed by an expression of either curiousity or confusion. The origin of the term comes from a poem I wrote a long time ago. Here it is:

Scar City

Baby stillborn screeching
In these waking hours of scarcity
This is Scar City
The metropolis of retribution
These are the remaining numbers
Skinny hands and glossy shelters
Grandfather's wood with depictions of
Sun and moon and chiming wails
Winding down in the aftermath
Of Change
This is the invisible black ribbon
In every rainbow
And we are the children
Who see

Makeshift eyes carry visions
Of regressing days beyond birth
The inexplicable conviction
Rings in speakers, high pitched
And obnoxious
Breathe the toxins in deep
My visiting confidant
This is all the fresh air you get

Relax now
The promise has not shattered yet

It has been long since the ticking
Has ceased
Eyelids have since been closed
In this darkness, hope still weeps
And in time we shall dream
Of dawn

We are possessed in the physical realm to manifest things that exist in the non-physical realm. "Makeshift eyes carry visions of regressing days beyond birth," means that we must use whatever we have within us to feel and interpret the history of the universe which began millions of years prior to our own individual creations.

Unfortunately, the human race suffers greatly when attempting to achieve such a vision. We do not have the metaphysical faculty to see. Intuitively, most people understand that there is something we are missing. I don't need to start an arbitrary dissertation on spirituality or spill out my beliefs on the human condition, (I'm sure that will come in time through this blog!) but I will say this: Those who find something in themselves that can serve as windows to view this particularly beautiful and vague scenery, if only temporarily, will be the ones to lead us out of the darkness.