Awesome sketches by AuAu, one of them including Tom and Lauren of my collaborative novel project, Identify. They look great, so be sure to give her a follow if you want to stay updated on upcoming work.
Coffee Drinking 73
Tag: Art
Coffee Drinking 71
Such stunning work from AuAu, including the completed Lauren drawing for my Identify novel collaborative project. Be sure to check each drawing out and give her a follow!
Its gonna be a loooong while for me to finish the Alice story, in that one she, emh, you could say, sold her own heart.
On the story I was talking about the last post, its something different. For a start, it is someone elses heart.
“Aurora is such and idiot” well, thats a given. Mmm, I could improve the eyes.
But it is more complex than that, I wont even be able to cover it here… in the interaction between Auroras personalities, you can see things flowing naturally one way, then the leadership deciding to go another.
Aint that, fun? life is so dull and boring, maybe in that undiscovered path… Going back to their relation, earlier times were different, in common terms, Aurora was “way out of her league”, social status, resources, strength, this and that, Aurora kept fighting everyone there as she didnt like it, Auroras Mother…
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Coffee Drinking 70
Some more awesome work from the brilliant mastermind, AuAu. Do check it out!
The other day I was about to write a “poem” called ~Hoarder lite~, once upon a time I was a full one, now I notice Im lite, which gets in the middle of the so necessary cleaning that has draaaaaged for years.
Then I want to do it all in one day, impossible, then I just do enough and forget about it, then I want to do something and get a flu, or work, or busy with whatever crap, aaaahhhhh.
Lots of work this past week, I know its a fat-thin cows thing, so I dont complain much. Pigeon matters, the baby squad remains here, baby 2 and 3 are still small, baby number 6, I have released him like five times and still comes back at the end of the day.
Plenty of other stuff… with the so many deaths of friendly birds, and that time of the year…
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“Sketch of Homey Cottage” by edenbray.
A white stripe daubed across, broken up from left eye to right there is the cottage
Coffee Drinking 63
Amazing artwork by AuAu. The latter two images are depictions of Tom and Lauren from “Identify” an ongoing collaborative novel I am running. You can view the character profiles here if you would like to be more familiar with the main characters (and the story) and catch up on the rest of the chapters here.
Please do check out AuAu’s website and further work. They have such great talent!
Work, work, work… ahg, it kills my good mood and eats my time.
I should be glad I even have it though, I dont know how it has lasted for so long, maybe its my looks. Yesterday I wrote a big analysis of my teaching work, it was a good read, but too negative so I erased it today.
They all have their projects they want to do, they struggle with the technical part, so they call me. They start well, they get excited, its finally gonna happen… until they realize that they have to study, and they have to work, and that they have to invest to some degree. Then they slowly clinch to the hope that it will be done somehow, yet it wont.
Bottom line, they dont believe in themselves, time to go back being a sheep of media.
“Yesterday I released baby #4, he was capable…
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Of Poetry and Fire (Analysis #1: “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot).
“And in short, I was afraid.” T.S. Eliot reveals it all here. We can go home now.
Happy Blog, Happy Life.
Buckle up, kiddos. We’re going to learn how to be happy. Or at least try to.
Let it die.
Turn away from the resuscitations there the dream warrants the saplings, she in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if swallowed in the vanity of torpor, a slumber to the tower of ice in the stars alive
bloom.
Desert, her eyes are morsels to the jasmine and roses once grown from her wrists, between the flowers in each white finger, whilst the moon falls, leaves barefoot in winter, deserved for posturing an abyss this dance, like an atramentous sea;
For mercy. (Updated with audio recording).
An epilogue of a vista in father’s ocean eyes; the echo of the dream fallen in conniption a chrysalis of fuckery
Eyes #2
Eyes lissom, lost twinned in amnesia of darkness wrapped around the orphaned dream interwoven alone leave me alone
Forgotten (to silence).
Stare at the ceiling, I am an afterthought, dreams cast forgotten memories in twilight’s tongue rivaling alone
“Ophilia” By a.d.matthias.
Cecilia paused. She could never remember their names. Perhaps she is never told; perhaps she is made to forget. Briefly wondering how many have come and gone, she then decides that names are ultimately inconsequential, before lamenting sotto voce, “What’s in a name…”
Early dark.
In our face like waves, receded with flickers
That are evasive in our bones with ferity
Void of discovering dreaming, these fluencies
In evocative tremors, prospering the pigweeds
In the fallen dusk arcs upon the belts of snow,
Appearing to crawl, swaddled within a darkroom
In the depths of your mind
Unquiet Light.
When the hand lays on sights, dead,
That collapsed dust from earlier time,
That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead
With the lining, cried at first breath.
Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night
As when the mutters of veiled chance
Bested the light that silence commended, strife,
As the rivers bound to death as the unquiet light.
When thy heart withers at unborn tears,
Beyond the dressing of the sea, condemned
By the forthright waves that wallow sails
And willow them too, no more from a valley dale,
The rivers that reflected the moon
That dream for light to chill the dell
And when among the intone, it broods and dwells,
The everlasting song, thy unrest that shines the wells,
That laid the dirge of the last sight,
With unrest from the earlier time (which is change),
With the lining, alive, above a river of dead…
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Valhalla. (Prose)
It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree.
I’ll Remember.
As I touch the river that trembles upon my weak sunlit torrents upon a gentle lick of lilac,
And I shiver upon the pale wisteria of the eventide like a wounded deer,
For I wonder upon the dark lavender skies, and their cracked gentle weeping rivers
That glint upon the surface below the Acrylic golden trees, and their blossoming tormented thunders
Pseudopsychosis. 