Month: May 2016

LongManPigMan Concept Art

I could do something with this.
If I can stand to look at it for more than a two seconds without my brain screaming, anyway.

ForestLongManPigMan

I know what its feet look like.
That means that I know what its footprints look like.

So I can tell if it’s following me.

Oh Yestin. Stick close behind me.
Have your hand on my hip and save me.
My hideous guardian angel.
Save me from the Long Man.

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II: The True Freedom – Time [Lull]

I: The True Freedom – Memory [Lull]

 

The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time…

-W. B. Yeats

 

Terrible! – a terrible loss. Oh, each

passing day weighs down my figure,

And each falling grain from one teardrop of

the Hourglass to the other,

And each waltzing shadow distorting itself

on the face of the Sundail,

And each shallow breath she sighs that

counts the seconds out of reach,

All count – count towards our pure endlessness.

We must dispose of time.

 

This modern strictness, a concept intangible,

Is no more than a mere and incurable sickness,

Which no man tries to fight. Raising the

scalpel high, you remove the defective tissue,

But you do not move the defective time. This

walking corpse, this living carcass, do they

all fool themselves this way? Pretending that time,

In its terrible glory, is on their side, an ally.

Oh, rue this day, time. You shall not lay your gnarled

hand on my sister’s shoulder.

 

I lay mine.

Her breath is under my palm, and a singular second of

serenity enters. A calmness. A stillness. But not

for long. I will go, I will destroy time. No matter how

much I want time to catch me, for my sister, that elegance

hidden beneath the gas mask and funnel of hair,

Her face must remain china. Remain porcelain.

 

So tempt me. So hurt it. So hurt time, self, hurt it.

As it hurt me, as I destroyed all memory. Memory of her

little girl figure is merely an imagination. What colour

were her shoes? Memory – gone. Time – ruin it.

I travel within to the farthest reaches of the sun,

Over continents and oceans, never stepping through the shade,

Time must not pass. If I keep forcing myself, if I keep moving,

If I never stop and carry my sister though, we will never

change, she will never change, I will never

change. And serene blissful pastimes will be lost in imagination

as our memories fade every after-second. Without time, without

time, no seconds will pass.

Every stolen night will stand still.

Every figure,

Frozen,

In their own serene blissfulness, and perhaps,

When I ruin the destroyer of temples,

And burn the catcher of life,

And trap the conceited seasons behind,

I can smile, and smile genuinely,

when I look, for an unwritten eternity,

into my sister’s eyes.

 

III: The True Freedom – Need [Lull]

Thoughts during a Haircut

Sink down,
So far that you’re lost in the endless realm of
vague and obscure thoughts
manifesting themselves into harmless but
terrifying shapes that each inevitably slink
closer and closer to us.

Sink down,
So far that you’re lost from sight
and your truths are hidden behind your lies that you
believe. This is not your psychopathic mind, this is
your psychopathic journey and you expect me,
Me,
To sympathise with you?

Oh, keep it company with you sir,
For sympathy is restless and uncomfortable here,
It writhes in its own sweat and I must send it
away. For no one here sympathises. Your lies
are yours alone and yours eternally. Quiet –
hiss of fire and gold. Does it in your head –
held high like the sun – hold the delicate truth
that you are, indeed, a lie?

How about lying that you hear something,
A ghostly remembrance,
Of skirt and swish, and turning forever.
Is it all related somehow? And twist
the truth together. An ugly mush of words that fall,
Unhappily,
Together.

Sink down,
Lower – sink down. Small understatement.
But still. Lower, sink, lower, sink. You think
you rise higher, how dare you swear that where
you wander and slink in the shadows is inside your
own reality. This is your mind – your mind.
Your mind.
Like the beehive we remember
full of ugly thoughts
and ugly faces
that you
make
work.

Can you sit a little lower,
I think your head – full – takes up the oxygen.
And leaves none for us. Let me see you.
Let me hear you.
Let me
Let me see you. Oh
let hear you. And see right past your
bloated ears and into the mirror.
Sink down.

Taking the scissors nearer,
Obscure thoughts manifesting again,
Outside your head again,
In the world again. And where should I cut?
Perhaps if I slit the vein
that holds the flowing hatred and electric,
Maybe your kindness will be revealed?
Or
maybe that died long ago.

Whichever.
Sink down,
We’ll continue your trip
and your psychopathic horror story
so much later that when you sleep
we’ll be beneath you, right there, underneath,
Hissing through. Fabric will keep us down
but never gone. As long as you close those eyes
while I work
and as long as you resign yourself
to the snip of the scissors
the grating churrr of the blades together
we won’t ever
have another
issue
sir.

Have I made my threats
crystal
watery
clear?

So
sink down.
I can taste those abominations you call truths,
And I feed off those truths,
And I decimate your truths. Because
I know how they really sound
and how they really are
behind the vague obscure nature of tongue
and cheekbone and toothpull
I know what really lies
behind those lies.

 

 

 

[Just for the record, I’ve not had my hair cut for approximately 5 years]

Deliverance [Candy]

Sir
Sir
Say, sir

The mistress sir.
She wants you, sir.

Bite, haul, but don’t touch
I’m on the porch

Let’s go sailing, look for Nessie
Why not? It’ll be fun.
She’ll come a-callin’
Caterwaulin’.
Giehl is outside
Giehl is inside
His colours his
Hair and robe been burned orange by flame.

but

He never told me
You don’t want me
But I do
I want you
you know me and
I
know
you

Madam answers phones deep sleep secretary
Piss on the door
She’ll get the message but
that’s not the message
you are trying to tell
me is it?

Deliverance.

Tie hand yawn for summer makes me sleepy
Reading twisted fiction in the early morning
Use your imaginations.
You make no sense.
Why not use your imaginations?
You’ll make all sense.

Imagery and
and symmetry
Lion mane
Sugar cane
Empty lane
in the rain.

Perfect for a
a
a corpse run in a death-romance twist-fiction.

Necrophilia’s hot
You are scared
I am       scared
You are writing my scars onto your arm.
I write my stories.
My originality.

My message in the watermark behind the page
in light grey
don’t read but stay on task.

Hide from the hidden,
and reveal the revealed,
and toss the falling,
and save the secure.
My twisted fiction comes to life now.
My message lives now
on all fours
to straighten up
to read
to live again something I felt long ago
to regurgitate life onto a page
this was six years ago.
This was six years ago.

And still,
holding,
my message
and its true meaning
washed from the watermark long ago.
And my message
lost from sight
and banished from my mind
will be forever forgotten in the turning gyre of life,
as it encircles
and closes
upon us.

I: The True Freedom – Memory [Lull]

My sister’s phonograph lies in the corner,

Untouched. Unused, worthless, beyond repair,

Yet she will not part with it. If I could, to break

my sister’s heart, I would move the ‘graph.

Needless and worthless clutter, a life unknown.

How the suffocation becomes worthless if glance at it too long.

The phonograph does not play,

It will never play,

But the memories, they’re fresher.

I am ultimate, a memory within her own,

If I was to wreck the ‘graph,

I’d pass right through.

 

So let’s be rid of the memories first,

A harsh tie from the real world,

To keep the escapism real,

To keep the escapism breathing,

To silence the outside. Only living

on the inside – yet, without the memory

of her anchoring phonograph,

Who will she be?

To erase, to love, to even kill, I’d be rid of all memory.

Silence myself in the deep fug of thought,

But with no memories to penetrate my world.

We will be rid of memories first.

 

Grasping hold, taking the corner of a

blank white page, to turn it,

I grasp the phonograph’s edges.

This is the first place to begin, as this memory

means nothing to me.

I raise myself, and sounds fall,

Out of the broken phonograph snout,

To make noise on the brick floor.

Are these part of the memory? To pick up and erase,

A dark part of myself. It means nothing.

I raise my sister’s phonograph,

Up high, as if I will put it away,

Lay it on a shelf for the memory to fade,

But I carry it through. My mind –

Loosened by the choice –

Feels lighter every step.

 

My sister’s phonograph no longer will keep

her own spirit tied. I have freed her into life.

Disposing of the long-ago object,

The feeling of a previous existence,

Plays harsh upon my hands.

The phonograph is getting heavier.

How? – the sound fell from its base,

The sound was never heavy. Yet

each step sharpens my memory,

To the point of hurting me. But

I must grip the phonograph tighter. The loss

of a life for the thrill of a memory,

The dull watercolour sweep or thought,

It lasts for a few seconds. There’s not

a world in her head. There’s not a world

in mine. There is only a huge gap,

Where our lives stopped.

 

The phonograph is weighing me down,

Each pace a dark gasp,

An expulsion of putrid memory from my

own selfish head. Mercy.

Deflate and dispose, phonograph, I am the reality.

A small piece, a slick oil-paint at best,

Instead of this airy watercolour,

That your memory provides. Shift the weight.

One hand, pressed upon, the other, pain,

Twinned with my sharpening memory.

Twisted agony again. But – I could stop,

I could stop walking,

Give into the memories of my sister,

Give into the memories of me,

And stop walking –

But to stop, to give up my life,

I will not waste my sister’s life. I will

free her. Piece by piece, pull this reality

apart and free her. And I will follow,

The walls gone, the freedom unchained,

But it has to start somewhere.

I pick up the phonograph again.

 

II: The True Freedom – Time [Lull]

Miscarriage

Simply an instance where Yestin got far too excited.
Simply an instance when he couldn’t help himself.
Simply an instance when he became hungry for its premature soul.

You may as well get rid of the body. It’s not as if it’s needed.
No soul, no birth. It’s that simple.

So don’t worry.
The baby, yours or whoever’s, they’re safe.
They’re fuelling him.
And therefore fuelling me.

V: Scrawl

IV: Scrawl

 

I KNOW WHEN TO STOP THE WALKING
AND WHERE TO HOLD MY SOUL
I KNOW HOW TO STOP THE COLDNESS
THE COLDNESS I WILL OWN

FOCUS ON THE WARMTH WITHIN
THE HOT FULL BLAZE OF INNARDS SPIRAL
SIT DOWN DEAF AND MUTE ON MOSS
TO SQUEEZE IT; HELLBENT, SUICIDAL

I KNOW WHEN TO STOP THE WALKING
AND WHERE TO HOLD MY SOUL
WENDIGO AND GHOSTLY HORROR
RIP ME HALF FROM WHOLE.

 

Don’t look
too far
into
my eyes.

 

VI: Scrawl