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dragonsdragonsdragons
Had the very base layer (some thick intaglio sweeps which formed the base for the body) lying around left over from last year; polished it up a couple of weeks ago.
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when the counsellor tells you your struggles have made you wise...


ask her how useful the knowledge of how many punches it takes to lay you cold on the floor will be in future. ask her if the endless frost that shivers under your fragile skin is going to turn out handy, a free cooling agent in the heated heights of summer. ask her where she was every morning when you took the pills and crumpled the plastic cup pathetic in your fist. ask her about the taste of toothpaste and bile, how she felt when the dentist marked the progression of decay and solemnly warned you to cut down on sweets. ask her how it feels to keep all those suicides filed away in her desk drawer knowing that they were never ‘wise’ enough to see another way out and through. ask her about the first time she drank until she threw up for hours after she’d become sober again because a boy wouldn’t touch her, or a girl wouldn’t give her a second glance. question everything because there’s nothing like being given the honorary badge of ‘wisdom’ to make your thoughts stagnant, your will complacent. your whole life is now going to be measured on each side of a line between ‘here’ and ‘recovery’. understand that to therapists, you are at A and ‘recovery’ is at B. it is not  a B, though, not a single point on a map; ‘recovery’ is the white light at the end of the tunnel. it can signify the end of something, but it is not the end. it is used by health professionals as a preferred ending point, though, where they can stamp your hand and sign your papers and put you back out to pasture with the healthy cows. congratulations- you are through-- you are on the road to Happy now--- good fucking luck with that. don’t accept a happy ending, a brief flash of joy at the end of a long, sad life- seek a happy middle and find what it is that doesn’t just make you happy but makes you go, drives you forward and forward and keeps your edges sharp in a good way. it is hard to stand fast and stop your edges being blunted by the world, but relaxing into softness is not the answer. despair is soft, a cushion to dull every blow. depression is so compassionate and charming, she will stroke you with her pliable undemanding hands until you wonder if she is the only one who will ever understand how to love you, and you will believe her because what else are you supposed to believe- she keeps you so comfortable, you’ve sunk down into your EZ chair and now you couldn’t get up if you tried. you can’t fail if you don’t try. you are bound to fail if you don’t try. if you don’t try, you are bound. in six years when the lover leaving your bed asks about the scars on your thigh, tell them how you cut yourself free. lead them through the gashes in the fabric of the labyrinth of yourself. don’t leave anything out. wound them with your honesty so that they know how it feels to heal. when they stroke the soft skin over your ribs and say you’re beautiful, agree. you must be beautiful, must make yourself beautiful because the world was already ugly when you were born and there is no room for more ugly in it, so it’s impossible to believe you’re not the definition of gorgeous. say i am not ugly. and maybe you think that last part was a lie but so were the last three and a half years of your life. listen to them say it ‘beautiful/beautiful/beautiful’ over again until the word loses its meaning and becomes an empty noise, the cooing croak of some strange owl, the moan of a misshapen hinge on a door. the best part about ‘recovery’ is the pieces of yourself that you recover, rediscover, like coins stuffed behind the pillows of a couch. you are a big pile of coins. no other pile of coins contains the same coins that you do. the coins that make you who you are have value; so do the coins that make up everybody else. you can see the value in others. remember that you have value, too. incalculable worth. when the counsellor tells you that you are getting better, smile and say thank you, ask if she has an honest coin in the treasure trove of her soul or if she likes to hoard shiny lies and pretty words for making the sad sick girls feel special. when the counsellor speaks to you, speak back, honestly, even if it’s mean, even if the truth is too terrible and scary for you to tell without tears. because the only way you will not be measured by her words is if you are measured by your own.
April 21st
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               a materialist
               inside of you

               unknitting your sweater
               & in your dream

               you are a wolf eating
               a flower in an orange field. the world
               is ending. an unnamed girl stains you

               as if she were tea
               giving up to a
               foaming ocean.

               she writes a story: the unrequited
               blurry visions of two visionaries
               separated by antibiotic resistance.

               I'm sorry we have nothing left
               to say to one another tonight

               & for our past together
               having a lace quality to it.
               we drink from a jar as
               big as the republic;

               we disagree, yet we
               carry on with it.
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I want to write rough and raw and unbearable
    the way cigarettes taste at midnight
    to a tired atheist knocking on a locked church door
    wondering whether to pray or scream

I want to write cold and brutal and honest
    like fog-choked dawns on unfamiliar city streets
    when the silence presses behind your eyelids
    and breathing feels like blasphemy

I want to write like the midnight air that burns the back of your throat
    like cold fury and boiling hatred
    like the panic that eats into bone marrow
    the fear that runs prickling fingers down twisted spines

I want to write of you and me and everything
    pin the stars behind my eyelids into letters to no one
    I want to scar you with unspun metaphor
    To write until my hands shake
    until I break myself with honesty
    until I empty myself or
    until my wrist snaps from the attempt.
written while i should have been doing other things
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Italiano
In questo periodo mi piace molto il modo di rappresentare la natura dei fiamminghi, così dettagliata e con i prati ricolmi di piante tra le più disparate. Sarà che ho studiato una miriade di arazzi in cui viene rappresentata, ma è maestosa, soprattutto quando ha grandi dimensioni.

Questo disegno parte dalla voglia di rappresentare una foresta fiamminga e di mostrare al suo interno, quasi secondari, due miei personaggi.

Appena avrò tempo voglio farne la versione colorata con il solito misto di acquerello/pastello/matite sfumabili, sperando di avere presto del tempo libero! :pray:


English
Lately I like the flemish style of painting nature, so detailed and with fields full of all type plants. It's probably caused by this period, in which I studied lots and lots and lots of tapestries with these flemish forests, but this kind of nature is magnificent, especially the large sized ones.

This drawing starts from my wish to represent a flemish forest and to show in it, nearly secondary, two of my characters.

As soon as I'll have more free time, I would make the coloured version of this, with the usual mix of watercolours/watersoluble pencils/shading pencils. I hope I'll have free time soon! :pray:
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I swallowed red etch on blackwall,
stuttered stops and full-moon strophes
between breaths. I never knew in studying
an angel, drowned Andromeda, accursed
beauty (bound for sacrifice)

that I would bleed a misfit
canvas smeared uncolorful dry drawn breathless
ever under water endless
apocryphal deaths.

---

There are galaxies to rent,
galaxies to visit. And those
so beautiful as not to be imagined
impersonal perfections,
distant clouds gathered on the fingertips
of gods;

so beautiful
they might split you at the nucleus
and smile at what they've made.
Sometimes I wish I could cut away sections of memory.
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Something kind of old done in charcoal
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the first words were not
sun and moon and stars, but oh god I will wear this
power like a bearskin - like a drum machine in a chicken-bone
key. carnivorous

instinct is the sum
of all the parts we're too afraid to eat:
black wires, white bulbs, wicks from tallow
candles. if they

would let us, we could make wax
breathe:
 
we could hunt the essence
of smoking fluorescent galaxies, all our
strange living lives and neon paradises, all our
blue planets and disemboweled sacrifices, if only we could

breathe while below us the round sky winds down
and holds bone to our throats, so we
are spilled, forced up
and wondering:

if sugar were
sweet, then could
this
be
?
forever in the suburbs
[link]
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i.
I lost my voice one day. I woke up to a hollow echo in the base my throat and knew I’d lost something special before I’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. I checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.


ii.
I found my voice one day. I took long walks with silent friends, made travel plans and came home tired but fulfilled. I pulled a pen from the junk drawer, or sat down at a keyboard, or bought a journal on a whim and found it curled up around my fingers, sleeping, rusty, but alive.
This was one 55 word story, but sometimes not even I can compress that much :XD: There was clearly too much material, so I split it into two stories; one about losing your voice and one about finding it. 55 words each.

I like this one a lot :D

#Glory-Be-Project Day 21
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i've written so many poems
about love and luck and the
unbearable sadness that surfaces
whenever i think about you.

but you isn't a person,
you is a metaphor for the
birds suffocating in the clouds and the
leaves fighting off the wind.

and when i see flowers
all i can think of is death;
because i am a poet,
and my kind of poetry is the
kind that keeps me up all night,
as i memorize the ceiling
and count every minute
until the sun rises.
it’s the kind that makes me
wish for a bridge because then
maybe i could finally be free.

my kind of poetry,
it’s the kind that kills me.
i can't think of a title.
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