ProjectPorkchop Vol238

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Deviation Actions

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ProjectPorkchop is all about bringing more exposure to the many talented yet under appreciated artists going unseen on deviantART daily. The artists chosen truly deserve more attention based on low counts of favorites, comments, and watchers, added to their incredible artistic talent.



:iconjanharantart:

:bigthumb354657565::bigthumb322119650:
:bigthumb305892481::bigthumb305885286:

Suggested by jane-beata
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:iconoldschooldan:

Marlin Brando oil painting by OLDSCHOOLDAN Bogey portrait by OLDSCHOOLDAN

Mature Content

THE ARCADIAN WOODS by OLDSCHOOLDAN
Karloff as the monster 1931 by OLDSCHOOLDAN

Suggested by Riemea
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:iconwyomingtyler:

Grounded by WyomingTyler Pulse II by WyomingTyler
Tattoo II by WyomingTyler Tattoo I by WyomingTyler

Suggested by TinyWild
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:iconilikeshinythings:

Greatest Story Never Told by Ilikeshinythings whimsy by Ilikeshinythings
Thought and Memory by Ilikeshinythings Cthulhu Visit by Ilikeshinythings

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:iconwander-mind:

hey mama by wander-mind coyote in the backgarden please watch over my baby by wander-mind
the tide crawls in...and the tide crawls out, sluicing away any proof
of sand-etched promises; no chalky outline
to remind us that there was some
body here, before.
“i don’t care what you think,
but i care that you know certain things.”

our friends walk out onto the long grey spit,
take our arms and lead us into the sea where all bones
are washed clean. we meet for the first time
over a grave where i eat an asparagus roll
like i am hiding the evidence of
an unfinished letter
having something to do with shame.
“the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.”

peering into this open casket, wanting
to throw handfuls of dirt over it until
i can’t see your face
or mine.
little brother//youngest sonlittle brother//youngest son

swathed in sheets in the hospital bed, a skinny
silkworm of a boy
in a cocoon of restless lethargy and the
gentle murmurings of pain
which come to him even in sleep- he dreams
of agony like a quiet groping hand
which tugs on his elbow in the crowd, whispering
-do you know me?- as if he is the only one
who hears. we are quite prepared to believe
that he is the only one who feels pain
in the whole hospital; have no sorrow
or sympathy to share and cannot bear to see
these other children, all nothing
but chalkdust smears on the pillows
which offer no comfort, casting shadows
they have not earned.
a ward full of half-sketched pastel faeries with
waxen skin worn buttery; melting into purplish blooms
where quiet silken needles slide through
to leave wine stains, kiss marks, the ghosts of adulthood
promised but not delivered. -not yet-, we say,
-not yet-. when we look at our fragile
sanatorium prince lying
with a hard pea of discomfort under his mattress
wh


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