ProjectPorkchop Vol278

11 min read

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.



:iconabdeldad:

5 by abdeldad2 by abdeldad
3 by abdeldad1 by abdeldad

Suggested by TinyWild
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:icondavidgrice:

purple blue by davidgriceRoark D by davidgrice
lg teal by davidgricepumpkin king by davidgrice

Suggested by MiaLuyando
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:iconfpesantez:




Suggested by sincebecomeswhy
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:iconkaitana:

Sunset on the beach by KaitanaLandscape 2: lake house by Kaitana
Valley Of A Bloody River by KaitanaPoppy field by Kaitana

Suggested by sincebecomeswhy
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:iconstraygod:

i can't sleep, andI swore coffee all over the wallpaper.
she started screaming about how writing shit was letting the world see what your guts look like
flapping wet and messy where they spill purpleblack over the pavement
and I hoped it was true, since I am only the colour of every bloated hernial sac rupturing
through tangled intestinal miles, flopping about, foetal
tonguing around massive vats of ugly viscera.  said she couldn't understand how I
could just talk indelicate about life:
losing kids at sixteen and falling red and helpless into
supermassive black holes full of transcendental bullshit like lucid dreams and sleep paralysis,
trance channelling Egyptian entities and eating mushrooms in Amsterdam in the middle
of a psychotic breakdown and sitting stupefied in a youth hostel for hours until
finally breaking even and remembering you're not Osiris; acid in the rain, bad acid in archways of
midnight traffic lights, ripping up the spacetime continuum and seeing visions of yourself at forty
having t
dancing the charleston on wet cementstripping naked in the city centre was never about proving a point.
we measure everything in earthquakes, crippled idiot halfgods
scrawling angelmad chalklines on sidewalks, shivering empty nothings until all these
river-thought babies
become oceans.
walking in socks along wet autumn tracks only amplifies the quiet sound of your violence.
you knew early as an infant to lift your knees when learning to move across cold rock, because
you know what it means to come from dirt;
that soft smooth skin has nothing to do with grace,
only injustice.
it was never so simple as this: spending hours wasted
becoming blank enough to understand.
we were for so long the children of lost causes
sprinting aimless through the city like it didn't matter
that our brothers are twisted and our sisters sick and our fathers dead or missing or both
that our mothers drink and fuck and hang themselves from windows
wearing cigarette expressions, skin like brick and mouths like wire and tits cancer-shrivelled
until g
one time i ate cat foodbecause I have nothing to say and know how to say it  
with my tongue hanging out spit-dry in the middle of your sentence  
laughing, like this might mean something  
like the way drawing cocks on toilet walls mean we're just rediscovering our tribal roots  
or something    
i'm just talking because I have to say something, not because I have something to say    
like so many everyone elses  
brains bubbling through their teeth  
eyes bulging
all these unvoiced voices of reason talking embolisms into shapeless cerebellums
with gaps and dramatic pauses long enough to
exhale
remember what it was like being profound
this aftershave smells like uraniumI don't want to die without leaving a piss-stain on the planet, except the world is a skeleton, and everything already stinks of ammonia. An old woman once told me what it was like to climb trees, how she'd hook her legs around the branches and swing and watch birds fly upside-down above clouds coloured white instead of green. We don't get much of those any more. Trees. Birds. Old women. Wise bastards with something better to talk about than how we should live our lives. Eat your veg. Smile. Brush your fucking teeth. Nah, this old chick with her gnarled fingers and her crumpled smile and her reading glasses with the crooked frame, she talked about seagulls and conkers and sitting on the sides of little streams with her toes in the water, catching frogs and keeping them in jars and feeling bad because they missed the winding river. About how to grow real shit from real seeds in real earth that smelled like earth... that smelled like rotting leaves and seedlings and dew and not formaldeh

Suggested by sincebecomeswhy
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