A number of walls,
surely less than ten,
stand between us.
You live in your
compartment, and I
in mine, and we share,
in theory, the area in
between, the vicinity
around--this town is
ours, yours and mine,
but you and I move
through conflicting space,
negatively charged,
the particles vibrating
like trembling fingers.
We collide infrequently,
rarely with purpose.
When we do, we meet
like conductors. Your
energy leaps like a
spark trying to form
a current, but the
circuit remains slightly
detached, only sometimes
rattling closed with a
jolt, by accident.
Childlike
Eyes speak
Sorrows
Behind a
Mind
Fractured
By her
Time-drug's
Drunken
Bind, and
You, a
Mime
In a
Minefield,
Feel for
Ghastly
Masks,
Invisible
Visages,
Wrinkled with
Riddle-ridden
Bloodlines,
Hiding
Unbidden
Love ties.
From a
Standstill,
I convulsed
Out of being,
Barely blinking
At the quick-drained
Colour scheme,
Shades shifted
To grey, shifting
To knees and
Hands, hairless,
Eyeless, I scratched
Around your feet,
A sightless
Receptacle with
Salamander
Skin, swollen
Sockets flexing
Fortitude.
The space
outside
you flickers,
falters,
the air thin and
unbinding.
I wander
through this
carnival
crowd in
a ghost town
that was once
familiar,
attempting to
take in the
colours,
but they can
only be seen
as reflections.
Refractions
of light
determine my
palette, and
the world,
shrouded
in insubstantial
grey, is
unveiled in
your
spectrum,
the sky only
blue when
seen
in your
eyes.
Shrunken and
expanding,
the world
contained in this
machine
moves through
the desolate
landscape,
swelling
and swaying
with lifeless
existence, with
deathless decay.
Incineration
surrounds
but does not
consume
what we are
within this
body filled with
metal, sharp
with intention and
necessity.
We have reached
the end
and now must
pass it,
like an irrelevant
road sign, or
an arbitrary
border. We take
nothing
but each other
and some knives
into the abyss
that was always
present, like a
dotted line, like
a demon awaiting
incarnation.
Three-Sixty-Five Yonge St. by LoreEuphoros, literature
Literature
Three-Sixty-Five Yonge St.
It swandives
ecstatically
into darkness,
a stone dropping
from a blind
precipice,
arms and legs
poised perfectly to
plunge
with a muted
splash, ripple,
then descent into
a weightless
deepsea
dreamscape,
black molasses
shadows
encircling brazen
white lights,
pearls encased
in fragile shell
mouths,
which only open
with a riddle.
We burn our
knees to find
something
within the
silver-smooth
capsule,
impermeable
from the interior.
We break our
blisters,
peel away
layers to expose
our wounds, but
underneath,
opaque white
reflects
back our
unmoving
eyes.
It hovers in
My periphery,
A misplaced
Flicker, floating
Hologram of
Disembodied
Density, dispersed
Into fog, the
Particles detached,
But growing
Heavy, getting
Ready to
Unite.
Time and
Space
Play games of
Elusion
Deluding
Me with tableau
Illusions
But transient
Bodies evade
Possession
By the collection
Of points
Of succession
Recession reveals
The tricks of
Continuum
All of its colours
Appear in a
Spectrum
Rejecting
The feigned
Surface of solidity
And betraying
The layers
Of intangibility
A number of walls,
surely less than ten,
stand between us.
You live in your
compartment, and I
in mine, and we share,
in theory, the area in
between, the vicinity
around--this town is
ours, yours and mine,
but you and I move
through conflicting space,
negatively charged,
the particles vibrating
like trembling fingers.
We collide infrequently,
rarely with purpose.
When we do, we meet
like conductors. Your
energy leaps like a
spark trying to form
a current, but the
circuit remains slightly
detached, only sometimes
rattling closed with a
jolt, by accident.
Childlike
Eyes speak
Sorrows
Behind a
Mind
Fractured
By her
Time-drug's
Drunken
Bind, and
You, a
Mime
In a
Minefield,
Feel for
Ghastly
Masks,
Invisible
Visages,
Wrinkled with
Riddle-ridden
Bloodlines,
Hiding
Unbidden
Love ties.
From a
Standstill,
I convulsed
Out of being,
Barely blinking
At the quick-drained
Colour scheme,
Shades shifted
To grey, shifting
To knees and
Hands, hairless,
Eyeless, I scratched
Around your feet,
A sightless
Receptacle with
Salamander
Skin, swollen
Sockets flexing
Fortitude.
The space
outside
you flickers,
falters,
the air thin and
unbinding.
I wander
through this
carnival
crowd in
a ghost town
that was once
familiar,
attempting to
take in the
colours,
but they can
only be seen
as reflections.
Refractions
of light
determine my
palette, and
the world,
shrouded
in insubstantial
grey, is
unveiled in
your
spectrum,
the sky only
blue when
seen
in your
eyes.
Shrunken and
expanding,
the world
contained in this
machine
moves through
the desolate
landscape,
swelling
and swaying
with lifeless
existence, with
deathless decay.
Incineration
surrounds
but does not
consume
what we are
within this
body filled with
metal, sharp
with intention and
necessity.
We have reached
the end
and now must
pass it,
like an irrelevant
road sign, or
an arbitrary
border. We take
nothing
but each other
and some knives
into the abyss
that was always
present, like a
dotted line, like
a demon awaiting
incarnation.
Three-Sixty-Five Yonge St. by LoreEuphoros, literature
Literature
Three-Sixty-Five Yonge St.
It swandives
ecstatically
into darkness,
a stone dropping
from a blind
precipice,
arms and legs
poised perfectly to
plunge
with a muted
splash, ripple,
then descent into
a weightless
deepsea
dreamscape,
black molasses
shadows
encircling brazen
white lights,
pearls encased
in fragile shell
mouths,
which only open
with a riddle.
We burn our
knees to find
something
within the
silver-smooth
capsule,
impermeable
from the interior.
We break our
blisters,
peel away
layers to expose
our wounds, but
underneath,
opaque white
reflects
back our
unmoving
eyes.
It hovers in
My periphery,
A misplaced
Flicker, floating
Hologram of
Disembodied
Density, dispersed
Into fog, the
Particles detached,
But growing
Heavy, getting
Ready to
Unite.
Time and
Space
Play games of
Elusion
Deluding
Me with tableau
Illusions
But transient
Bodies evade
Possession
By the collection
Of points
Of succession
Recession reveals
The tricks of
Continuum
All of its colours
Appear in a
Spectrum
Rejecting
The feigned
Surface of solidity
And betraying
The layers
Of intangibility
So, I've formulated a plan. It took about three seconds, from start to finish, for the plan to be conceived, considered, and finalized. The plan is... to write something every day. It's groundbreaking. I've always felt like I had to be thoroughly inspired and completely invested before setting out to create art. But that mentality has, in the last couple of years, caused much frustration and unexecuted ideas, as I have had trouble focusing on any one thing for a significant length of time. The real surprise of it all: I have immediately regained concentration. I've realized that the inspiration that has been lingering just below the surface,
I've always had reservations about posting my art and my ideas on the internet, but I'm coming to the realization that to be a participating member of the global and local artists' communities, I need to reevaluate my perception of the uses and abuses of technology. Rather than viewing the internet as an inauthentic venue for expression, I need to grow out of my immature cynicism and embrace the reality that the internet does not stunt our social growth--it nurtures it. That is, if used correctly. Because the alternative to utilizing this treasure chest of resources is...not doing much of anything. And nothing is the really the least helpful
Hi! Thank you so much for the recent fav (: You are welcomed to check out my other art too and if you like it, feel free to dev watch me. And if you want, it would be really awesome if you'd leave a comment on my page telling my what do you think of my work
Thank you again
ps. If you already are watching me and stuff like that, thanks