Nichrysalis

I'm a little typo short and asdf

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Literature

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The Dangerous Think by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

The Dangerous Think

On the streets of San Diego I waved goodbye to her like a sea’s crest and fallrising in my chest. If this moment is worth thinking about, it’s not worth overthinking,but I do anyways.I play coy in being closeted and glare another convinced smile, blare another compliment in our parting and chuckle through the memory:“I was afraid,” she had mouthed and I mimed along post-martyr in analytical cockiness“I was afraid if you thought you might be schizophrenic you would think yourself there.” she had said.I am always in my own head, my own waytoo much.I laugh the distrust off. My mother says she saw this bright boy she couldn’t trust to not over...

Sojourner III by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

Sojourner III

I. The droplets clinging to my window, silly and condensed sensations, linger like doubts. My breath is a breeze of palpable, hesitant fog on the lived-in room's window; a warm frost on a cold surface. I autograph the glass in sighs and wet fingertips. I linger. The glass is panged by the wisps of my whispers and the wasps wafting up from the house siding. Inside, I linger, and exhale on curtains but the shutters, shudder like doubts. I remember, as an introspective soul is oft to opt for, that one evening in my adolescence the same ankle-length, mineral-white curtains adorning the front room today brushed my body in a furious...

Traincar by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

Traincar

The constant presence of absence is mute in the muffled air around me, lathering and wallowing in itself as a caustic hallow, sallowed.The human transport I am postured in was never inside the gas showers where lineage was lined up to bathe, scrubbed from history, but the traincar reeks a nascent must of hushed freight.Hanging dust like shaken trust hinges on my every hard swallow and the shriek of silence assures me that the living will never linger longer than the presence of absence.Some walls may talk, but this must must scream.

Familiac by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

Familiac

I never thought I’d be pushing twenty-three with whiskers dipped in sour whisks of whiskey; my huff-puff pungencysoaked but still sponging up and opting out of exemption.In the back hunched somewhere in this mess of a masculine bosom and a half-muscular buttocksis a learned brute.I am glute-free, gluten-filled, but I promiseI’m only boozing every other week; moderationmakes the buzz less mild and myself more so.On twilights like these— introspective hinting at hindrance—nights when the root beer fills the glass half-full but brandy is what makes it wholeit seems I only have confidence in my own mortalityand insecurity in my own morality.It...

The Difference Between Snakes and Ropes by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

The Difference Between Snakes and Ropes

Last night there was a woman where my girl was and she said to me, “This. That’s what he did.” A woman isn’t born vulnerable, but vulnerability is a part of personhood and being self-aware of insecurities is more vividly human than vibrancy; more sexy than secrecy. I’d compose her movement to music or pen it on paper, proffer it as poetry and profess confessions as love but I’d rather be on standby— even as passerby— because I ache and I ache all the time now, for her. For her I am sore and unstomachable and nurse wounds that aren’t mine. For her, I worry. I worry and I tighten knots, practice my box, bow tie, square, slip, and double coin...

Tablespoon Teaspoon by Nichrysalis, literature

Do Prostitutes Dream of Sunscreen? by Nichrysalis, literature

Mistake Making by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

Mistake Making

Dakota's nephew is a week old and he has already cast the infant out of his life and he tells mehow his mom was in tears with him, that he's just a newborn needing family and I understand how it is hard to forgive when they want him to forget.The fact that someday her child will do the math and find out his mom was sixteen when he was born,ask what his father was like, to which his mom will say "a mistake" and direct him to hipster selfies.I never was a horny teen thinking in terms of sluts and studs, but I've still had that conversation.For four generations my predecessors got pregnant before they could buy the alcohol to go through with ...

The Jake I Chose to Remember by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

The Jake I Chose to Remember

I want to humanize you, Jake,but you were never very good at letting people see the human past the poet.You were too busy setting your legs on fire, and boy,masturbation works for a while, but thenthe realization that you’re in the same sheetsfrom yesterday backhands you.And you know, Jake, they’re legalizing marijuana now. Turns out it’s not so illegal,just the people who did it were.It’s funny, or maybe it’s accurate; you did always teach me to go for the better word.It’s accurate that my first and only tattoo I ever wanted will have been written by me, revised by you because I am not what I've worn; I am who I have worn down.

For Cure by Nichrysalis, literature

Literature

For Cure

Breathe... ...this is the sound of what you think can't kill you.With a shiv in the ribs and a shift in the lips the patients shushedly loiter in seats in the lobby inside of the department of radiology department resting, washed out and owning it, bandana-ed up or balding inwardly and outwardly, taking breaths because they know firsthand that lung cancer kills in white-collars or in navy-shirts—indiscriminately, determinedly.There are lung cancer patients plagued radioactive, taking breaths, donating their bodies to a science without a serum to show for it, their sterner sternum schlit open with a scent that was ribcaged from inside. W...

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I Mean to Get You Alone by amy-derfer, literature

Literature

I Mean to Get You Alone

You have sharp pulse-elevating teeth the stuff I imagine heart attacks are made ofI'm bent on selling you a handful of smiles specifically crafted to distract you from the fact that I have almost nothing to sayand now you're steering this conversation in a direction that suggests you'veforgotten that I don't watch movies or do much of anything but work which maybeexplains why one glass of wine gets me wrapped around you car to streetlight crash style mangled limbs breeding curious onlookers and my insurance has expiredyou're leaning in and all I can think is I don't have insurance

Heavy Mourning by betwixtthepages, literature

Literature

Heavy Mourning

In the absence of you, my therapist asks how I'm coping. I cop a line about finding healing in art, lie about how honest I am about how much this hurts, tell a tall tale about keeping busy when really, these walls stopped talking the day you died and I stopped finding anything but safety in my sorrow net. Happiness is fleeting-- a dream you appear in, your voice saved in my phone, the last gasp of a scent that takes me, however briefly, home. In the absence of you, silence is heaven and hell-- a friend to embrace, an enemy to defeat, an abyss I can't drown in. My therapist asks how I'm coping and all I can think is how dishones...

Chicago, Summer 2020 by anapests-and-ink, literature

I loved it, it wasn't mine by Synesthi, literature

Literature

I loved it, it wasn't mine

When it happened, when he went to kiss a mouth that didn't want to be kissed, dug nails into skin that boiled under his sweaty, demanding fingertips-- there was a sacred two-or-so weeks when I could have all the screaming I wanted. But my throat was raw and my tongue was bit and I bruised black-blue, heavy fingerprints and nail streaks down pale skin. Some were mine and some were his, defensive wound against offensive memory, but the nerve receptors saw no different, it's all the same when it's sensation, sore and scarred, rough and raw to the touch. And it turns out sometimes you're not ready to scream, I wasn't ready to but god I grew into it, like broken eggshells scattered among pecking, greedy chicks, I grew into a voice. But too late then, the school was made of brick and New-England polish and I didn't have long enough nails to claw past the veneer so I bit down on bitten-down tongue and I swallowed. Swallow, swallow, regurgitate - pieces of a story I didn't write

record store by Anthony-Ryan, literature

Sarracenia by PelicanDeath, literature

Literature

Sarracenia

1. you roll the window down just enough to let the smell of cows and wet grass into the caryou're holding a cigarette the tip burns a bright death and you flick the ash into the windyou turn to my stepfather and say something the two of you laugh togetheri ask a questionyou turn your head and look at mebehind you the sun raises a heavy hand2. my sister is sitting next to mesomehow the bath water is still warm somehowwe are both very quietthere is shouting in another room sometimes i hear your voicei don't look at my sisterher shadow moves gently with the line of the waterour hearts two hearts knowing it's better to pretend

new city by Anthony-Ryan, literature

Literature

new city

one day cutting vegetablesthe blade slipped & my hand split open,spilling itself onto the cutting board.I pushed the vegetables clear with the knifeto let the blood move where it wanted.I watched it happen from a place inside methat opens & closes its eyes with the calm of flower petals.if I did nothing, or opened the wound a little moreI could see where all that blood might lead -like knowing a certain road, if taken far enough,would take me to a whole new city.instead I wiped the blood off the board into the sink& wrapped my hand. I laid down &left what would have been my next meal unprepared.

good men, bad women by MindlessThinker, literature

Literature

good men, bad women

he was a good man, you say a good man a good dead man like all good men who did ill to the living who speak ill of the deadbut you tell us to speak no evil you tell us, speak only of good men speak of good men and speak of the devil and wonder why he never appearshe was a good man, you say but i don’t want to hear you talk i want you to go home to your mother go home and cover your head go home and pray to your god tell him what a good man you areget down on your knees speak of the devil and see where it gets you

Poetry - Bitlets

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Bitlets 532 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 531 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 530 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 529 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 528 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 527 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 526 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 525 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 524 by Nichrysalis, literature

Bitlets 523 by Nichrysalis, literature

About Nichrysalis

Artist // Hobbyist // Literature

Apr 17
United States
Deviant for 17 years
He / Him

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My Bio

Artist's Statement 10/25/2011

Nic Swaner is a studying graphic designer, and a budding young writer whose concepts and syntax require a rush of blood and breath to the lungs. For inspiration he need not look far from the cyclopean sun, feel the displacement before the epilepsy, synthesize some synesthesia, or recall the origami folds his hands have memorized throughout the years.

Nic is almost entirely self-taught in the ways of writing and in doing so has created a style all his own. His medium is mainly through poetry, short stories and articles for websites; he excels in portraying his thoughts and ideas in a world of complex and harmonious verbiage. He is always whittling away at several works of writing that will be submitted to free publishers or magazines. Nic will always be happy to edit and critique your writing, whether it's poetry or prose. Contact him at Packeranatic@gmail.com.

Nic is currently studying graphic design and the fundamentals of art. He has always emphasized the power of concept over complexity, and have maximized color and composition to their utmost potential. He prefers to work with photomanipulations and typography to portray his concepts. He is always open to critique from his peers. Other artistic endeavors from Nic include folding origami, film photography, darkroom artwork such as photograms, and music production.

Trivia

Nic lives in Chicago, Illinois, but his hometown is Robinson, Illinois. He likes Progressive Rock and Underground Rap music. Marcus J. Ranum is his most adored photographer. Samurai Jack is his favorite cartoon character along with Ed, Edd, and Eddy. His favorite ice cream flavor is French Vanilla. He has a mild form of sound to color synesthesia for melodies and believes the song Echoes by Pink Floyd is green.

"The world is only as old as the person to whom you speak." - Nic Swaner

Favourite Visual Artist

The Hejz - Peter Jawarowski

Favourite Movies

The Dark Knight, District 9, Moon, Inception, 2001: A Space Odyssey

Favourite TV Shows

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, South Park

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Pink Floyd, Aesop Rock, No Bird Sing, Sage Francis, Led Zeppelin

Favourite Books

The Illustrated Man, Fahrenheit 451, The Metamorphosis, The Great Gatsby

Favourite Writers

Ray Bradbury, Franz Kafka, Paul Muldoon

Favourite Games

Halo 4, Gears of War 3, Minecraft, Terraria, Cookie Clicker

Favourite Gaming Platform

Xbox 360

Tools of the Trade

Photoshop and Illustrator CS6, Cinema 4D 10, Font Creator 5, and Apophysis, Hexels

Other Interests

Writing, Graphic Design, Origami, Photography, Darkroom Art, Music Production and Guitar

Profile Comments 3.6K

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N3ffShark

5 days ago

You still around here, dude? I miss talking to you.

SilverInkblot

Jul 11, 2023

How we feelin bout the new RvB trailer

:heart:

I’ve missed you!

Feel free to pm me here if you want to chat again. I'm also on snapchat under same name. Been trying to penpal with @@SilverInkblot but I've been so busy!

VSConcepts

Apr 17, 2020

Happy Birthday!!!