The Sock-Monkey As Alone

 " A while ago, I found myself in bloody exhaust grease London again with an all-consuming urge to hunt for two rare things: back issues of NME rumored to be secretly hidden in glass casings and submerged in the fry vats of every kebab machine in the U.K. and the very-out-of-print first Raincoats LP. The NME search was a clever, saucy upstart of an attempt to be, uh, nasty. However, the Lord and Julian Cope himself know how we need, need, need the NME to embrace the unifying hands of our children across this big blue marble and NIRVANA's tarty musical career. So please bless us again - we'll forever feed off of your high-calorie boggy turbinates. In an attempt to satisfy the second part of my quest, I went to the Rough Trade shop and, of course, found no Raincoats record in the bin. I then asked the woman behind the counter about it and she said “well, it happens that I'm neighbors with Anna (member of The Raincoats) and she works at an antique shop just a few m

"The principle factor in my success has been an absolute desire to draw constantly. I never decided to be an artist. Simply, I couldn't stop myself from drawing. I drew for my own pleasure. I never wanted to know whether or not someone liked my drawings. I have never kept one of my drawings. I drew on walls, the school blackboard, odd bits of paper, the walls of barns. Today I'm still as fond of drawings as when I was a kid - and that was a long time ago - but, surprising as it may seem, I never thought about the money I would receive for my drawings. I simply drew them." - Winsor McCay    The line of Winsor Mccay is nothing short of astounding, in many ways he is my favorite visual artist. He has a confidence and fierce grasp of anatomy in his work that is more inspired then ten of his contemporaries.    While his lovably goofy dialog (often written after the comic was drawn!) let's you feel like the whimsy of the worlds he cre

 “I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven't said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.” ― Tove Jansson Moomins are the greatest children's media ever created. That was all that I needed to say, better then a Winnie the poo or the phantom tollbooth. What Tove Jansson created is a magical place only rivaled by the works of Dr. Seuss and (depending on what you think children should be allowed to read.) Edward Gorey. But the shear humanity of her work is what he fans celebrate in their hearts. The kindness and perpetual twilight of the melancholy of the heart. That brings our inner child back to moomin valley too visit the little trolls. They are simple stories about comets and floods, but t

                  I twisted from all normalcy, when sanity turned tender. I want you to stay with me while the world turn's to cinders!                   II Because this light is not mine and this faith is all that I bring. Remember me when it is time for hell's inhabitants to sing                   III "I here the sound of riot, these days I choose to reminisce. Death will not come so quiet before my inner abyss."                       Written by Drew Garner.

 “Nothing else wounds so deeply and irreparably. Nothing else robs us of hope so much as being unloved by one we love”     ― Clive Barker     Clive Barker is primarily known as a author and filmmaker but his most interesting work for me is his oil paintings. They seem to pose the question what if van gogh was obsessed with universal horror films and metaphysics as apposed to sunflowers and starry nights. The beauty of Clive Barker's paintings, is his fascination with both whimsical but grotesque personalities and creatures. Rich with texture that only extremely close up shots of the canvas do justice (if not being seen in person) to his pattern of painting pictures on top of pictures, then taking a steak knife and scratching away at some of the layers to bring out the forgotten painting beneath the layers. Revealing something about the man, I think, in that no matter how harsh he judges his works prior failures have a place in the process of growth in every human being.

In another life with you, after service in a churchyard. I say "if you win, do I lose?" as stars rip themselves apart. The teacher let's herself loose with no remorse or restraint. her gown hit's the floor as a truce, she's to modest to constrain. With no need to connect, yet so unsatisfied. she will look at the reject and say "galaxies collide!" like a stray cat ready to play with an annoying raven. My teacher smiles when I say "I assume you kiss like a pagan!"

"I would do cartwheels naked! if it would keep you alive." She said all as if brazen, with her hand between her thighs I have impure thoughts: sublime. to hear your song of life. "I belong dead, you are not mine." I see her husband's wife. The bride of Frankenstein, Marry Shelly of my soul. the torment of the crime and purpose of my goal. skinny as a tree with figs as her lips. beautiful with every thrust I give. Sara is so dutiful, Yet confined to a session that is thirty minutes long. She's in love with aggression never satisfied and wrong.

Chapter forty-eight     In which a drunk Joseph knocks on his mothers  door coming to drunk-terms with the  fact no matter how perverse, love is love.           He was drunk on a scheme of her invitation. It's the pain of a king without variation. When resolve did return he felt sad for his blood. His mother had to learn that his fate was a flood. Tomorrow will descend even graves must be dug. This marriage will not end in the joy of a hug. Using her is not rape it's what will or what wont. Cutting through birthday cake will she say “no you don't.” Knocking on a locked door from the grave death has sprung. with the screams "your a whore!" climbing down one more rung. The descent is not far to the depth of her soul. The bright and morning star spread without like a bowl. She's naked on the floor ignoring the white noise. Of her son and his chore knowing boys will be boys. She is used like a sheep the slaughter and the blame. For the sin he

The Midnight-Freak or, twice twisted rage and a representative of death I Cross Breton was a pale handsome man with ghosts in his eyes and a crucifix tattooed on his forehead. His wife Eliza Breton had died in a bad way. With finger nail's full of torn skin and blood. Cross has spent the last eleven months developing a way to resurrect his beloved with the help of Alice Apple (his maid and a part-time pataphysician). By means of a machine, that is located in his basement. Cross remembers meeting the women at his wife's funeral “I am a friend.” said Alice “and one that you will learn to treasure”. Cross had already spent a large portion of his finances on mediums and supposed “witches” who all claimed they could communicate with or raise the dead. And when they had failed, he was certain that he was ready to meet his wife on the other-side. But a new hope arose when she said all she needed was a place to build her machine and the finances to do so. He agree