[x]

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

DreamlessSlatted light through blinds, white walls, sterile
White trucks pass occasionally down the street, deadly
Your artifacts in the old china cabinet, Radiohead plays softly
The Cubs and Pirates on television chatter
Unnoticed

Pretending at life, trying to act human, being
Being nothing, nowhere, white noise and smoke dreams
Droning sound of tinnitus underlying every damned thing
Wishful thinking all but gone, everything's
Nothing

Another day in Paradise, palms and pines, white hot sun
You left too early, before soft night could settle in
Here am I, with this white light and deep lined creases
Scattered, shattered, hollowed, emptie

YellowLate August afternoon, the sky a strange yellow
Soupy light strained through a sieve of cloud
Foreboding, tornado warning, change coming

I remember Steppenwolf, and sit, and wait
For Autumn or death

A smooth sheath of silk holds a tempest inside
Soul gone yellow, the caution light warning
People come and go with the frail seasons

I remember sunflowers, refrigerator door drawings
Something slips away

Sunday (Summer)Another summer Sunday, hot, close, quiet
But with a restlessness beneath
Mad to be free

I can't stop thinking of wind, and lullabies,
and fever

Identical houses in rows, sidewalks, fences
Straining not to explode with
suppressed passion

I can't stop thinking of barking dogs, and sirens
and freedom

DescantDescant soundwaves bounce off of my forehead
Seeking entrance to my brain they want to
wriggle through like high pitched worms;
Insistent, hungry, throwing themselves forward.
Long after I've retired they still seek entrance
How can I sleep?

A Drunken HymnFuzzy and smokey, creamed and strained
Clap on, clap off, cornered and drained;
Seeing is sawing, kneeing and gnawing
Hammerhead rhythm, red herring brain.

Do you want more sentimental sleaze?
More eyelinered fat kids, diseased?
Perhaps Superman will fly in and drink gin
With you and your uncle's mad niece.

(I like my flatliners flat, my beer strong
My ghosts to stay dead, my wood to last long
Forty acres and a mule is not enough
Give me your head, I won't be too rough.)

Slippery and slimy, or scaly and dry
Cankered and cancerous, bloody well wry;
Being's believing, but knowing is fleeting
Fifty steps down to the what and the w

Sunflower Field BurningStalks of sun ablaze turn heads down, shriveling;
Smoke filled sky, blotting out the very thing they would see;
I pound the wall in helpless rage.

HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

Soul JuiceSqueeze out the last drops in glorious color
The rind is mashed, rotten, ruined
But the juice is beautiful

When I dream of myself, or others, we're
always in our prime

and beautiful.

My Old SchoolCrippled by shadows, wait in the dusk for night
Playground ghosts move the swings gently
Trees bow their heads and sigh goodbyes
This is how it is, here, now

Pale moonlight rises to show nothing new
Its been this way for so long, far too long
Pinebranch fingertips drop needles, stars twinkle
The moon turns its attention to the tides

Old bricks, overgrown with weeds, murmur
amongst themselves about children now old
Nightbirds keep reverently quiet and dream
This is how it is, here, now

Two CrowsIts dark again this morning; eight o'clock, and the sun refuses to shine
Night recedes, dawn stays, mimicking twilight
Windblown, grey, it can only be called "day" because of the hour.

I think about the fading murals of Jim Morrison at Venice Beach
I think about the friends I've never seen who live in my computer
I think about how harsh my cigarette is, how bitter the coffee

(I think that I spend too much time thinking and not enough living)

But the grey life isn't living, it's waiting for the sun, and who knows when
The sun will come?
I put on my coat and go outside for a smoke, hoping to touch something
Not bleeding grey

There ar

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Submitted: March 5, 2010
Image Size: 873 KB
Resolution: 3888×2592

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Dreamtimeby =Bark

Digital Art / Photomanipulation / Dark

Mature Content

Back into the darkness.

background [link]

female figure [link]

robed figure [link]

mirror [link]

books [link]

stars [link]

texture no longer at DA. textures can be found here [link]

*TheMadMulatto Mar 15, 2010

Is it me, or is the idea of "time" okay to be missing so long as there is "weathering and wear"... (the other way of telling time)

=Bark Mar 16, 2010 Writer

you read my work so well! yeah, time has stopped here. time stops when you sleep, until when (and if) you wake up...

*TheMadMulatto Mar 17, 2010

I KNEW it!!

Well, that's never the point, but trying to read your work
is like enjoying normal food of elaborate, alien preparation.

You use everything in the kitchen but it was all
for specific ends,
and the timing and amounts of the ingredients
is like nothing ever tasted before.
I sit and chew and ponder eat bite quietly.

Your work demands that hushed focus and I am a slave to it.

*TheMadMulatto Mar 15, 2010

The colors, the books and the twinkle.

The message is terrible, like your red-haired bathroom piece.

Is that piece in SOB, by the way?? SHOULD be.

I LOVE this!

`caddman Mar 10, 2010

...This is total dreamtime...most x-cell work Bro...

=Bark Mar 11, 2010 Writer

thanks Bro

~chamberstock Mar 8, 2010 General Artist

Amazing work! Thanks for using my stock!

=Bark Mar 8, 2010 Writer

thank you!!

~England9 Mar 8, 2010 Professional Digital Artist

This reminds me of the painting "The Death of Marat" (Jacques-Louis David) for some reason that I don't fully understand??? I get the same feeling from it. Perhaps it is Marat himself reading from the book of the dead to the left. The suddeness of death in that one dies where one lies as if in the middle of doing something that will remain incomplete for all eternity.

Very Cool stuff!

=Bark Mar 8, 2010 Writer

thanks very much! if i wasn't such a lazy fuck today, i'd look up 'the death of marat' before i reply. sounds familiar, but my acid burned brain won't regurgitate the memory for me. but yes, death is always unexpected, even when it's expected. because the bastard never calls ahead!

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