Rot your teeth!/Lathering the seafarer/Where you wander through the ectoplasmic hieroglyph/Where you turn and breathe…
Steep/Brooding/In the cool waters of your mind/Before/Before the ball drops and the whole damn bang is/Poised on the television screen/In the house/A riot/Poised to cream/On fire/Wild/Wired/Transpired/As a child.


I have another animation sketch I wanted to post… but it seems I’ve reached my max weekly upload limit ;/ thank you internet vimeo machine god.

the perfect seed

weightless she, permeating through a fold
dispersing the saliva of a postmodern toad
burnt acid in his magnet mold
and therein resides a scene to decode
retching gallons
of water gushing down a moonlit road
gallons ethereal
from the glowing hands of miniature souls

blue stepping wild
in the wet caverns of descent


I held the image of him tightly
I felt the searing heat rise from the beneath us
through a broken-down staircase fashioned of stone
as it curved ahead, seductive like a snake
into the distant dust of an infinite horizon

I run after him there, laughing.
we we’re all laughing
All there, in the warm fog, laughing.

Just as he was there, so too was he gone
being what I thought he was, to being an other
being what I thought he was, to being nothing at all

Looking down at my forearms
that bore his inscriptions
his hieroglyphic imagery
of ancient symbol and of distant memory, intertwined
first ink, then blood
into deepening cuts, albeit sensation-less

Images animated there, transforming
shifting and altering their base structures of form
flashing through fragments of memories, long set aside
memories that do not ring true on any real-world ride

She stood alongside me with a look of all-knowing
with a guilt and pain in her eyes
as I stood there screaming at my arms on the path
as I stood there screaming into the sky
as I stood there screaming at the deconstructing imagery of time

In a twilight
In amongst a barren wasteland of deserted powder stone
with low lit trees that bear no autumn leaves
trees dancing slow as the currents of an ebb and flow
howling in twilight


(don’t worry this won’t become a poetry blog)

this majestic unicorn horn is a cheap fucking knock-off made by a child in a sweat shop in India you heartless thieving bastard, the paint is peeling off of the tip for fucks sake.

So as the leaves rot, so too does the paper.
So before I pack up my scanner…