Never Title Your Movies

•October 22, 2017 • 3 Comments

never title

“Never Title Your Movies”

Mixed media/September 2017

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Free Book to Read – “I Hate My Brother”, by Branislav Bojcic

•October 12, 2017 • 6 Comments

Greetings, everyone! Get a read of a fabulous book by a writer and friend. It is free to download. I would appreciate it if you could spread the word around, so others can see it, download it and read it as well. You can get to the book by clicking on the cover. Enjoy!

Thank you up front and have a fabulous day!

And now, something about the book:

thumbnail_ebookcover

“This book maybe answers the question whether we can become a monster, or the monster already lies deep within us, waiting for the opportunity to come to the surface.

The action of this novel takes place in the region of ex-Yugoslavia as well as in the prison and in the court of The Hague Tribunal for war crimes.

The main character is Gvozden Mishic. He is courageous, honest, hard-working, and above all, a highly honourable man.

What happens when such a man of incredible persistence and will-power has his heart broken and filled with hatred?

Genocide.

This book represents a transformation, or rather a deformation of an impressive and above all unique personality having countless qualities, among which the greatest is – immense love for his family.

This quality is exactly his greatest fault. Love that he felt for his wife and daughter becomes inexhaustible source of hatred that makes him commit deeds which give a new dimension and severity to the term “war crime”.

The severity that the readers will certainly feel in their hearts while reading this book.

This book is nothing more than a deeply emotional testimony of a tragedy of one people, carried on wings of hatred, hatred of those who once lived for LOVE, who once fought for LOVE.”

 

About you

•October 11, 2017 • 20 Comments

They have said about me :

  • Kind, nice, way too nicely kind
  • ugly , but sweet personality
  • psycho
  • materialistic bitch
  • eager slut
  • hopeless
  • destroyer of world
  • rude
  • Kind, and nice, and way too nicely kind
  • control freak
  • impulsive, obssesive
  • needy
  • boring
  • not ambitious
  • lazy, depressive, liar

Who am I? Nobody asks that. nobody asks anything. People make demands. People don’t describe, they paint. No, people don’t paint, they twist metal, but since they have no metal it’s blood. I am A+. My soul is anemic.

Who am I? A heap of flesh, a “meat popsicle”,the kernel of popcorn stuck in God’s teeth, I am inconvenient and I am about to burst pollen, baby. Babe. Slut. mother. the Unkind, the worried, the blind, the ludicrous, the crazy, the freak.

TRain station. GRaffitied. Razor cut. There’s garbage everywhere. I like ’em when they roll their Rs, it makes the whole damn thing last longer, but in reality I don’t give a shit about Paris. And I don’t give a shit about Patagonia. Andalusia. In fact, I don’t even know where those are. Show me a map and I’ll be mute, because I am a train station. People are trains.

But that;s not what they say. They say “sorry”, and “Thank you”, and “It’s not you, it’s me” and my favourite,”Not now”.

They say “You are perfect (but I’m scared of airplanes and straighlines)”, they say “You are so strong Mary Jane (but you are not happy, I need someone fucking happy and stupid), they say “You’re cute (but there is no beauty in pain and you, you could export that shit at lowest prices and be the richest girl on planet Earth, circa plausible eternity)”, they say “I wish somebody like you loved me, but, you know, what, wait a minute, not YOU!”

Me about myself:

  • Weltzchmertz
  • girl
  • masochist
  • hopeless romantic, most definitely pathetic
  • cheesy
  • lovechild of goth and pastel
  • stubborn
  • a persistent whelp
  • an Aries, which is a modern fancy way of saying a pusher (hold on to your walls and castles, bois!)
  • crybaby
  • shmizla (google this one!)
  • I can sing like nobody’s bussiness
  • hopeless
  • I cook (and the secret ingredient IS love!)
  • weak and powerless (…. over you…….)
  • The darling to kill
  • weird
  • crazy (but you like it, loca,loca,loca! Why am I quoting Shakira? See, this is what I mean!)
  • I will dance and cry at the same time at your funeral. Then I will legit study Necromancy to bring you back

But what is the most important question is not who am I, but, who am I to you? How would you define me, where the hell would you put that candy wrapper in the Merriam-Webster dictionary and say Yep, that’s her, and will you , for bloody fucks sake (I forgot to add swearing to the list… Yep, like a trucker. What do you have against truckers? I want a truck for my birthday, nameday, New Year, whatever, even though I will probably forever need a boost to climb in. I swear, don’t ever gift me a vehicle. I will start the engine, press that peddle and never stop. I am lieing. I will most definitely stop at the nearest McDonalds…. aaaaand the farthest as well…) where was I?  Yeah. Call me. Tell me about the insignificance of your life. Let me tell you how beautiful you are. Let me need you. Let me be. Something more than a train station. Yeah, even when I am sad because a hunter I never met shot a deer I never eyes locked with in some forest in let’s say Canada.

I am who I am. I have a registered name. I have a passport, an ID, a health card (and thank Zeus no driver’s licence…. yet!)I have some education, I learned some things by myself. My favorite color is definitely purple. I smoke and I bite my nails, but I also play the bass guitar, and if anything, I feel everything way too much. I googled for Neitzche’s nudes. I am crazy in love, and sorry it is most probably not with you. I have a tattoo. I feed stray dogs. None of this is important. Who am I is not important. Who I want to be is not important, everybody dreams. Who I can be is also not important, everything is circumstances and desire. Who you want me to be is not important, it will always be a menu stolen from a confectionery.

Who AM I to YOU, tell me that?

*Promised Ikarus I will write an answer to this post and I try to keep my promises. His post is here

Starcaller

•September 14, 2017 • 13 Comments

starcaller

“Starcaller”

Mixed media/September 2017

“Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations”

or

When life is shit, keep your head in the stars.

The What of Things

•August 21, 2017 • 17 Comments

escaped_the_prison_they_called_the_head_by_chriseastmids-dbkoe1p

*Image found HERE

The What of Things

Open a dictionary
and look up disaster.
It’s Monday,
my right hand
grips the teaspoon,
my left hand
sends the archduke
to explore the wound.
An exhibit of my voice
pounds my gut
and I ask no one in particular
why do I always sound
just like
a child, begging for a mercy kill.
a junction
of oregano, magenta lace skirts
drooping to the floor,
dripping sorrow down
into the mausoleum of the carpet,
one knife for chicken breasts, one for
potatoes, one for butter, one for peaches,
names like tremolo,
like angel corpses
falling of the edge of a broken lip
into the mass grave of wherevers floor;
my appartment with no doors,
my soul is dead, and bored
from mundane chores
of sweeping, and raking, and picking and taking
and splicing the sunshine like
A and B and O, like
make up, for the preacher,
like secretaring for ghosts,
like wallowing in the heroine of the guitar
at eight in the morning, like
Mary’s bloody lamb
with the bowels out for pie
and rejuvenation potions,
like crosswords and spreadsheets,
like fresh bedsheets,
like looking left, looking right, like bending over, like
smelling the lavender,like
crushing some in your pocket,
like cutting a strand of hair
and prisoning it in a locket,
like living, but
waiting
to die.

You will rise

•May 22, 2017 • 33 Comments

you will rise

“You will rise”

Mixed media/May 2017

Titled by the song I was listening to while making the artwork. Nothing special about it, just trying to exist.

Have a nice day, everyone!

Goodnight, Penelope

•May 12, 2017 • 12 Comments

JohnWilliamWaterhouse-PenelopeandtheSuitors(1912)

*Image from Wikipedia

Goodnight, Penelope

Down by the river
I step on a mollusk
as he slurps on a reed;
while utter nonsense takes the world for granted,
a great silence wants to go to hell,
myself
an accident on purpose

it sees these organs,
mine, sans me,
scooped up by the wind,
unhinged like scrumptious mothers
on 8th floor balconies
quenching the furies of their lips
with long drags.

Scurry with me, soul,
a demented shaman
kneels on his cobs;
tranquility has the skin crawling
for punishment,
and belonging,
for home.

I shall
unbutton the water to wake its dead,
slice the scenery
to profanities of sewed-up lilies.
Above, Shiva bleeds like bergamot.
Below, unrest grows into love.
In between, my hands
like two funnels
empty my chest like a gorge,
give dysentery to the psalm,
beer bottles and receipts and pocket dust
to the smooth surface

of the bed, made
green and unknowing
as I lay there, in war,
like a bayou:
dark, lonely, wet,
an undecipherable blue,
sliced through the middle, full
by the trunk of the little boat
that Death is rowing through.

 
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