You will rise

•May 22, 2017 • 27 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 • 10 Comments


*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,
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.

March Madness Top Ten: Ligeia, under dimmed lights/Oloriel

•May 4, 2017 • 3 Comments

My poem on Sudden Denouement! Please go and read the rest of the amazing submissions. You will not regret it!

Cracked like the skyline

at 18:11

countless men mine me for coal;

I suck the midday Moon

like a good symbiot,

like a pretty harlot of war,

I search myself at the garage sale,

I hollow me out,

unlatch the hands like instruments,

lick and spit,

soft, but I am dust –

disassembled to a murder of crows.

This blood builds altars between teeth,

this ocean is godless,

I am

77 silver coins shoved in the socket,

the worthlessness of thoraxes

is speaking tongues –

translated it means I who no longer know dawn.

I, eyeing this river, a carnival, alone.

I, no longer knowing the sparrows

for their marrow of strawberries,

I, stuffing the pillow with hares,

my ventricle for Doctor Death,

My mouth for the athame,

for you, lover, among decapitated carnations,

for you lover, your silences like noose

around the neck of promiscuous Miss mercy.

Now, sugar…

View original post 316 more words

Help, I’m dating your answering machine

•April 26, 2017 • 13 Comments


*image found HERE

Help, I’m dating your answering machine

*Warning: cheesy as Hell

How many times a day
Is normal and ok
To call your other half
And bother them about
Such things as
Amulets and papers,
And old worn out sneakers
And T shirts,
Lost girls and lost boys;
About distance?

How many when halves are halves;
How many when he is away?

Look, Honey, how the stars
Flash their bodies
Through the smog of this city that you hate.
My chest is split open like a tent.
No. Scratch that!
I’m fine, I just want to know
Where did you used to keep tools?
Hey, do you know what who and who
Told me about who and who and what?
Did we really end up like this?
No, Scratch that.
The weather is beautiful, ain’t it,
A summer of angry ghosts.
I am sorry, who would have thought of it?
The length of a single street
Hurting more than a continent.

I miss you. I miss
Not having to be quiet
So you don’t wake up.
Scratch that!
I feel like I am missing my heart.
And I don’t know
What to think about
Still going out to get groceries
Without you. I pass the ketchup
Line, pass the snacks and the drinks,
I brush my hair and I brush my teeth
And I make sure
Not to lay on the bed
In outside clothes;
All the damn birds do is
Chirp through my woe.
No. Scratch that!
You don’t wanna know.

How many times
Can I ask you
About the same old things, like
How are you?
No, Scratch.
How are you without me?
I know it’s just been two hours,
But I worry, you know,
About my useless things, like
Is there your favourite drink in the fridge,
What did you eat, with who, where
And why?
Why should I fold the sheets and take out laundry,
Put it on the line and wash – up,
Set alarm and open my eyes?
Why should I walk and sit,
Why should I eat and drink, and where,
With whome;
Our two plush hippos
That I cry into
In our darkened, scratch that,
In my darkened room.
I’m sorry if I leave you soon.

What can I keep,
What can I sleep in,
What did you forget?
Can I drink your cologne, you know,
Like a tourniquet?
Scratch that!
What can I frame, what can I borrow,
What can I steal?
What can I use, what can I burn?
It feels like five million
Light years passed,
The nebulae borrowing their bodies
To the river, flicker
Through the swarm of nightlights,
A nightclub of sweethearts
Stuck atop the poles next to the highway.
A marketplace of scavengers
Beneath our window.
Will you buy my matches?
Can the sky be more cruel?
What will happen with democracy?
Do you want tea?
Please need me in your sojourn!
The plates are scrubbed,
I vacuum cleaned;
When will you return?

Look, Love, the trollies are passing
In their machinery hoot,
It feels so lonely, it all feels lonely,
The most ordinary things.
No! Scratch that!
Will you ever ask again
To borrow my wings?
Look, the things are simple.
I love you, I love you so much
I think I will burst like
Gray dandelion heads
The our son blows
Over the grass.
I love you, I don’t think that it will pass.
I just saw you, shaped like a cloud,
What do you do without me,
Do you ever miss me?
Scratch that!
I wish you stormed in here at 2 AM
And kissed me.

I’m sorry that it’s just too hard to be alone,
I’m sorry that I ask about stuff like
If I have a seizure in the middle of the night,
Who will call the ambulance?
Who will greet the paramedics and tell them
I eat too much spicy food?
And why should it be nobody or somebody
And not you?
Scratch that!
Could you stop by
And let me look at you,
If you are passing through?
We’ve been to the park,
I made
Meatballs and rice, and I made pasta,
And noodles, chicken in soy,
I wrote you poems,
I painted,
I screamed in tears so much
I thought somebody will call the police,
I waited;
I was cold, I was stubborn,
Ecstatic; and sedated.
I folded all our garments, I threw the garbage,
I emptied my soul.

Love, when can I come home?

Diab Soule

•April 13, 2017 • 12 Comments

diab soule closeup

A slightly older, gentle piece. I also feel a sort of feral, innocent vibe from it. I don’t usually work with pink colours, or pastels in general, but this one just came into existence as it is, it beckoned this pink.

The title for the artwork is inspired by the same title song by my favourite band Acid Bath.  Here is a part of the lyrics :

“Summer feels like death
Godless we run
In my eyes there dreams an ocean
Hell beneath my tongue
I understand
And don’t care
Well the skyscrapers look like gravestones
From out here”

You can purchase this artwork as an art print in my Society6 store, or you can request it remade and modified to suit your needs as a book cover or similar. Just write to me!

As always, I am more than interested to hear your thoughts, what does the artwork make you see, think and feel.

Uoy evol tnod I

•April 10, 2017 • 19 Comments


*Image found HERE

Uoy evol tnod I

Like Syrinx, barefoot at the river’s edge,
a plural of nouns,
knees muddy, hands worthless.
Choices were made,
and prayers were prayed
and prying servants and maids
and among them worshiped gods
of smoke and linen,
dead trees, an empty chair,
or worse
a temple or a church
with no priest to lie to you.

I ask my heart to be still,
like a pin cushion,
let the lady have her auburn dress;
let the bitch have her blood moon.
Be still, while the magician saws through.
I am mute with puddles,
I am dirt, I am dog, I am dime,
dinner, dilution, dissipation. Done.
A witch set ablaze,
I have scrapped the closets
for garments,
closed tightly the scents like potions,
keepng them safe from wind.
I cried in an empty room.
I cried at a crowded concert.
I cried in the cab, cried in the bathroom,
the kitchen, the busy street, the dead end,
I salvaged the drawers for trinkets,
I made choices that you orphaned.

I take my sorrow to the butcher
like I accept I am meat for cutting;
I let him chop of my head,
hack off my arms, split my ribs
and I shall plant them in the ground
and weep for growing
countless more of worthless me’s;
I will let him hack and slash,
play with it, snip, snap, pull –
like betrayal, like brutality,
like ten more me,
sliced to steak, like
my thighs, returning to the lord,
like my face, held by strong hands,
like my eyes, like snuffed candles,
like gut feeling versus the choices
between fat fingers in the early morning shift
lining the black beard of someone who doesn’t care;
just dices.
I will listen as you speak of me as past tense;
I will let the butcher make a knife shelf in my chest.

And soon, the silence will wrap us like lasso.
The trees will quiet down, the birds will fall asleep.
And the groceries will need doing, and splitting,
and fitting the shelves and there will be aftermaths in need of fixing
with kisses on the neck.
The priest will come to his church and he will clasp his hands,
and incense will burn in the temple and pictures will corrode
and your soul will slut its way inside some dark abode
and I will ask What shall become of me?
What of the dreams, the bed sheets, the bedroom, the bed,
the loneliness? What of the waiting?What of the choices

of where to go, where to be, where to lay the head, where to cry next
and where to weave the sparrows? Which colour, which parcel,
which flower? Which name, which surname, nickname, sweet thing,
which honey, which plum, what kind of sugar, whose teaspoons? What for breakfast, what for lunch, and choices like the spiral, the farfale or the sea-shell macaroni?

How do I call you
come the morning?


•February 25, 2017 • 14 Comments



Mixed media/ February 2017

I know the title is misspelled on English. I wanted it to be a weird fusion of the English and Serbian word for the word “mosaic”.

I recently started a gig on Fiverr, where I can turn your portrait in an abstract artwork like this. Check it out if you are interested by clicking here: Fiverr Abstract Portrait

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