One of the things I always liked about Sonama was their rooms weren't clinically cold. None of the stark white cabinetry and walls I saw at other places I had checked out. While they all used the standard beds and plants, Sonama felt more natural. Like stepping into the guest room at a quaint bed and breakfast, with warm textured walls and overstuffed duvets surrounded by small floral print curtains. My room had colorful quilts piled on top of an antique armchair besides a mirrored dresser, with stuffed bears and quirky knick-knacks crowded into all four corners. The plants and flowers were real, too, and you could smell their freshly watered
It was only two months ago when you had the procedure. You can no longer remember why. You know only that you must have liked the idea of your eyes tasting shapes. You had money. Maybe that was all the reason there ever was.
For a month, your life was normal. Your brain was still learning to process the new input. Sometimes you would vaguely taste oranges when sitting at your computer. Or catch yourself thinking that the letter O seemed sour. Or avoid a restaurant that served food on oval plates, because some ovals taste like bad coffee.
You can't pinpoint the day you first spent over an hour staring at squares. You had not mean
In the time of darkness
Past the valley of the moon
In a land of starkness
Lies my solitary room
In my eyes a sadness
That eclipses the sun
In my mind a madness
At the things that I have done
These hands once built a fortress
Whose walls could stop all sound
Now time’s slow conversation
Has worn it to the ground
Once I walked protected
Safe where’re I’d go
Now I roll and show my belly
And beg the final blow
Once my words were weapons
Gleaming from my tongue
Once my thoughts were razors
Once, when I was young
Now I hide myself in shadows
In terror of the cost
Too afraid to learn
Even what it is I lost
The waters rise ar
this aftershave smells like uranium by straygod, literature
Literature
this aftershave smells like uranium
I don't want to die without leaving a piss-stain on the planet, except the world is a skeleton, and everything already stinks of ammonia. An old woman once told me what it was like to climb trees, how she'd hook her legs around the branches and swing and watch birds fly upside-down above clouds coloured white instead of green. We don't get much of those any more. Trees. Birds. Old women. Wise bastards with something better to talk about than how we should live our lives. Eat your veg. Smile. Brush your fucking teeth. Nah, this old chick with her gnarled fingers and her crumpled smile and her reading glasses with the crooked frame, she talked
we'll kiss hell's palms like
wretched ministers
before we give sermons tonight;
yellowed wayfarers
pacing scaffolds, we long
to wake immaculate -
deceased
stop trying to justify
flight and fly
out of the window to the highway
if the star you speed towards
stings, pure capsaicin,
over the clones who'll insist
on picking your lice, over the gentle
malleable clones who'll insist on the sorry
state of your tyres,
glide,
there is no malice
but the purity of violent thought.
and their tenderness is a two-dimensional stain
on the flat below.
forget light and abide by the fire
where the bodies had been tossed,
by the curb where sexless witches croak,
by the hell of mathematicians.
a preemptive "forgive me" and no pity,
no slowdown, no excuses.
becuase many err but few stay true
to the swerve -
Painting Using the Fractal Gradient by PrimalExpression, literature
Literature
Painting Using the Fractal Gradient
Painting using oil is no easy task.
The time involved often spans over days, weeks, months, sometimes even years.
The mediums involved are often far and few between in the way of texture, consistency, and overall chemical makeup.
When I was still under the guidance of my mentor William Vanya, he always used to tell me; it all comes down to fractals, Chris.
Now that I've had the time to analyze his methods I think that I have come to a realization about what he was telling me in regards to this new painting style.
Imagine, if you will, that you and everything that you experience is contained within a shakra. Now, for us to experience our inw
LILITH'S SAVAGE GARDEN by Heather-Chrysalis, literature
Literature
LILITH'S SAVAGE GARDEN
He thought me a simple thing,
too easily broken like the ribs of new grass
that glutton themselves on a baptism of
daylight gorgeously golden, but this baptism
he can keep-I will not let it stain my marrow,
and his name too he can take-for I have my own,
I will not let such plain conventionality
cleave to my breast, an aureole of moonshine
encircles my proud peaks, Passion's palpitating
tirade seeps from the pores of my skin,
and I am she who collects the Stars shining
up my spine, enticing the Dark to give up
her secrets to the sweet feminine scent of
my lotus, oh if only he knew that my witcheries
were a gift-not a curse!
He thought me a w