Roswell.

My extraterrestrial brethren,
I am in need.
These lands are bare and foreign,
full with evils and ragweed.

I don't belong on this planet,
I am far too weird for mankind.
I'm stuck here with a brass anklet,
take me home, if you are so inclined.

I'll meet you in Roswell.

Yancy

masturbation stains
and silly blue clocks
merry-go-rounds and kisses on the cheek
yancy had it rough
but made a name for himself
trough fifth dimensions
and turntable disco dances
bad batches of smack
and fighting for life in hospitals
battles of destruction
war or the worlds
endless bombs and explosions
silence is so far away

Dogs Do Have Dreams

Handjobs and handcocks
Prostrating prostitutes
a sea of bodies
a body of fleas

a child hanging between two knees

a shameful look
a shameful dame
never goin' to be looked at the same
never goin' to be looked at the same...

A lake of fire
Ten thousand leagues
A place to house all the world's greed
In one man's eyes
In one man's eye
pent up forever
until the day we die.

Sick and wretched
Is this man's skin
Enough to mirror
This man's sin

The judge for all
The judge for all
The man we all know
For whom the bells toll

A psychopath
The path of paths
Dreaming of many
Violent blood baths

Enough to quench
The Devil's thirst
Not enough for
Jesus first.

The three eyed man
The blasted land
The sinners banging their tin cans

The man walks by
His three eyes cry
And one by one, the sinners die
One by one, the sinners fly

Forgiveness

Ignorance

The sadist

A mother's gift.

Repent...
Repent...
Repent...

The Shadow's A Coffin

Vision distorted, corrupted, contorted
Figures grotesquely dismembered and maimed
Ambling by with no meaning or purpose
Trapped in a shadow of sorrow and shame
Violently thrusting fists of disdain

The shadow, approaching, weaves in and out
I try to flee, I claw and scream
The shadow's rising and consuming all dreams
I look all around me, figures surrounding
Trying to find someone to blame

The shadow's a coffin
It happens too often
I need to get it out of my eyes
I run and i hide but it's always near by
This pressure, too strong, it could make someone die

An ink black world
It's all that we have
Hardly no hope for salvation
It seems we're trapped in damnation
Continuously drowning, yet we never die

The future rests...in innocent eyes

Truth Serum

This girl that I work with is one of those people that will never show any sign of weakness. She'll never cry in front of you, she'll never admit that something is bothering her. She's tough and she lives to keep up with that image.

But, tonight, she broke down and tore off her armor. She fell into my arms and cried, gasping for a comforting breath. I was so shocked to see her in this state that I didn't know what to do. So I just listened. I listened to every word she had to say.

For some reason, I'm just that person that people look for comfort in. I'm the person that people release their bottled angers and sorrows to. I'm really puzzled as to why. I know I'm a nice person, as nice as I can stand to be anyways. But I just don't understand.

Although confused, I'm more than glad to have been a good enough shoulder to cry on. If someone who normally doesn't open up to a single soul...opens up to me...that really means something to me. Somewhere along the line of all my bumps and bruises I've done something right for a change.

Maybe there is a reason for my existence after all.

The Human Robot.

This isn't really a poem or whatever.
It's just spaced like one.
I'm really horrible with words.
But this was the best way that I could figure out how to express myself through consonants and vowels.
Criticism is always welcome. Harsh or positive.
I don't give a damn.



I feel empty.
Physically, I'm alive.
Not so well, but alive.

I look pretty average.
No outstanding features.
I'm not beautiful, I'm not quite ugly.

I'm not tall. I'm not short.
I'm not fat. I'm not skinny.
Just average.

Average features. I get mistaken for someone else all the time.
Sometimes I wonder who that person is.
Or if it's just an excuse for conversation.

I have flesh and bones, just like the rest of you.
Inside...There's nothing.
Not a single thing.

Yes, I have guts and goop and all of that.
But I don't feel anything.
..Nothing at all. Not a god damned thing.

Often, I try to think of something to compare myself to.
The one thing I keep coming back to, is a robot.
Or a rusted tin can with a lug nut being shaken inside.

My problem is that I don't know how to express myself physically.
I don't know how to show any emotion. I have the same stone cold look or lost blank stare.
Although you can see me, no one really knows where I am.

I'm like a robot.
I'm only programmed to do basic tasks.
Eat. Sleep. Work. Work. Work. Repeat.
That's all that I have the will for.

I don't have the will to go out of the ordinary.
I stay in my cubicle, and I do what needs to get done.
No friends. No laughs. No play. Just work.

I hate being emotionally tied to a person.
I haven't made a single friend out of my three semesters here.
Because I can't. I can't let another person into my life.
Mostly out of fear of what on earth could go wrong.

There's always room for new people.
But I don't have time. I'm afraid to make time.
Every task needs to get finished before I can stop and breathe.

I'm like a robot because I exist to do what I am told.
Inside my mind races in a whirlpool of imagination and rebellion.
My thoughts scream and tear at the squishy walls of my brain.
But everything remains contained, and I do what I am told.

Silent Violence

silent violence
changes the fabric
twist in it
your methods are efficient
you are the end

Born Drunk

I was born drunk
Beer is for breakfast
Thoughts are hazy
and my face is red
I was hungover
and you were coming over
You looked dashing in your hat
and silly pinstriped slacks
I stumbled over clumsy legs
and hit my head off the stove
I was hungover
and you were just a dream

Toast

I have a lot on my plate and I work so hard.
But at the end of each day there is no meal on my plate.
And I go hungry; starving myself of self gratification.
You only get what you deserve, and what I've got is shoddy.

Ecstasy.

Yes. I had my first experience with the love drug. I'm not afraid to admit it.
I'm sort of upset at myself for taking it, with all of the medical problems that can arise from it, but needless to say...it was the most amazing thing that I've ever experienced.
I'm not big on drugs or alcohol, but I admit that I would try anything once.
After all, how many times do you get to do something out of the ordinary in your lifetime?
You only live once, right?
It's kind of scary though. From experiencing the extreme euphoria that I was in...It's plain to see how easy it is to get addicted to Ecstasy.
You experience a happiness and a point of self gratification like no other.
I would absolutely love to experience that all over again, but I'm far too afraid of getting hooked.
One time was plenty enough for me.
But I am so glad that I had the opportunity.
I found an inner peace with myself and now I'm so content and satisfied.
I used to be horrified at the thought of what my impression on other people were and I was always striving to make everyone else around me satisfied before I could let myself relax.
Now..It really doesn't matter. I'm not completely happy but I'm not in a pit of depression either.
I wish I could cough up a deeper explanation..but I guess it's something that you have to experience yourself to fully understand.
I'm just...satisfied. :)

Unicorn vs. Narwhal

I love cartoons, I wont lie.
Forgive the bad animation.
Some of it is good, but you can tell it's not quite finished yet.
I got a kick out of it.

Think out of the box to get back in the box.

So, after being workshopped I realized that this class is...well, not up to par.
I'm not acting like I'm above the class or anything of that sort!
It just seems like a lot of the people are still in the high school mindset. I was expecting some professional feedback, but all I got back was "blahblahblahblah."
I was told that my piece was "too jumbled" and "needed order"...I completely understand that my approach was out of the box, but you don't always have to abide by every rule strictly.
If everything had order, there would be no chaos, there would be no inspiration, and there would be no variety. Come on now. Order is for squares!
I took a risk with this writing style and you have to think out of the box to get back in the box.
And a lot of people didn't do that. They stuck with the guidelines that they already knew.
Honestly, I felt like I was in grade school.
Sorry, but it's true. Not everyone was ridiculous though. I had some good and informative feedback, and that's what I was looking for.
I'm not going to point any fingers, but some people said things that were just, well, retarded. And they didn't make any sense whatsoever. It's kind of like they were just typing something random so they would have something to turn in.
Sheeeeeeeeeesh.
Has anyone around here picked up a book that's not The Cat In The Hat or something that's above the gradeschool level lately?

If I was gay, I'd marry Emily Haines.

No, not really.
But she does have a really incredible voice and artistic approach at music.
I think so anyways.
I love the way this video was shot.
It's so simple yet complicated.
I don't know about you, but I was a little inspired.

Presentation.

I had a lot of trouble with this assignment because there are sooo many things that I think are art.
Music, poetry, graffiti, standing up for what you think is true, hidden meanings, obvious meanings, drawings, paintings, photography, the human mind, how differently we each perceive things...it goes on and on and on.
But I finally narrowed it down to tattoos.
I think tattoos are really amazing. I love the whole culture behind them. I love that every tattoo has a story. I love that they have meaning to the wearer.
But, sometimes people mistake getting tattooed as a fad. And that ticks me off.
Or what happens a lot is that someone will see a tattoo on someone else and they will get the same thing tattooed on them...which makes the original lose it's aesthetic meaning. The more copies there are of something, the lesser value it has.
I'm currently becoming an apprentice and I design a lot of tattoos for people.







These tattoos were done for close friends. But I'm slowly starting to design for others as well. As of right now I am designing album art and a tattoo for Christopher Sweeney.

For my literary piece, I chose the song Gloomy Sunday by Artie Shaw.
There are many versions of this song but I heard this one on the movie Wristcutters: A Love Story and it's just so powerful that I can't get it out of my head.
There are a lot of urban myths about the song.
Originally dubbed the "hungarian suicide song" whether it's true or not, it's said that many people have committed suicide to the song and it was banned from nearly every radio station because it was just too deppressing.
I think that the whole Wristcutters soundtrack is amazing. All of the songs are by artists that have committed suicide or the songs are about suicide.
Here are the lyrics to Gloomy Sunday.

Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest the shadows
I live with are numberless
Little white flowers
Will never awaken you
Not where the black coaches
Sorrow has taken you
Angels have no thoughts
Of ever returning you
Wouldnt they be angry
If I thought of joining you?

Gloomy sunday

Gloomy is sunday,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and i
Have decided to end it all
Soon therell be candles
And prayers that are said I know
But let them not weep
Let them know that Im glad to go
Death is no dream
For in death Im caressin you
With the last breath of my soul
Ill be blessin you

Gloomy sunday

Dreaming, I was only dreaming
I wake and I find you asleep
In the deep of my heart here
Darling I hope
That my dream never haunted you
My heart is tellin you
How much I wanted you
Gloomy sunday

There is no music video for it. But I found a video of the Wristcutters trailer with the song dubbed over it.

A War With No End.

every day i dream
about the places i could be
where happiness resides

every day i dream
about what it would be like
if things weren't so unclear

i want to see color
i want to see emotion
i want to see vibrance

open my eyes
tell me it's okay to see
just tell me it's okay
just tell me it's alright

caught between two wars too many
my glass heart aches, i am paralyzed
if you could just tell me that it's okay
if you could just tell me that it's alright

i feel like jesus christ
carrying every soul's sin
throughout the darkness in life
trying to find the holy light

if i lead the way, will you follow me?
i will bring you to the light
i will bring you to your happiness
but what am i supposed to do?

will last night ring in your ears?
too many eyes are staring at me
too many souls whispering to me
what am i supposed to do?

i would follow my heart
but i'm not sure where it is these days
i don't know these paths so well
my memory is lost

it's okay, it's alright
everything is just fine
memory is just another burden anyways

everything will be fine
with this bottle of burbon
and a colorful cocktail of pills
i will teach myself to forget

is it something wrong
if this is what i want?
this is my time to fuck shit up

these are my troubles
these are my battles
these are my wars

this is something i have to do
i have to do on my own
please don't try to help me
no need for licking these wounds

i am a soldier
i speak of beautiful hate
and one day my soul will be saved


Not one of my better poems but whatever. I fail at writing so it doesn't really matter.
I'm a very visually expressive person.
That's why I doodle instead of using words.

Mass-Produced Memories

When I was
five,
a man
gave me
a red balloon
when I visted
the Great Circus.
Cotton candy
tickled my tongue
and the lions
roared in glory.

Now, I'm
older
and the balloon
is but
another piece of mass-produced rubber
lions moan in agony
and cotton candy
is a trip to the dentist.

MIstakes and Regrets

I've been going through some really tough times in my life.
I've recently found out that people aren't really who they say they are. And no matter how much you love someone, they'll never believe a word you say. Actually, I've always known that. I think everyone knows that. But we all push it to the back of our minds to make ourselves feel better.
No matter how much you love someone, or how close you are...something is bound to go wrong, of course. Nothing is perfect. And if it is perfect, something isn't right.
I've been blamed, accused, scoffed at, laughed at, ignored for far too many times and for far too long.
I've suffered through a lot of things in my life, but recent events may take the hall of fame.
You can't make someone believe the truth if they don't want to believe.
You can't help someone who is never going to get better if they don't want to get better.
Of course there are going to be obstacles along the way, big or small, but if you really want to reach whatever it is you're grabbing at you really have to take a big leap. Just jump in. Go for it. And don't stop until you get there.
No matter how battered and bruised and cut up you get along the way, if it's something you really truly want, just fucking do it.
I've tried really hard to be an honest and true person but I guess that isn't good enough, and I'm not worth the smallest grain of salt.
It hurts, yeah. But I've got things to do so, of course, I'll just bury it.
But nothing will ever be the same.

Death Gets The Best of Us.

I just recently found out that Jerome Brannigan passed away at the beginning of the summer...
Last semester he sat behind me in my Approaches to Lit. class. I never really talked to him. I worked with him on class activities a few times, but I never really knew him. It's just kind of eerie to me.
It makes me wish that I could have known him. I should have turned around and sparked conversations with him, but I didn't. I could have been great friends with, but I wasn't. I could have helped make the last days of his life filled with joy and laughter...but instead we worked treacherously on our final paper.
Jerome's passing has made death a lot more real to me. It can happen any time. Anywhere. To anyone. It could happen to your best friend, the person you love most, or to the person who sat behind you in class last semester...
I've just began to realize that I need to take life more seriously and I need to live it to the fullest that I can.
I wish that everyone could realize how important and special life is..

...But if we lived like it was going to end tomorrow, we'd probably all be gone today right?

The Zephyr's Peculiar Sway.

I miss Florida. The weather was absolutely amazing and watching the sunset while the salty sea breeze was tickling the back of your neck was soothing. I don’t think that I have ever been more relaxed. Now, things are different. It has only been a few years since I was in Florida. But, a lot has changed. I am not healthy anymore. My young body is weak and fragile. It could break at any moment. I have been spending a lot of time in hospitals lately. They know me well there now. The hospital is my second home. I hate hospitals. It’s funny. I hate my own home as well.

Back to Florida. I’ve only seen the Atlantic Ocean twice in my life. The ocean is beautiful. So calm and peaceful. The moon’s ice crystals dancing over the sea. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. There is just something about the zephyrs, the sand beneath your feet, and the scorching sun kissing your skin. There is just something about it all. A good something. The kind of something that is comforting and homey. The kind of something that you don’t experience too many times in your life. It’s a beautiful feeling.

‘Floridians’ don’t know how well they have it. Florida is where America goes to die. Half of the population driving on the streets can barely see over the steering wheel. When you pass a vehicle, all you see is a white puff of synthetic hair and beady little pupils peering through telescope eyeglasses. The other half of the population is trying to run the others off of the road. Drag races. Road rage. Show-offs. Fast cars. New engines. Horsepower. Sex. Booze. Death. The machine operating youth are angry. They plow through the streets nearly destroying everything in their paths. They act like they have a place to go, people to see, things to do. But we all know the truth. We’re all headed in the same direction, but we all deny that we’re in the same boat. They are eagerly waiting for that retirement check, just like the rest. They are waiting for relief; weight to be lifted off of their shoulders. We all wait for the same check.

Back to hospitals. I’ve been in and out of hospitals for the past two and a half years. Surgery after surgery. Heart problems and misdiagnosed illnesses. Near death experiences. Surviving. Hospitals are dirty places. The employees are only paid to care for you. They don’t really care. But, they are great actors though. Don’t let them fool you. A paycheck every two weeks makes everyone believe that they care. Saving a life and caring for someone are two completely different actions. Sometimes they are the same thing...

Luckily, I suppose, every nurse and doctor I’ve ever had has treated me kindly. But they never really cared. They are paid to do what they do. The nurse preps, the doctor gives you a diagnosis and a few months to live, and maybe two weeks of prescription drugs to take your mind somewhere else. After that, the hospital still doesn’t care. As longs as you’re a paying (dying) customer, they don’t care.

Jump to Florida again. When I think of Florida, when I remember anything, my mind becomes a factory. My mind is a factory. Every time I recall a moment in time, the wheels turn and the chemical sludge flows. The smoke stacks pump away the mass-produced memories, which pollute my mind. I am constantly polluting myself. Now, I will always be polluted. Smog wakes me up in the morning. Maybe I don’t miss Florida after all...

(I'm a pretty weird artist and the picture up at the top is a manipulation of a photo I took when I was in Florida.)