Gravity
Falling, eyes
Peeled, bawling
Down, rain
After rain, mud
Falling, feet
Caked, trawling
Down, mile
After mile, stone
Falling, shoulders
Sheared, hauling
Down, blade
After blade, blood
Falling, arms
Piled, crawling
Down, pound
After pound, bone
Falling, guts
Jammed, galling
Down, turn
After turn, waste
Falling, digits
Hacked, stalling
Down, class
After class, cache
Falling, crowns
Cracked, calling
Down, hope
After hope, haste
Falling, trunks
Burned, palling
Down, mass
After mass, ash
Falling, frames
Coiled, sprawling
Down, sec
After sec, gravity
Rising
It’s been a minute since I’ve been on Tumblr due to some login difficulties but I finally sorted it out.
Here are a few sketches from this summer.
See the whole sketch dump here: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/L3LGJA
wrong
we’re dead
wrong–deadly
throngs, heading
for death–& long-
itude & latitude’s
gone; hope to hope to
hope again; carried
on wind, waves; ferried
in mind; waves, long-
ing kind waves;
shall we find ways
to not be dead
wrong? are the days
too short or two longs
repeating too loudly?
too proudly? too cloudly?
but Earth sang songs long
ago; She sings again,
bellowing: you’re deadly
wrong.
falsehoods
the architecture of truth falls flat
against the flourish of surrounding lies,
sparkling and glinting in the light,
drawing our gaze and jutting
their corners into compositions,
casting shadows across the truth below.
but the shoddy foundations of lies
are prone to failure and no matter
how fashionable or stylish,
time will reduce them to dust,
claiming those within their walls,
while the foundations of truth endure
time’s assault like tardigrades
in the vacuum of space.
so the market of falsehoods grows,
ever eager
to keep the truth
from being bought
for as long
as possible–
let alone believed.
Wash your hands / Don’t touch your face
Touch your face / Touch your face
Wash your hands / Don’t touch your face / or face corona
(sing in the tune of London Bridge is Falling Down)
Billowing
Holo XI
Mara gathers wood in the forest not far from the river. It’s not easy living in the forest, but it’s the only home she’s ever known, and she isn’t welcome in the city because of her kind.
She lives according to the rules of alchemy – a philosophy and set of methods passed down from her grandmother and mother. Everything has its own value and energy, and everything can be transformed. Alchemy served her well the last forty years, as well as those who sought her out.
A twig snaps behind her. Then another. She spins around, and sees a man on the far side of the river stumbling his way across. He collapses face-first in the water.
She runs over. He’s a warrior of some kind. Blood pours from a wound just beneath his ribs. She drags him out of the water and removes his leather chest piece.
Dazed, the warrior searches for something, anything. He finds Mara’s eyes. She’s busy ripping off his shirt. Once off, she sees more lacerations on his left arm and back. Blood keeps pouring from his chest.
“Come, there’s little time.” He loses consciousness.
She hoists and tosses the burly warrior over her shoulder with the barest of effort, and hauls him back to her hut, firewood and all.
Back in her hut, she traces a pattern in the dirt and places him in the middle. She closes her eyes and repeats a phrase of alchemical power. The effect builds and stops the bleeding, giving her time to treat his wounds.
Before long, the warrior’s wounds are cleaned and coated with a regenerative mucus produced by woodland fungi, and dressed in Mara’s own hand-spun bandages which are treated with herbal extracts to speed healing and reduce odors.
The warrior regains consciousness and sees Mara looking down at him.
“How can I ever–”
Mara smiles and puts her finger to his lips.
“By resting.”