I am not ‘doing’ anything special. That was just a sample of what happens in my mind all the time.
It is also my biggest hurdle in doing art. As I mentioned initially, it took me a fair amount of practice to be able to hold an image steady in my mind.
You would not believe how hard it is to draw something when your mental picture of it keeps on oozing slime or being torn apart to pieces. . . .
I see a tall, burly, sweating German man…bulging muscles, erect, nine inch penis, dark hair slicked back away from his gorgeous face, sharply angled jaw…green eyes…lips curled into a mischeivious scowl, holding a whip…his chest has a bit of dark hair on it…there’s a treasure trail from his taught stomach to the gorgeous package below.
He beckons to me…he…wants me…he calls me his little kitten…
Aside from the disturbing images that blatantly cry out for a Freudian interpretation–penetration by tentacles, oozing slime–there’s not alot that’s worth reading.
Why on earth do you think this is “art”? Just jotting down whatever images you imagine is NOT “stream-of-consciousness” writing. In true SOC writing, which hasn’t been in vogue for 70 years, BTW, authors like James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, and Djuna Barnes attempted to capture their characters’ interior monologues and the flow of conscious thought in words. So, for example, we have Molly Bloom’s famous soliloquy at the end of Ulysses, where she blends past and present in reverie, and her recurring memories of being courted as a young girl in Gibraltar by her future husband, Leopold Bloom.
You’re not even close. Please stop wasting the resources of the Reader by infliciting your masturbatory, adolescent fantasies on us.
sorry.
God.
I thought you were into big burly guys
[Beatles]
What do you see when you turn out the light?
I can’t tell you but I know it’s mine.
[/Beatles]
I see a black inky abyss.
And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
:: snapping, smoking, black turtlenecks::
Jarbaby, I didn’t even see your post. I was addresing the weirdo who opened this thread. He’s not interesting enough to be disturbing, as he hopes to be; he’s a boring, adolescent git. If he wants to write some freaky imagery, I suggest that he acquaint himself with the works of William Burroughs, Pauline Reage, and the Marquis de Sade
And, yes, I like me some big, burly guys.
I forgot to put a smilie on there. I knew you weren’t referring to me 
j
My wife removed my eyelids with a razor (she wanted to “circumsize my eyes”) the last time we dropped acid.
So I can no longer close my eyes.
I wear swim goggles to keep 'em from drying out.
I just do not understand why you guys are all giving him so much shit. Sheesh, he can rotate a cube in his head!
I see a self-aggrandizing little prick with delusions that he matters.
Regardless of what’s wrong with his diluded mind, he needs to get checked out. Unplug awhile, go take a walk…get some fresh air… Tell any admitting Doc what you think about people that take drugs…actually, print your little rant there and submit it to a psych nurse…then prepare yourself for a nice little trip…
I really want to bring up your sentence construction and the way that you use language. <Disclaimer>if you use English as a second language, I apologize in advance for what I am about to say. The following remarks are intended only for one who is a native speaker and can (theoretically) think in English.</Disclaimer>
First of all, I assume that you opened this thread in the Pit because you know that you would annoy people (or perhaps were intending to do so). That said, WTF?
I have read (and trembled with disgust) at your mangling of the English language. You seem to have this idea that you are smart and creative person, but it fails to show.
This is the deal: the ability to use language to communicate our ideas and feelings is (perhaps) the single greatest adaptation of the Human animal. While it can be said that there are other forms of life that use language to one degree or another, no other animal has used it to the extent and with as much success as Humans. Just the storage of extra genetic knowledge (books, Electronic media and the like) puts us in a league of our own.
To put this another way, you are failing to live up to your potential as a human. If this is something that you cannot help, I will back off and make allowances for you (the way that I would, as a compassionate human, for anyone else with a disability). Otherwise, get coherent or shut the fuck up.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, opium addict
Score one for drugs.
In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”-
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never- nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked,
upstarting-
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!
Edgar Allan Poe, opium and alcohol addict [sub]or maybe not nowdays, depending on which set of biographers are revisionists[/sub]
Score two for drugs
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Picture yourself in a boat on a river,
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly,
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
Cellophane flowers of yellow and green,
Towering over your head.
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes,
And she’s gone.
Lucy in the sky with diamonds.
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmellow pies,
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers,
That grow so incredibly high.
Newspaper taxis appear on the shore,
Waiting to take you away.
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds,
And you’re gone.
Lucy in the sky with diamonds,
Picture yourself on a train in a station,
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties,
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstyle,
The girl with the kaleidoscope eyes
John Lennon–LSD, marijuana
Score three for drugs.
i’d like to kill those guys…
oh wait
The History of One Tough Motherfucker
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,“not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…”
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn’t go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
“you can make it,” I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…
and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,“look, look
at this!”
but they don’t understand, they say something like,“you
say you’ve been influenced by Celine?”
“no,” I hold the cat up,“by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!”
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows…
it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it’s bullshit but that somehow it all helps.
Charles Bukowski, alcoholic. That’s four, I believe.