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a couple of blood paintings are hung out to dry. uploads soon. btw if you think cutting is bad, go eat a bag of dicks.

all day every day
i watch them walk the socio path
and i cannot find my own
so i drift from A to B
then to C and back again
artistically incorrect
putrid zit on the face of the earth
wormfood walking with wailing songs trailing in the air
a solar flare
lights up the void
there is no sky
no blue ceiling to prevent rocks falling on our heads
and we are velociraptors
sitting ducks on a piece of rock
hurtling through disembodied
clouds of dust
cloud my mind
fuck me
have you ever wondered why
would purposelessness build creatures of purpose
whose existence is madness
living through self-destruction
born to rape
and to be raped
and even have it videotaped
i mean really
think about it
i'm carrying a horse on my back to the water
but he wants to die of thirst
doesn't even lick the sweat off my skin
even though i see the longing in his eyes
to wet that parched tongue
but no
mind over matter
the mind doesn't matter
as if only these two choices were there
there are choices everywhere
the hairdryer next to the tub
the knife on the counter
make it count
i'm dyscalculic so you can't count on me
cut off my fingers
eat them like French fries
a sense of humor in the last moment is always appreciated*


open up your legs - i feel like stuffing you
with my sorrows and agonies and thoughts
until your womb exudes them into a child
screaming with all the might of his new lungs
burning - recreating the pain i hid in the hole
until he grows big enough to wrestle a woman down
and start the cycle all over again.


opaque red and translucent warm brown
liquids paint a smile upon the frown
carved into the face of the heart.
years pile up in bottles - drain the card
and the vein, all in vain,
as the pretense of friendships
ferments into pain.


i make me sick
i make me slick
every morning flick the button
a semblance of life
flickers into being upon the touch
of its own hand
selfish and self-contained
dreams are fading
dizzy cobwebs on the eyes
and time flies
but then loses its wings for eight hours
to drag on like Siberian trains
spotless sheets of white
call on me to litter them with letters
to nobody nowhere
floating in an international limbo before
oblivion inevitably
chisels the monuments away
the desert stretches
Mother Courage

just how empty do i have to be
for you to feel full? you couldn't fulfill
whatever dreams that desiccated heart
might have harbored in the restricted 60s
when you were young and deluded by red flags
waving over the "happiest barracks"
where a forced smile made the glasnost
less transparent.
now it's all the same again, at least
in terms of the numbers:
human capital flight
is at a height
no one had dreamed of when i was born
amongst the throes of a bloodless revolution -
at least they call the last gasps of a monster
a revolution now, as if the collapse
was anything but natural.
it's a shame, really, although you
(and this schizoid little country that in my head
you often represent like a personification)
have no shame at all.
oh, Mother Courage - you lost your daughter.
you lost her before you realized she's there.

The Tongue Transplant

has my tongue been cut out?
i replaced it with a new one,
so cheap it can't be stolen,
dominant all over the world because
the outcasts weren't quite godly enough
to realize someone has already lived there
and built their world innocently
to replace the other.
why did i fall in love with them?
or did i?
maybe i've fallen in hate first,
looking at the braggadocio -
or maybe it was the little boy peering through
the barb-wire coils on top of the Wall,
dazzled and dizzied by the wealth of the other side.
still, there's good in there,
buried under the masses of ignorance
that covers the old layers like a landfill.
and i intend to mine that -
to excavate that goodness and bake it into bricks
to build my own castle.
the myth of the West lives on.

I Get That Heinlein Quote Now

it's hard to be a poet when you're carrying boxes -
it's hard to be an ant when you feel human.
still we are both. we have to be.
this is not Wells' mind, this is our lives.
can't split the strain into educated cattle
and hulking brutes -
apart they lose.
only if you're above both
can you win the crown of evolution.
either that, or the final solution -
and let nature take her course again.
A voice in the darkness. Pitch black, like the unforgiving void of outer space. Only a familiar voice. First a whisper, then growing, clear, understandable. A deep, manly voice, calm and reserved, but full of subtle regret.
"He lost his left arm, but I lost my right."
Falling. Hurtling towards the unseen ground like a meteor. A dot of light below - an anchor in the dark. It grows into a fire, illuminating men bent over a map. Then the map grows into a real field, with Virgil falling into it, and night fading into daylight, silence bursting into a chaos of noises. Horses neigh, explosions thunder, people yell and scream. Suddenly, the fall stops. He's walking on glass, or ice, above the battle scene. Helpless. Forced to watch as those below are slaughtered. His fists thump on the invisible wall, to no avail. He feels a hand fall on his shoulder, turns around, and finds General Jackson peering deep into his eyes.
"This is what you've done."
The bearded face turns pale, sunken, dead, milky eyes still staring into Virgil's, as he breaks out into a scream...

Virgil and Linda in bed, bodies struggling. The lamp on the nightstand is lit, and the woman's terrified gaze glitters in the warm ambient light. Virgil stops screaming and kicking, and wipes the cold sweat off his brow.
"Again?" She asks, hugging him.
"Every time. And I can't do anything."
"Well, maybe that's the point. You can't do anything about it now. So you should move on."
His body stiffens, rage welling up inside.
"You can't understand..."
She sits up, holding him down, and cuts him off.
"You are right. I can't understand what it was like for you. But I do understand that we all make mistakes in our lives, and sometimes there is no way to fix them. It hurts, and it's not fair, but maybe that's the point. Maybe you are stuck in this world because you're stuck in the past, blaming yourself for something that you had no control over."
"What if..."
"No. Think about it."
For a moment, he really wants to hit her. Kill the messenger. Break her neck and remain unchanged, as he was for more than a hundred years. But something deep inside stays his hand. She feels the struggle in his veins, sees it in his eyes, and it tears at her. She tries not to cry, but fails...and perhaps this tips the scales for the man. He can't hurt a helpless woman. No way. How could he even think of that? Virgil hides his face in his hands, ashamed and defeated.
"Don't worry. I'll help you through this."
"If you are right, then that would mean working towards losing me."
"Better than seeing you tear yourself apart."
He has no words to offer in return for this sincere love, so to distract himself from the storm still raging in his mind, he loses himself in the woman's warm body, as it offers him a mindless refuge from the ghosts of the past. Her scent, her softness, her eager kisses help to dissolve the tension, and after making love to her, he can finally fall asleep without the nightmares coming back. For now.

In the morning, Linda's girlfriends - about two dozens of them - gather up in the living room. They seem to be curious and cheery enough - whatever "reason" for the occasion has Linda told them, it must have been quite pleasant. However, Virgil is nervous, as he never was much of a socialite, and being expected to be the star of the day remind him way too much of the time he was lauded for "heroic" acts that were committed in vain.
But Michelle is there to ease the tension and introduce her savior to the audience. She smiles radiantly at everyone, even the strangers. Virgil briefly wonders how do women manage to smile even in the direst circumstances, then directs his attention to what she's saying.
" if he's not there, I'd be probably dead now," she concludes the story again, this time facing a couple in their mid-forties. Both wear pastel blouses, one lilac with a hint of lace, the other a more businesslike apricot. Expensive-looking earrings brighten up their plain features, framed by shoulder-length hair - one dirty blonde, the other chestnut brown. Even if they wouldn't wear wedding bands, one would still think that they must be married, as the synchrony of their movements is of two people who know each other nearly too well.
"And yet, I'm not here to argue that women absolutely need a man to be protected," Virgil picks up the thread of the conversation, trying to appeal the man-eschewing preferences of these middle-class lesbians. "Instead, I would like to highlight the importance of self-defense, which is a right everyone of us has - provided he or she knows how to use it."
"When we were younger, Martha and I did face some...problems with people who would disapprove of our relationship," the brunette in the apricot suit replies, not forgetting the customary pause to cast a fleeting glance at her partner's face. "But today in our neighborhood...I don't think it's necessary to be afraid of such atrocities."
"Your neighborhood?" Michelle inquires.
"Garrisworth," the woman says. Virgil and Michelle exchange a knowing look - the suburbs, where the fences and the residents are exclusively white, and everyone has at least one child, one dog and one skeleton in the closet. Cookie-cutter land. And yet...if gay couples made it into that kind of place, so might have other, far more unsavory developments of modern life. Virgil proceeds on that line of thought, but before the debate could reach a conclusion, another curious acquintance drifts into view. The show must go on.

By the time the party is over, Virgil is exhausted. Having escorted the last guests to the door, he throws himself on the couch, to stare in exasperation at a pile of empty dishes on the coffee table. The women consumed an amazing quantity of cookies, despite their apparent initial reluctance to touch any food offered, often making references to the new diet they're on. The behavior of women at parties hasn't changed much in nearly two hundred years, he concludes with a sigh.
"How many subscribed to the course?", he asks without much enthusiasm.
"Eight," Linda checks her notebook. "Eight out of 22, that's not even bad."
"Do you think they'll come?"
"Well, as far as I know them, I'd say they are probably serious, maybe with the exception of Madeline. She tends to forget her plans and make new ones overnight."
"Which one was her?"
"The black one with a ponytail. Maid at the Hotel Diamond, marathon runner."
"Ah, right. Michelle said I shouldn't make remarks on her being a maid. She seemed to be wary of politically incorrect behavior on my part."
"Well, you have to expect that from people who know your...background."
Virgil chuckles. "Don't you think my views might have changed? I mean... yes, I still think it wasn't as bad as you are taught - hell, if anyone in this day and age, I should know - but I don't have an aversion towards black people. That's just silly."
"I know. But people still think in stereotypes."
"All the more reason not to spread the truth about me any further."
"There's no argument about that."
With that conclusion, Linda sits in his lap and begins straddling him. Virgil leans forward to kiss her, then shakes off the tired weight in his bones and stands up, letting himself be led to the bedroom.
Mortal Sins - Scene 4
I know, the style is sort of morphing into something else, but at least I've been working on this ^^;
writing on the Wall by librarian-of-hell
writing on the Wall
Yep, that Wall. Vintage-ized the drawing because it seemed appropriate and it hid the scan faults. Hugin & Munin, a distant eagle, 99 red balloons, all sorts of era-appropriate graffiti goodness. :)

I loved you when you were unfaithful; what would I have done if you were true?
- Jean Racine

As long as there was
a chance to escape
everyone remained
in the prison.
The chance to escape
was a freedom that no one
wanted to lose. 
- Gösta Ågren

That was the kind of lie that I hoped never to have to tell again, the contempt I hoped never to have to show, about the things that really mattered to me. And in order not to have to do that, I would pretty well have to stay clear of the people I used to know. 
- A. Munro, from 'Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage' (Family furnishings)

I do my thing 
and you do your thing.
I am not in this world
to live up to your expectations.
And you are not in this world
to live up to mine.
You are you and I am I.
And if by chance
we find each other, it's beautiful,
If not, it can't be helped.
- Fritz Perls

  • Mood: Artistic
  • Listening to: my new kitty's purrs
  • Reading: The AK-47 by Chris McNab
  • Eating: breaded eggplants
  • Drinking: too high tolerance; i need to go thirsty again


Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Not exactly a hobbyist, but therapeutic writing wasn't an option. Self-doubting white girl with a tendency to obsess over stuff, which I take out on... formerly paper, nowadays my DA page.
As long as you don't attempt to "cheer me up" or get all religious on me, we'll get along well. Tell me what's your poison and I... won't exactly tell who you are, but pour you a round and tell a good story, 'kay?

Current Residence: Győrzámoly
deviantWEAR sizing preference: L
Favourite music: see :P
Favourite style of art: pretty much anything BUT anime
Operating System: Ubuntu
Skin of choice: white, nicely scarred
Favourite cartoon character: Hawkgirl, Martian Manhunter, Wolverine, Simon's Cat
Personal Quote: "Meow."

Journal History

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Skaramine Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
As always, thank you for the favorite and the kind words. :D
librarian-of-hell Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
i don´t do ˝kind˝. If something´s awesome, it´s awesome ;)
Skaramine Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
librarian-of-hell Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Dingbatt20 Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave!
librarian-of-hell Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the good work :)
Skaramine Featured By Owner Sep 28, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Grazi my chaotic good friend!
librarian-of-hell Featured By Owner Sep 30, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
you might like this:…

fake but enjoyable with a little suspension of disbelief, plus it had nice female bodies.
Skaramine Featured By Owner Sep 30, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks! :D
librarian-of-hell Featured By Owner Sep 28, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
De nada. ˝Can´t give anything but that which is my nature.˝ (Tragedy of Man, Imre Madách - my quick translation)
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