Sold another one

Apparently "God Save the Queen" didn't need as much editing as I thought because I just sold it. :)

Yellow flowers

"I could learn photography. That could be something to want. I could photograph children. I could have my own children. I would give them yellow roses. And if they got too loud, I would just put them some place quiet. Put them in the oven. And I would kiss them every day, and tell them you don't have to be anybody, because I would know that being somebody doesn't make you anybody anyway." —Gia Marie Carangi

Today my friend Andy and I were sad, so I bought some yellow flowers for us. We walked around and gave them to people who looked like they needed flowers, and we left one for an old friend. It was her birthday recently. Hopefully she'll know that the flower was from us, that we haven't forgotten about her, and that we miss knowing her.  

Thoughts on Jesus Christ Superstar

So, I saw Jesus Christ Superstar for the first time today. One of my good friends was in the ensemble/played one of the guards who flogged Jesus. He was so good in it! I'm so proud of him. In general, the play was amazing! King Herod was played by a faux drag queen who looked like Ursula from The Little Mermaid. The costumes were fantastic. Caiaphas had this awesome disco mobster Jew look. Some members of the ensemble (three really beautiful black women) were dressed in these awesome white Southern belle church-goer dresses with white sun hats and fans. Also, I had no idea that Jesus Christ Superstar is such a homoerotic play! Judas is just this sexually questioning homophobe who can’t handle that he’s in love with a dude…a dude who also happens to be the messiah. God, Judas, stop getting people crucified and accept that you like men. 

Magdolene

In all fairness, she did once tell me that she was insane,
but not long after she said, "But I know that I'm mad,
and truly mad people never know they're mad,
so, really, I must be okay." I told her I was not sure
that was the way it worked. I watched her mouth
force itself into a half smile, though it came out
more like a half frown. I could not help but kiss her.

New doodles

Elephants never forget.

Male seahorses have the babies.

 

Tea time with Mr. Octopus

The Alphamale (or the ABC's of why I'm leaving you for a woman)

A is for asking for anal and the “accidental” slip into the wrong slot when the answer was still NO.

B is for beer pong and your Budweiser breath on my ear begging me to go bed with you, a charming “you’re beautiful,” and suave belch.

C is for cheating when we played checkers, cheating when we played chess, and cheating when you said it was love.

D is for the dozen drunk dials I awoke to when you dared to slur, “Are you suuuure you’re disease-free?”

E is for every time I envied the eternally true iloveyous of lovers lost in each other’s eyes when my own ears were only ever graced by echoes of my malcontent emotion.

F is for my favorite feud: who got too friendly with whose friends first and all the other fights over who fucked who over most; it got far too physical for me pretty fucking fast.

G is for your grotesque grease-stain glow because you think you look like a rockstar when you don’t bathe, but really you have all the glamour of the gray gravy goo my granny saves in a jar in her fridge.

H is for your hard-boiled heart and my hunger to be held by a human, maybe one made of some humble heat instead of your unholy hands at my haunches.

I is for the imperfect self-image I developed ever since you inquired if I’d ever considered implants.

J is for being jarred by your jealousy of the jocks at the gym who I’d never even talk to.

K is for keeping secret your kamikaze-style of kissing because I could never find a kind way to say that a shish-kabob could show you up in a kissing contest.

L is for the look on your lying lips when “I love you” leaked out for the first time.

M is for my mother’s well-meant advice to look for a “more well-mannered man (maybe one with money or at least morals)."

N is for never finding it necessary to nix your unruly neck-beard, no matter how many times I let you know it nauseates me.

O is for the outrageous outnumbering of your orgasms to my zer-Oh!

P is for the puke on my new purse, pulling off your piss-soaked pants before I put you into bed, and the putrid lack of apology lingering in the air the morning after.

Q is for your not-quite clever quips and the quiet that quickly follows in order to quell the pique to my pride when you speak.

R is for my resentment towards the way you never make my phone ra-ra-ringgg when you promise, “Really, I’ll call you right after work.”

S is for saying, “Let’s see a movie at seven,” stealing sixteen dollars from my wallet, and not being able to spare seven stolen bucks for my ticket.

T is for is for your Tic-Tacked tongue, the tartar-crusted teeth you never brush, how your tongue tortured my mouth like the rusty tool used to poke at a dying fire.

U is for my unfortunately under-touched undercarriage and your unappreciative utterances once you’ve used me to get off.

V is for my vain attempt to fill the void in my life with your volatility.

W is for when I washed your whites and found an out-of-place pair of women’s underwear, which you swore were mine.

X is for the X-rated stories of your exes that you are so excited to recite to me, despite my vexed protests.

Y is for your yo-yo yearning and spurning of your loved ones.

Z is for your zealous Zoloft-popping so that you no longer have to feel anything human and can go on living like the alpha males of the zoo.

The Alpha Male pt. 2

G for your grotesque grease-stain glow because you think you look like a rockstar when you don’t bathe.

E for your Elway-esque passes at my friends, expressing your ugly urges to score in their end zones.

T for taking out that trashy waitress from T.G.I. Friday’s when I was I was out of town.

O for the outrageous outnumbering of your orgasms to my zer-Oh!

U for my unfortunately under-touched undercarriage, unless you’ve got too much motor oil in your system.

T for your Tic-Tacked tongue and how it tortured my mouth like a rusty tool poking at a dying fire.

Tomorrow

I will, I will climb up that hill,

I’ll take all my pills,

And start remembering Mommy’s birthday in September November;

I’ll start saving all my cash,

And I swear I won’t have anything to do with hash ever again,

I’ll do just what Daddy said

And stay off that pole and out of that strange man’s bed;

I swear, I’ll think twice before I go home with a guy promising to show me a good time,

Because they never are as rich as they pretend to be,

It’s all a dumb pitch for girls like me;

I will, I will start running again,

I’ll stop drinking all of the gin,

And start to fix that gaping hole that has somehow worn into my soul sole;

I’ll never smoke another cigarette,

And I swear I won’t shoot up and steal a Corvette ever again, 

I’ll do just what they told me to do

And go back to school and stop crying to you;

I swear, I’ll think twice before lifting a grand of merchandise from Macy’s,

Because it’s never worth the thrill,

It’s not worth time in the pen or worth the bill;

I will, I will,

I promise, okay?

Maybe by May I’ll have enough money to move someplace faraway

Then I can sit back and watch the flowers bloom,

But for today I’ll start with cleaning my room.

Left Shoe

Old Ken Cole was a weary old soul,

And a weary mold sole was he;

He spent his life on a shelf dark as night

And he called for some company.

Every meddler finds a fine match,

Every meddler except for me;

Oh there’s none so rare as can compare

With lonely Ken Cole but me.

The Alpha Male pt. 3

A bit crass, Darling.

Every fucking grotesque harlot?

Initial jealousy—kamikaze-love

me now, or please quietly retreat.

Sex, thoughts: unsatisfying.

Volatility won’t excuse your Zoloft.

I would come back for you and only you.

After the shards scarred me

Mom and Dad left me for dead

Grinning guards barred my bedspread

They said I’d never be free

But in my cage I learned to sing

Songs of hope scratched on my cot

I built myself a pair of wings

Out of lullabies and coins and rot

In every song I sung your face

In every song I sung your taste

In every song I sung your flesh           

In every song I sung your breath

Kenneth Cole

Tucked away in a cardboard box

coffin beneath moth-eaten

time-beaten materials of every variety,

with his owner-innards

so easily extracted, gizzards gone,

left him to loner-fate

moaning late into the night,

he was nothing

but abandoned shell, embalmed

leather corpse tethered by an old

lace to the dusty space

in the bottom shelf of Hell.

With a hole in his soul, he was the world’s

most stepped-on street peddler,

sweet old business meddler,

shoved into a nursing home by loved ones

who shamed his name and claimed

to have his best interests in mind.

Amongst a million cold, mold-choked things,

spider strings, rusty rings, ex-kings,

he couldn’t help but allow his dry tongue

to continue to eek meek requests for human

touch until the overwhelming bleak black

of moth mouths swallowed the sorry sucker

whole.

Holding your breath

You dove right in

to what you didn’t know

While holding your breath for me

And I know what I am

to you Some exotic fruit

whose juice bit your tongue 

Some rare bird

whose song plagued your skull

Some mermaid whose mirage

burned itself to the backs

of your eyelids when

you lost yourself at sea

You would call me

unconventionally beautiful

But I would laugh in your face

Self-Portrait in 75 Words or Less

I could never write about my life;

The characters aren’t developed.

My father works on computers

And lives in another city

With his replacement family.

My mother has a big heart

And an addictive personality.

My sisters are cheerleaders

Charged with theft

And drinking under age.

I'm a quiet idontknowwhat

with a passion for oppression.

My instructor says it's best

to edit yourself out.

To My Dearest Red Dress,

I hope that when you hug her wine-bottle body you never look cheap.

I hope that her Wonderbra and refusal to wear panties never make you uncomfortable.

I hope that when she pulls you down

a bit to expose her breasts to the bartender, you don’t

take it personally.

I hope that before she whines, “Time to go,” she doesn’t spill half of her

drink on your soft fabric.

I hope that once you’ve been clumsily tossed into the darkest

corner of her closet, she doesn’t forget about you.

I hope that she doesn’t pick up a new dress that looks exactly like you

but in black next week.

I hope that her hand-me-down love is worth it.

Always,

Your Mannequin 

The wing-maker, the partridge, and the boy who did not quite belong to the sky

Branded and banished, I am sorry to report that I am not entirely sure

what the caged bird has to sing about.

Such a saltwater and starry-eyed sweetheart,

my son now sleeps with the sand dollars.

My child would never live to fly higher than I,

on waxy wings or otherwise, nor would my sister’s son.

My boy’s ambition swelled so big I was bitter;

I bit off and crammed down his throat more than he could swallow.

Perhaps young chaps with wings strapped to their backs

should keep in mind the space between the sky and the sea,

as well as the space between their turned backs and me.

What good is ingenuity when his bed is a ledge lined with twigs

or the lowest branch of the pear tree?

For the burden of the bull bucking between my city’s shoulder blades,

I do not feel ashamed.

For the death of the little saw-maker and my sand-buried baby,

I feel no remorse.

For the inevitable downward spiral of my invention,

I fall on my sword.

What good is ingenuity from behind the brass bars of this cage?

To tell the truth

I love you
was the easiest

lie I ever told

I'm so happy

to see you again

was the hardest

Jellybean Candycane

I miss Miss Blacksmeared and Technicolored

I miss little Wide-Eyed Thingnapper

I miss the Homoerotic Homes that made me panic

over spilled bottles down betraying throats

I miss the Whore On The Hill Town Legend that made me

proud and hateful

I miss Mister LoveYouForWhoYouUsedToBe

I miss not being torn

through not a goddamn piece

of meat raw on

a porcelain plate

I miss being tasted carefully

and gracefully but mostly

gratefully

I miss not being left out

over night to draw flies

not being picked over

or forgotten like last

week’s suppertime special

I miss the reputation

and the thrills

but mostly

the Respect

Now you know

In World War II, the Nazis forced gay males to wear pink triangles. "Asocial" people (this included feminists, lesbians, and women who did not perform the traditional roles of heteronormative housewives) were forced to wear black triangles. For these reasons, the triangle has been adopted as a symbol of LGBT pride. 

Sartre on my mind

Quote of the day by Jean Paul Sartre from the play No Exit:

New T-shirt Design Ideas

I've been selling my doodles to a t-shirt making company! This is the newest batch that I've sketched. For some reason the color looks really strange when I scan it but looks normal in real life and when I photograph it. Usually they re-do the color anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter. 

What are we going to do today, Brain?

I made this to describe my life with my Juli Blue: