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Hope you are all enjoy the art, poetry and such that I put together. If you want more buy my stuff off of Esty or Redbubble! Or if you are looking for something really special go to my commissions page. You can email me details of the sort of thing you are looking for. You get progress shots, and I will try my best to give you the art you are after before you buy. I have 10 commission slots, and NONE thats right NONE of them are currently taken up! So get in now if you need some art! (I also do poetry commissions)
Yours in art,
We can take the idea of a self care – as one of a worker day module. It’s a unit. A schedule break that’s given, almost permission to be away from the task at hand. Not though, it’s actually a task in itself. A part of the machines mechanics. A very scheduled part of your own schedule. Taking your enjoyment, joy, break, and using your new found out to make sure you are doing the other things. It’s not given as a relationship its a part of the day in itself. It’s giving yourself a task for doing something different to your current one so you can focus on the current one better.
Like in coding, we are given threads when sufficiently advanced to use. Spacing pointers and their operations so that the whole program becomes, more effective. Using the computer’s computing power to compute something else while it waits for the rest of the task to be ready.
You can enjoy this threaded task. It’s not wrong. It’s not a bad thing to be self-aware of the task you have getting draining. Using up more of you than you need. You need to tame this beast.
“This task needs to be done so I must find a way”
Are you though taking a break from you? Or are you doing it for the task? Is this task bigger than you? Is it worth more than you? Are you working the task or is this task working you?
I’m not saying you should not be doing something you enjoy. You should. But let yourself enjoy it more. Don’t worry about your other task. Let yourself love yourself. Let go of the idea you are doing this for your task. You are doing it for you. Only for you.
You are worth it. You are the one doing this task. You are essential to this task being completed. You are the one with the training, the knowledge, the skills. You give this task your essence. You are in control of how well it is done. You are in control of how efficient it is. You are doing this self-care for you.
You are not your task. Never.
Dodgers on a street mistreat all they greet Moldy shirtsleeves looking in the dirty earthly thirsty drags
smelt like the strike of blight, no they are not alright
Podgers conjured by the constabulary
thicken the air with their reactionaries
pressed clean curt is their mirth
gelt like the pike of mights, no they are not right
read or seen in the depth of mind blue and black and full of rind
pieces falling over themselves to prove their mine
jumping thumping in that dark clouds or just sitting in simple mounds
some left bereft of wisdom and grace
others given life by the fleshy roots
a tree, kurrajong above sitting in a grove
deep a creek runs smoothly over granite stones
drying yellow grass fields around
black seed pods scattered around the ground
a faint hearted smile from a girl sitting in this tree
singing softly words and thoughts about who she really is
a little altar is nearby, resplendent in dawning lights
I put my attachment in, wait to send it
Then I get a message, that I shouldn’t temp fate
‘Cause it all goes wrong, it won’t send its too long
I try to zip it, but that’s not going trick it
It still says you shall not pass
Oh I’m singing the file format Blues
Format not supported or size to big
I’m going to have a fit!
Oh I’m signing the file format Blues
I once tried to send by FTP, but it wasn’t going to let me
Just hit one of those firewalls,
shouldn’t have been such a chore
Made it onto a CD, then when I get to the other machine
It chews it up, crashing like a Sinclair!
I thought I found my savior in a PDF,
I tried my luck to no success
It came up telling me it wasn’t a suppored file
I converted it back to doc, I’ve then written over my file with characters that look like tire tread!
It’s just going to have to be printed out
Shorly that won’t take to much of a test
Out of toner!
Give me a rest!
I singing, I’m signing the file format blues.
Nb: this is not about me. It is my feelings though.
In the day.
It’s spring. They come out at night. Flowering.
The hate from them is like pollen. Like a stench of the past. Because it is death.
Watching these ducklings on the lake I can’t help it. Towering.
Above us it sits. The useless skyline. Technology can’t do it. It’s just keeping a sense of the real life. Clever it was meant.
Those ducklings are happy. Quacking along. Mother keeping them in toe. I think of how many more springs that are coming for me. Cowering.
These nights. These days. The mostly white flowers here are to some pure. Really they are a lot of metaphors. Lies. Pretty lies in my mind. Lament.
In the night.
Is that night? A little sky full of stars? The ducklings are asleep in my hands. Mother on my lap. How can I keep them safe? From the dark? From the monsters? Questions.
I feed the mouth. This visceral tooth holding flesh attached to me. Sickness in. I’m not going to be hear next spring. I can hear the monsters in my mind. They are close. So close. They. Can try and eat me. But I fight. For my ducklings. For their mother. I’m going to be here as long as I can. For as many of the best things.
The night. I know they are scratching me as I sleep. I see the scars. I smell them on my clothes. My ducking share safe. Their mother is safe. I will probably eat something more soon. Better food. They will play again. On the lakes surface. Never know that they are on the surface of my mind. Reflecting what is good. Those blessed things.
I’m alive still. Monsters gone. How much longer? I’m going to find out. I’m going to know. The ducklings will they miss me? I’m not sure. Even when I’m dead I’m sure to miss them. Like a bells ring.
Riding the noises in the forest fae
Spiders, birds, books, wombats, nerds
Strange library, evergreen, oh don’t mind me
Pinky promises flowering essence, cool Ghostly presence
Little strange new dreams of machines, none of them clean
Rocky colors, shook the duller capture
Fresh kill to the bones of the Trill, they’re after the carrion fill
Hot cups, gimlet luck, blue blood, true mud
Flicking others, shadows like cothered muffeled mussel
Dripping with spite their is the spike, and the hill of the place of the armsted respite
Besides that their it is, a spokesman for the next new species
A fairy and a robot, a gathering thought, waves
It’s hand is up, sucking on the teat
Newborn, but not a newcomer
How quickly will it learn?
Of the spiders, birds, books and nerds?
Well that wasn’t even the justice of the curls in the system
I’m sore as a whole bunch of petitions
Piles of cheats and gassing hermits in leering metal boxes
so I hear they melted down the ox’s
Great beanie islands, sitting in a million times their volume of views
I anguished. I stepped. I swore are you doing not the right sight. That true box of things that weels it’s place, seems to know more about your directions
Curly, your just like them
Grenadine, mixed in tears of a virgin
Lonely, like a oyster
You will blame the system then the others
Never see the ocean of muck you are in
Is that your fualt? Your future?
I’m just a pearl
I’ve got no cleavage to cut with
I’m anguish, I’m hatred, down into the salty sand I will fall when your gone but a memory in the heart of the ocean.
I’m part of a potion
Coming into the second hands higher than thou attitude
I’m just dirt. I’m not nothing, but it’s how some will see me.
Yellow hallowed ground
Grassroots under the rocks
Loneliness in the seeded thoughts
Lichen and spiders in the deep dew
Ring of a bell
Time to be elsewhere
Be sentenced, denting the nose of ticklish airs
Gum to you the sky is the only thing to reach
Opening up to you she heard your crazy cries
Wearing earrings on your branches, the company of the sun
Access the vessel in cloudscape to wounderd drops
Grasping the points on your faces infamy, you poison the growths
The sentence is completely done, denting this nose in ticklish airs
Koala, never a bear
Angry angels antagonistly anticipate an average apocalypse.
Bored Bandicoots bandage brassieres to bring back bebop.
Centralized Centuars counter argument that most creationist of creatures the Cat.
Taking to talking in telling tounge twisters Toucan told a tale of tinkling tendrils to tantalize the thoughts.
Lion Leo lounged luxourosly licking lenticular lines lazily.
Frenzied fur seals fouruouisly flounce figure eights while fishing their fill.
Mindindfully meditating on malice and fishing minced meats out of his mandible, Manticore mislayed the latest edition of men’s weekly, featuring the mets.
Watching wistfully Wesal went about her wisend ways and wrestled with her winter stockpile of walnuts.
Chilled chinchilla commissioned Cockeral to count consecutive children in the counterintuitive hope it would chase away the chills.
Friendly Fox found finishing frittatas in a fry pan a feindishly futile fellowship.
Generally Goose gives out grapeshot but Goanna grabbed the wrong goods.
Entertainment Eels and enchiladas, Elephant eases into his role as lord Eastwick. The Eels later endeavor to enscribe his entertainment as electrifying.
Jaguar just jives the night away.
Given into the dark
Rotting, slouches of flesh
Eating, crunching, mandibles slicing
Casings filling the remaining bits
Soil, aches full of the noises
Revving, is the true job
Dirty, dark, disgustingness is the frame
Really, you are just a nessasarry part of the whole
Carrion, I salute you
The cookies and milk served to the star gazing kids
The musings and silt in the bed of a man panning for gold
The name of the police woman who gave you directions
The little eventual feeling of warm you know will come when spooning your soup
The first flower that pokes out of the ground
The thunder that lets you know that the storm is over
The warm screech of the violin that plays afar in the kitchen radio as your parent makes dinner as the other plays games with you
The feelings that that person on the park bench will never be able to remember as the cold cinders of night rots at their brain
That comfortable mystery you feel as you think about something you think is a universal truth but cannot be experienced by all
As you hold my hand
It forms a little curl
Like a place to remember always
A place maybe you feel is distant
It’s here though, inside
I hope I can teach you
The cirl of your hand though is nice
And it bring me comfort too
That we are together
You can touch it sometimes
It’s there. You can feel it.
Like a blank canvas with no inspiration, you can’t find the words to explain.
You look at others. Your like them. You want to be them. You need to be them.
Every thing in your body aches to be like that.
Everything in you life makes sense when you image your life as it.
But they tell you it’s impossible. Or only bad people do this. Or that your not really one of them. Or you can’t be like that.
Sometimes though it’s you. You hold yourself back. You can’t get yourself to be yourself.
Like a tadpole to scared to be a frog.
Like a flower to scared to be a seed.
Like a cloud to scared to be rain.
You exist. You love. You feel. You even try.
People want this person. The one you create. To be the real you. And you try. You try so hard.
Like a green light trying to be red.
Like a camera trying to be a photograph.
Like a letter trying not to be read.
But it’s their. Like the rain falling. The light switches on. The camera takes a photograph.
You can feel this. Here. In your heart. Down in your soul. Telling you. Wishers from a moon. First far away but slowly. Surely. It. Is. Deafening.
And you try to hide it maybe. You try to makes it a secret.
So worth. Your being. Your seeing. Life as you can only continue in a conundrum of being not the you that people think is you.
That little seed. You keep hidden.
It begins to bloom. A radiance that slowly shows.
Then one day.
Your the real you.
And you think. Why did you ever?
And you remember how impossible it had seemed.
And you remember you have so far to go.
But your fuvally stepping.
Like the path that speaks your truths.
Battle, a war, a war. We fight, and die and feast on our own humility. We take and give to the hatred of ourselves and pretend it is the others. Take a light, a light, touch on the world, if you are to escape this infamy.
Depletion, reaping the sown life of our gangrenous infection. Any world who would take us, would fight against us eventually as we justify our means by the ends we imagine. Our imagination is a universe which is perfect, the imperfect nature of our world is known, yet we still strive on to create this deception for ourselves.
Balance, candies on a train of life, we must take heed of the warning our mother gives us. She be but a breath away from taking us to a fiery death from which we will be lucky to revive. Revive, survive, a place we must strive to capture the wastes of our infamous industry.
Nature, is a cruel but necessary goddess. She exists in our anthropomorphic imagines but we do not listen to all our own thoughts. The sign on the door is one that can only have one meaning, but we ignore. Ignore.
A key, voyeuristic doorbell, and a blue box, from which we wish to escape within, a universal season. Habitat, full of rats and cats and bloodsucking bats. Our last survivors will know only a few pages of our ignominious law. A thorn on our nation, a call to our station, but never a pause to libation. We will be the creators of our elation, a rapturous capture of all of our extractions. In fires of midnight, we will clasp hands and give thanks to a musky pouch. A key, inside, holds our last hope. A library full of the works we have ignored for so, so long.
NB: The words to start off this poem were given to me by Blair King, whose blog you can visit here: https://peoplethingsandlife.wordpress.com/
Distance doesn’t cure
Closeness makes it worse
Open sky above a cornflower sea
Smooth sand crumpled in waves
Red rust and so much dust
A slab that’s been eaten away
Crabs and octopuses live in little pools inside
Mosquitoes and frogs and little salty tree
The roof has almost gone
Where did it go?
Their is a staircase to nowhere
And a so many rusty walls
A frame for something
Little rusty machines whose purpose now is to provide shelter for oysters and plants and little spiders
Eels are near one end, hiding in a salty briny pool the waves have cavound away
A little sign still somehow hanging on for dear life says
“We work to make a better world.”
A little breeze and it finally lets go of its final rust filled screw
A clang. A noose. A place to be dead and be forgotten.
Tonight it is my home. Tomorrow I move on. I wounder if I want crab or eel for tea.
I walk the streets, feeling meek
A cloud above my head
Feeling utterly dead
What was that they said?
I’m not able to hear
Fear, hate, they are dear, to me
The haze of life around them
Their plastic lovesick pup and the leash they are on
At least they could try to see the whips of their barren masters
They are created casters of spells you cannot tell
I walk the streets feeling meek
The haze of these things in the air
I try to show them how things grow
Through the pavement path my children sowed
The path is poisonous though, it suffocates them
I still try
Maybe some hear my song
Sheltered by the tree one stands
She smells different
I see the haze has lifted from her eyes
One of them
The rest of the day goes well
Walking the streets feeling not as meek
Then I come back to where she was
And they, those sprits of plastic
Like a cloak on her back
Trying to re create the haze
She looks at me and sees me
No one has ever seen me for centuries
I tell her I am Jack
I have your back
Now you see
You will be free like me
And then there are two of us
Walking the streets, feeling not as meek
Maybe we will find more soon
My feet are so tired
New and fresh
Pink and white and brown
Eyes stare back
They are seeing herself
She is no longer the only one
It’s a new day
Insidious remark of hatred
Leaving a mark
Newspapers fluttering in the wind
Not lean to kin
Herald to taste the smoky winter rains
Acid washed feeling sunshine
Popped pit of olive lime
Destroyed tower of sanity
Tripe of lies given a truth collection
Snide pimple on the face of humanity
Revelation present dime
Dead skin in dust about
Quay of circles
In the time
Jacks so hungry
He’s up on the wall
Musk and vanilla
Full the hall
Shapes of limes
Mad as ice crushed crimes
With complex stories
Jack takes up
A moment of your time
Train goes past
Ever so fast
In the cartridge of the past
Inn to stay at
St James as well
the arrows, the rack smell
Trees and bushes
On the wall
In Jacks we trust
For Jack alls we get
Clouds slowly kissing, kissing gently the bluefish sky
The rain is wet, but not an implement of cold
Leaves fallen on trees still linger on the ground, do they hate their former owner?
The main path is clear, but still stained with ages brown distain
We watch each other, meal long over but still remain
A whisper makes her hair climb slightly, like a bird not quite ready to find a new meal
Clasping cups that remain in heat of a baristas timeless work
Gracefully caressing from her frame in quaint herald of her bosom, a red and silver dress
Flowers of Eden, yellow, purple, blue, touch and take the eye to every magnitude
Words are ready, staring at her green eyes. Love and desire clearly filled. A sensual milk. A couple of hern. Claiming nights of skin touches melting inside a pool of cool solid and ever lasting words. A gathering electrict storm. A building gathering moss on its last day of life. A number of infinity discovered for second. Then.
Another cup of tea.