Trapped in a blend of chaotic colors, fictional dreams and "the girls".



Nothing ever dies. Life evolves, transforms and digests from the poison ingested prior…strengthening the beast within. It’s a sexy little thing. Bring on the body. Poison can only do good for so long. Adios non-amigo piece of shit.

Logger smog

I’m sketching, sewing and freaking again.

Kind off like j. Bieber announcing his retirement.



Gaseous Dispositions

Lets throw in some semi-old writing so long as I am throwing out some semi-old sketching.


I am a clean, systematic piece of a human being.
Visually fresh but not quite ripe, I rotted away long ago from the inside.
I am managing this disease called life with eyes wide open and blind.
A cycle has been broken.
It knocks on my door knowing I am home, hoping I come back.
How long it stays will be forever unknown.
It may die at my doorstep alone, sick and unfed.
I comfort myself knowing that I am not dieing at its side.
I once placed my comfort in that thought.
I still find it illustrating a beautiful unification within my weak mental condition.
Though happy, and building strengths I thought were digested and defecated long ago, sadness still finds me and overpowers my will…
I slaughter it before it’s too late.
Next time will be too late.
The poison escapes from the lesion.
An invisible gaseous desorption, overpowered by this newly shaped force, hovers over my psyche.
This makes me even stronger.
Aiding me to build a strata of tools for our next encounter.
Without the toxins flowing through my existence I am lost.
Lost, I design this aesthetically innovated path.
I can not determine its closing, I leave it unfinished and instinctively sought after.
Every step I take is unfamiliar but activates extreme arousal triggering a new high.
One can not put a price to this high but I have paid dearly for it.
I wish I could extract the substance, find its blueprint and somehow concentrate the organic properties that allow you to feel such reality.
A substance that exerts reality.
Will I ever just be mentally within the norm of society?
How is it that I can not just instinctively live life?
Instead, I must either escape reality through my love of chemical release or work so painfully hard towards finding my reality that I begin to feel ill and defected. Either way, I am sick.
I remember, however, that this sickness continues to dispose as I massacre it repeatedly.
My new cycle.
Old customs find their way in and I cautiously tread lightly around them.
Though cautious, I am infatuated and provoked.
As if those customs are alive, knowing of their influence, they taunt and tease me.
I am learning to control my impulses and it liberates me towards new inspiration.
Old ways surface and leave me anxious, those are the signs.
The signs I once was so turned on by. The signs that left me wanting more.
I now want less.
Way less.

Only time can give you time. Dishing out the old to make the new.

Been so long.  I have not sketched.  I have not painted.  I have not even thought a thought toward the matter.  This is what was and soon there will be what is to come.  Let me hope that I can dig up something worth a canvas and an experience.  

Got to love the experience.



The Thirst has Been Quenched. That Metal, Leather, Bondage Thirst.

I found my man.

My metal man.

To guide my path towards welding, fabricating and my artistic journey into creating bondage pieces.  Belts, bars and cuffs. Oh My!

I can not begin to express my excitement and gratitude towards working with someone so experienced and familiar with what I envision.  Taking on someone so unfamiliar and naive to the trade is going to be a challenge…but what can I say?  I present some strong ideas and am some damn good company to boot.  I am a padawan.

I can almost taste the steel and feel the welts.

My Spring and Summer have been taken by my passion and journey beginning this weekend.

It’s going to be sick.

(I’ll include some old school sketches just for the sake of a basic premise…recent sketches are rough, secretive and so much more awesome in every aspect)






A favorite revisited, reposted


‘Fire of my loins’
The left foot was nothing. Pure bliss and happiness, no thoughts, just doing. It was the right foot that brings me to this dramatic, baneful happening of self reflection and euphoria.
A sick euphoria that I only understand.
At least I tell myself that I am truly the only one who understands. Deep down I know this is false.
The hottest bath I have ever drawn. Not purposely. I just happened to be hopelessly caught up in finding the perfect depressing lyrics to accompany me with this soak that the amount of cold did not compliment the full blown heat nearing the rim of the plain, generic, ‘let’s pretend it’s porcelain’ bathtub.
Accidentally filling to capacity yet intentionally tormenting and inviting my body and vulnerability. The two go very well together…testing me.
It was my surrender.
My resignation to the defective complex created by something special.
A breakdown, a defect, a love story.
Eating away at my surface and my mind.
I hand my comfort over to the reflective alloy beside me as if it were my friend, telling me that this will go away.
It will.
This bath is my conflagration and I am only two feet in.
Slowly I subject myself to the purity before me ready to murk it up.
I suppose you can say I am just as well taking away it’s innocence in return.
My intentions are not as vulgar.
I force my skin into the burning pool.
A sigh of pain and pleasure prematurely escape.
I am never as strong as I presume and I am becoming increasingly aware that it is for my own safety.
This alloy slips below to remind me that everything is okay.
Reminds me that I am in control.
Something has to.
I am aware of it’s invisibility, that’s okay.
It takes a particular strength to release that admirable wavelength on the visible spectrum reflecting the paint to my existence.
It will never happen.
It would be so beautiful. So beautiful.
Mesmerizing and unlike any drug. Hypnotizing and sexual.
I am in a stupor.
It’s become too much I tell myself, though I know it has not.
My tresses drenches and the aching sensitivity running across my skin and lathering my scalp urges me to arise and come back to a life I have purposely tortured and teased yet fight for daily.
Collapsing is not far from reality.
So good. So legal.

Sometimes you have to puke


The Drama Queen is back and this is only the beginning…start ignoring (for your own good)

All I see are colors, a consolidation of colors construed into nothing of importance or direction. Difficult to project. Someday I suppose.
Pigment and shade make up my existence. I see life in such a way that lacks reality and exudes an overwhelming need to except what is.
Listening to no one, not even myself, time fades…escapes. I escape.
Ideas turn into outlets, that then turn into outcomes. I have found to be comfortable with all outcomes. So comfortable that emotions are dropped deep into a placid pool to be forgotten and replaced by burnt paths to euphoric nothingness.
Falling apart slowly, but most definitely surely. Historic thoughts of repetition and routine evaporate alongside the chamomile steam and my scorching, lymphatic soaks.
Jesus Christ, again.
I will revisit my words and find what I have hidden away like my own personal plague.
A friend is dying. Hours, days, weeks…I do not know how much longer is left but this friend will be dead. I gave life to something that must die. This is how god must feel if there was one. Or is one. Whatever. Creating life and destroying it.
There is so much to say that will be left cold and tucked away. Some things take time…some things are better left unsaid and that can take time to realize. At least I have developed to some degree in this existence.
I will learn to adapt, move on, get by. Direction will come of these colors and soon they will be organized and contained. Thrown onto a canvas and given life. A new life that I create in name of the life passed. It’s a new inspiration. An inspiration that has been struggling to reach the surface for a gasp of breath, held back by an enigma.
Bring me my tea, I’ll pretend it’s my wine.

Humanoid baby girls cry like big girls

Three of the minis. Need cleaning up but that’s for another day.

I think my mom is mad at me…