Dear Diary, Some of these quarantine months

April

Random Pieces, commissioned in 2018

This is a commission for a dance club. It had some pieces that went with it that I am less proud of. This is the best part of the work I did. It's mostly goauche, the face is mostly watercolour, and the black details are ink. The speech bubble is thick acrylic white liquid ink, like typex for art.

These are album cover commissions that were never properly used for their purpose. I'm happy with them though, and liked doing the collaboration.

They are painted in goauche, acrylic, and lined in ink. I used the chalk pastel for the preliminary sketches and to make the blurred backgrounds. I painted them in 2018. They are traditionally made, scanned in, then altered in photoshop to look brighter.

Diary entry

Heritage

Flesh pops

berry red

woozy

The stink of it

sticking to my fingers

sticky

my white flesh drips

it's scummy

coating

only scraping at

the spore holes

the golden resin

that clumps in 

black

Black?

not black at all

but filthy beige.

a waxy clay to

Fashion from my

dead skin cells

a gleaming

greasy

monument

to myself.

29 September 2019

Addicted

You're not addicted

You just use it everyday

You're not addicted 

You just tell the pipe your problems

Your not addicted 

Your minds just never quiet without it

You're not addicted 

But it unwinds your muscles when you sleep

You're not addicted

But you scraped your mothers money together

To get it for two years

You're not addicted

But it eats your stress your cancer your regret

You're not addicted 

Not physically

But you itch and ache and whine

Throw bottles kick doors

Throw your physicality around

When it's gone

You're not addicted

I am

To helping you

Slamming my body against a boulder up a mountain

I'm addicted to the pain of loving you

My desk

25 May 2019
Last year was a messy one

Saving him

he bends

sinks deep into a

womb pose

like a kitten

claws tucked to chest

he believes himself agile

in this state

tense waiting

curled over my shoulder

his sliding hands

I breathe

he breathes

I cut him at the knees

but only in my mind

(cold blades wield bloody

at my white dainty flesh)

I stamp at the white butterflies

that desperate flee

his radioactive glow

let them die with me

I pin them to my white walls

I paint portraits of their corpses

all while he eats like

digs like a mad dog

foaming my mouth

gurgling and spitting

at my insides

When will my last

drink of water be?

25 September 2018