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Subliminally, like it were merely a deluded dream, light filtered through the ominous grate and resonated what little sanity flitted fearfully through the grey. Orbs formed, swelled and imploded on themselves in a beautiful parody of nochalant misanthropy. Gluttonous pride is motive and means for pre-packaged living, an ideal which make my spinal tissue itch furiously.
Art, the sport of madmen who make ganderous pieces of self-contained envy, with faux-subliminal meanings and even more faux yuppies who beleive they perceive a deeper meaning to it. But the real arts aren't forged in some white-lit gallery in Soho, they've carved into the supple fishnet-coated thighs of a scummy tramp named Bernadette or Lucider or Felicity or Charlotte.
The tools of my trade aren't expensive French brushes, tipped with only the finest petrified fox-fur, they are claw hammers and scalpels. Surgical or brutal, sometimes both, I tear and scratch my masterpiece into human canvass. It's never displayed in some echoing public gallery, only in the theatre of skin, as I like to call it. To my select few admirers I am a prodigy, a visionary, a dreamweaver - to my artistic contemparies I am a perverted psychopath, a desecrater of humanity. It matters not.
In the end they all become art. My art. My style. Mine.
Art, the sport of madmen who make ganderous pieces of self-contained envy, with faux-subliminal meanings and even more faux yuppies who beleive they perceive a deeper meaning to it. But the real arts aren't forged in some white-lit gallery in Soho, they've carved into the supple fishnet-coated thighs of a scummy tramp named Bernadette or Lucider or Felicity or Charlotte.
The tools of my trade aren't expensive French brushes, tipped with only the finest petrified fox-fur, they are claw hammers and scalpels. Surgical or brutal, sometimes both, I tear and scratch my masterpiece into human canvass. It's never displayed in some echoing public gallery, only in the theatre of skin, as I like to call it. To my select few admirers I am a prodigy, a visionary, a dreamweaver - to my artistic contemparies I am a perverted psychopath, a desecrater of humanity. It matters not.
In the end they all become art. My art. My style. Mine.
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Not EVERY sentence needs some slightly over zealous descriptive word.
heh thanks.
I truly didn't plan it or even have a coherent or consistant idea in my mind when writing it. Just words and stuff.
I truly didn't plan it or even have a coherent or consistant idea in my mind when writing it. Just words and stuff.
Yeah, kinda reminds me of Black Gloves 'human skin painter' story from a while back.
Nice. :)
Nice. :)
Reminded me of a few things I've posted in the past. Lush words. Overall quite good. Perhaps one more paragraph would have improved it, but conciseness is always welcome on here.
It's a rubbish word.
I'm going to go and listen to The Darkness or whatever it is goths listen to, and probably kill myself.
Bye <3<3<3 xxxx lol.
I'm going to go and listen to The Darkness or whatever it is goths listen to, and probably kill myself.
Bye <3<3<3 xxxx lol.
[URL]http://dictionary.reference.com/wordoftheday/archive/2000/11/09.html[/URL]
My work was without fruit, I see.
My work was without fruit, I see.
Whats tutelage ?
I quite liked your pragmatic and semantic frameworks (which were evident throughout this ratherpoignant piece), but I can't help but feel that the general public will see these as what they are - a clear rip from much of my earlier works.
Once again, you have completely stolen my style and tried to claim it as your own. I'm flattered yet disappointed - my tutelage has obviously had grave effects upon your self concious - and, after reading any of my works,who wouldn't be paranoid, after all?
I've contacted my lawyers, who are currently on the case. Expected to be served any day soon.
Once again, you have completely stolen my style and tried to claim it as your own. I'm flattered yet disappointed - my tutelage has obviously had grave effects upon your self concious - and, after reading any of my works,who wouldn't be paranoid, after all?
I've contacted my lawyers, who are currently on the case. Expected to be served any day soon.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I have no idea.
I just wanted to write something.
I just wanted to write something.
Subliminally, like it were merely a deluded dream, light filtered through the ominous grate and resonated what little sanity flitted fearfully through the grey. Orbs formed, swelled and imploded on themselves in a beautiful parody of nochalant misanthropy. Gluttonous pride is motive and means for pre-packaged living, an ideal which make my spinal tissue itch furiously.
Art, the sport of madmen who make ganderous pieces of self-contained envy, with faux-subliminal meanings and even more faux yuppies who beleive they perceive a deeper meaning to it. But the real arts aren't forged in some white-lit gallery in Soho, they've carved into the supple fishnet-coated thighs of a scummy tramp named Bernadette or Lucider or Felicity or Charlotte.
The tools of my trade aren't expensive French brushes, tipped with only the finest petrified fox-fur, they are claw hammers and scalpels. Surgical or brutal, sometimes both, I tear and scratch my masterpiece into human canvass. It's never displayed in some echoing public gallery, only in the theatre of skin, as I like to call it. To my select few admirers I am a prodigy, a visionary, a dreamweaver - to my artistic contemparies I am a perverted psychopath, a desecrater of humanity. It matters not.
In the end they all become art. My art. My style. Mine.
Art, the sport of madmen who make ganderous pieces of self-contained envy, with faux-subliminal meanings and even more faux yuppies who beleive they perceive a deeper meaning to it. But the real arts aren't forged in some white-lit gallery in Soho, they've carved into the supple fishnet-coated thighs of a scummy tramp named Bernadette or Lucider or Felicity or Charlotte.
The tools of my trade aren't expensive French brushes, tipped with only the finest petrified fox-fur, they are claw hammers and scalpels. Surgical or brutal, sometimes both, I tear and scratch my masterpiece into human canvass. It's never displayed in some echoing public gallery, only in the theatre of skin, as I like to call it. To my select few admirers I am a prodigy, a visionary, a dreamweaver - to my artistic contemparies I am a perverted psychopath, a desecrater of humanity. It matters not.
In the end they all become art. My art. My style. Mine.
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