Post by dezangel on Dec 11, 2013 17:55:08 GMT -5
There is a fine line between genius and insanity…what side of the line do you stand on?
Peer into shadows, into dreams. See the man with moonbeams in his hair sitting in a beanbag chair setting fire to spider’s webs. His hair is purple and blue, long streaks of aqua dividing the strands. The tips are black, like his nails, and lipstick and the khol around his eyes. He’s singing or maybe just humming, the low sounds melodic and soft. On his shoulder a baby alligator nods its head in time to the music, punctuated by soft hisses and the occasionally flickering of its tongue.
The picture on the scene flickers, metal and stars folding in on themselves as some wormhole collapses and a heavy, misshapen ship is sucked into the void. The sound is off, the floor around him is littered with bits of paper and colored pencils, his fingers smudged with marks of different widths and shapes. There were faces in the drawings, dark shapes surrounded by shining streaks of light. He stared at them a little while then added another streak, smudged it with his fingers, and studied it some more, the rest of the room forgotten.
As for the rest of the room, the walls were lined with bookcase shelves and black light posters, scribbles of neon text mixed in between them. Books cluttered the shelves: graphic novels, dark fantasy, horror and old classics mingling with how too manuals for playing the guitar, digital photography and 3d design. There were mythology books side by side with volumes of poetry, everything from Jim Morrison’s ‘American Nights’ to Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’ while the ceiling twinkled and glowed with stick on stars and glittering planets. A whole solar system hanging on fishing line, swaying each time the furnace came on.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs as booted feet came into view, the sway of chain covered jeans jangled as the camera trailed up a curvy body adorned with tattoos. A dragon coiled around her waist, head and tail meeting over her belly button, her mid-riff top looking more like a bra as she crossed the room to slide gracefully to her knees beside the seated form.
“It’s beautiful, Dez,” she murmured in his ear, fingers brushing his hair back so she could slid them down his neck. They stared at the drawing for a while, ‘til his humming stopped and he turned to face her.
His voice was deep, a soft timber of melody and words, the uncertainty and shyness clear. “You sure?”
She studied it again, the graceful curve of the cheekbones, the cute button nose, the elven ears arching to graceful points and the tender, silken looking wings, all gossamer and translucent.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, fingers reaching out but not quite touching the page. “Where shall we put it?”
He grinned then and it made his blue eyes light up bright as his eyes slid over her body, his human canvas, as he looked for the perfect spot. Sliding the edge of her shift up he exposed a pale expanse of skin along her left side, a six by eight inch canvas between a rearing gryphon and the watchful Green Man.
Leaning, he kissed over the place, light and gentle and she laughed when his hair tickled her skin. “Here, right here.”
***
Someone asked me once why I wrestle. I told them then that it was to kill the pain.
It was both truth and lie.
All wrestling has ever been to me was a legal fight, a way that I can hurt and hurt others and not go to jail, a new form of art and each opponent a human canvas of bruises and scars by the time I’m done.
People like to think its about titles. That I walk the aisles and stare into the fog so I can hold gold plated vindication, some sad validation that I’m somebody.
I’ve always known that I’m somebody. I’m flesh and blood and dreams and visions and fuck you if you don’t get that titles and gold and accolades don’t make a man.
What defines a man isn’t what he does when the world is watching him, it’s who he is in the quiet moments when the world’s forgotten him.
“You’ll soon see that loud and clear WCF, you’ll soon see me and you’ll never forget.”
[Black]
[Static]
Peer into shadows, into dreams. See the man with moonbeams in his hair sitting in a beanbag chair setting fire to spider’s webs. His hair is purple and blue, long streaks of aqua dividing the strands. The tips are black, like his nails, and lipstick and the khol around his eyes. He’s singing or maybe just humming, the low sounds melodic and soft. On his shoulder a baby alligator nods its head in time to the music, punctuated by soft hisses and the occasionally flickering of its tongue.
The picture on the scene flickers, metal and stars folding in on themselves as some wormhole collapses and a heavy, misshapen ship is sucked into the void. The sound is off, the floor around him is littered with bits of paper and colored pencils, his fingers smudged with marks of different widths and shapes. There were faces in the drawings, dark shapes surrounded by shining streaks of light. He stared at them a little while then added another streak, smudged it with his fingers, and studied it some more, the rest of the room forgotten.
As for the rest of the room, the walls were lined with bookcase shelves and black light posters, scribbles of neon text mixed in between them. Books cluttered the shelves: graphic novels, dark fantasy, horror and old classics mingling with how too manuals for playing the guitar, digital photography and 3d design. There were mythology books side by side with volumes of poetry, everything from Jim Morrison’s ‘American Nights’ to Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’ while the ceiling twinkled and glowed with stick on stars and glittering planets. A whole solar system hanging on fishing line, swaying each time the furnace came on.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs as booted feet came into view, the sway of chain covered jeans jangled as the camera trailed up a curvy body adorned with tattoos. A dragon coiled around her waist, head and tail meeting over her belly button, her mid-riff top looking more like a bra as she crossed the room to slide gracefully to her knees beside the seated form.
“It’s beautiful, Dez,” she murmured in his ear, fingers brushing his hair back so she could slid them down his neck. They stared at the drawing for a while, ‘til his humming stopped and he turned to face her.
His voice was deep, a soft timber of melody and words, the uncertainty and shyness clear. “You sure?”
She studied it again, the graceful curve of the cheekbones, the cute button nose, the elven ears arching to graceful points and the tender, silken looking wings, all gossamer and translucent.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, fingers reaching out but not quite touching the page. “Where shall we put it?”
He grinned then and it made his blue eyes light up bright as his eyes slid over her body, his human canvas, as he looked for the perfect spot. Sliding the edge of her shift up he exposed a pale expanse of skin along her left side, a six by eight inch canvas between a rearing gryphon and the watchful Green Man.
Leaning, he kissed over the place, light and gentle and she laughed when his hair tickled her skin. “Here, right here.”
***
Someone asked me once why I wrestle. I told them then that it was to kill the pain.
It was both truth and lie.
All wrestling has ever been to me was a legal fight, a way that I can hurt and hurt others and not go to jail, a new form of art and each opponent a human canvas of bruises and scars by the time I’m done.
People like to think its about titles. That I walk the aisles and stare into the fog so I can hold gold plated vindication, some sad validation that I’m somebody.
I’ve always known that I’m somebody. I’m flesh and blood and dreams and visions and fuck you if you don’t get that titles and gold and accolades don’t make a man.
What defines a man isn’t what he does when the world is watching him, it’s who he is in the quiet moments when the world’s forgotten him.
“You’ll soon see that loud and clear WCF, you’ll soon see me and you’ll never forget.”
[Black]
[Static]
