Saturday, December 15, 2012

Artemis Sere's Ten Best Albums of 2012



I love these albums, each and every one, for very different reasons. This isn't trendy stuff, or anti-trendy recommendations. These are the albums that I couldn't stop listening to this year, where I found my interest constantly circling back to these artists and albums at some point in the year. This was a year of musical evolution for me. Blame it on Korn, if you want; last year's "The Path of Totality" sent me packing in a different musical direction, away from the common metallurgy that I was accustomed to. 

And, boy, am I glad that I took the trip. Dubstep. Crunkstep. Glitchstep. Bassnectar. Bare. Excision. J Devil. Messinian. Zomboy. Whatever you want to call it. I dug it, hardcore. A trip to the Ultra Music Festival in Miami last March probably cemented my love of it. This music is alive, popping with electricity and human energy, providing depth to an otherwise mundane thump. This fun spin of nuevo techno was something that expanded my own creativity, got me thinking in different directions and appreciating other styles.  This list will reflect this year of adventure and change.  Many of you may not know these artists, but I implore you to try them. There are three "metal" bands on this list, which is a vast departure for me. I'm typically more "metal heavy"; this year was a departure, of sorts, but I discovered some great artists. The rest are an electic mix of techno, electronica, dubstep, atmospheric glitchstep, and cornucopia of many other styles.

My favorite find this year was an artist by the name of Liquid Stranger. By far, his catalog captured my imagination and got my physical and creative juices flowin' throughout the year. Martin Woods of Chillbase describes Liquid Stranger's music as a “unique blend of Ambience, Big Band Jazz, Dubstep and Psychedelica drizzled over electronic Dub Reggae grooves.” (Wikipedia)

That's me in a nutshell:  one tripped out mix of chaos, color and madness. I wouldn't have it any other way, I guess. 8)  Please give these albums and/or artists a spin.


10. Outside the Murder- Indoctrination





9.   Datsik - Vitamin D





8.   Dead Can Dance - Anastasis




7.   Liquid Stranger - Cryogenic Encounters




6.   Knife Party - Rage Valley EP




5.   Everything Goes Cold - The Tyrant Sun




4.   In This Moment-Blood




3.   Lamb of God - Resolution





2.   Bassnectar - Vava Voom




1.   Saltillo - Monocyte


the grand antithesis



the grand antithesis
copyright 2012 artemis sere


in spring,
surrender death
not birth;

in summer,
render ice
not hearth;

in autumn,
recall life
not the fall;

and in winter,
summon flame
to melt them 
all

On the Twelves



(written on 12.12.12)

Today, I celebrate my 39th birthday, surrounded by a few friends and a celebratory social network of people that I've mostly never met, or have known from a different chapter of my life. I appreciate the kindness of all, nonetheless. It is a pay-it-forward time, and the social experiment of Artemis Sere is dedicated to educating and enriching the lives of others; it is nice to know that it is working, in some respects.

It is a crisp winter day, the local community recovering from a dumping of a foot of heavy snow a few days ago. The wheels are beginning to spin as normal again, unlike this day two years ago, when I was completely snowed in. Life is a bit like that on a regular basis these days: the weight of it all can make the roads impassible, slowing the gears of us all to a crawl.

I know I am a victim of my own ambition. My focus on evolving Artemis Sere has driven everything real from my world. In this fake space, time flies, and there is no spectre of dying. Maybe this is the infinite answer to pushing away atrophy, or maybe this is just the most efficient path between points A and B. No myth. No faith. A handful of doubt and a Bible of more questions than answers.

I live, without reservation and without looking back. I allow the alien to take over completely, and learn to appreciate the mysterious middle of nowhere, place my escape in the path of totality and singularity. This is an unknown landscape.

Maybe, like the Pilgrims, I escaped here to avoid persecution. But then, as a virus does in the landscape of its violent host, I fight for stability and survival, for control of resources necessary for survival and replication. In time, the virus evolves and adapts.  Through bloodshed and symbiosis, compromise and gnosticism, it hangs on. Finds away. Claws and crawls its way out from under the weight of chalky fallen skies. Inching towards the light, ever toward the primordial and comfortable pockets of heat. 

And give thanks for surviving the fight, seldom acknowledging the death that went into life.

I spent roughly ten years fighting to survive, against medical and spiritual odds. Like a virus or a Pilgrim or a kid tasked with carving a foot of fallen snow, we're all working against gravity--both physical and meta. Our resilience and security assured with every child that grows up to know how to shovel, how to be strong when the heavy years bear down.

On this intersection of twelves, I am thankful for my renewed strength to fight. You cannot appreciate the integrity of a human life until it's taken from you and replaced with faulty bricks and imperfect mortar. While my fate may fall in line with that of Fortunado, cask in hand and walls slowly building around me, I am not afraid. 

This shovel buried in my heart will never break or rust or fall to splinter.

why we hold hands



why we hold hands
from "Xenomorphine (The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2)
copyright 2012 artemis sere.

i think
i think too much
these days
sink too quick into
strange spaces
beyond watchful
deceitful
eyes
out of sight, yet
never out of
mind,
orbiting
the periphery
of the core
of it all, yet
in direct trajectory
of the sky's
rapid fall,
'ignorance is grace'
you recall to me
when I've lost
my way,
when my path
runs wide and wildly
astray,
when taken by
the wind's wicked
and relentless
rage,
i hold fast
in the center
to the words you
lovingly said,
'mother nature
always has other plans;
that why it's important that 
you and I always
hold hands.'

caste away



caste away
from "Xenomorphine (The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2)"
copyright 2012 artemis Sere

I suppose 
these things happen
as a natural course of evolution
of a species with bloody roots
and murderous mechanics
our innocence stripped away
on the conveyor belt of arrogance
re-purposed as component parts
for automated, dumbed-down avarice
progress printed in blood
and inked on bruised currency
with the faces of our fallen idols
who won our favor through supremacy
and victory, vengeance and
a violence-pressed history

I suppose 
these things happen
when death is our way of life
when chemtrails are our cover
and drones our nightlights
when lullabies are substituted
by elegies and laughter
when division is the constant
of happily ever after
when wands and staves
are exchanged for rockets 
and slaves
and tiaras and innocence 
are traded on a wall-
streeted stage.

I suppose
these things happen
when bottom lines
become top of mind
when lies become a civilized
and celebrated reality
when existence is surrendered
to mythic authority
when apathy becomes
our captive laws
we pray to supposed gods
to forgive our
natural flaws

so call the witch to counsel
to save the ones gone
astray
end the curse that has befallen us
and bless this caste
away

bloom



bloom
copyright 2012 artemis sere.


they bear
the burden
of our failures
frail and helpless
these breakable stems
with budding thorns
their thirst for light
suffocated by night
their stretch for height
stunted by violence
their impressionable sight
tinted red by silencers
they are the flower
cloned of wicked water
whose crimson petals
know no better than
to bend, wilt and
weather with 
every new
massacre



sereBeacon (cascade remix)


Monday, December 10, 2012

"Xenomorphine" Release Delayed (NOW 1.15.13)

"Xenomorphine" Cover. copyright 2012 artemis sere.

"Xenomorphine" Release Delayed (NOW 1.15.13)
12.10.12

For the last couple of months, I have worked tirelessly to pull together my second book of the Bonesetter's Revenge series, "Xenomorphine".  You may have seen excerpts from the book on Facebook, Instagram, or this blog. I have promoted the 12.12.12 date as the release date for this piece. These books are more than just words; they are a unique, interactive intersection of contemplation, poetry, prose and picture. In order to make them affordable and readable at the same time, I must achieve the right Greyscale balance throughout the printed piece, thus calling for rounds of print tests of the book to achieve an agreeable equilibrium of shadow. These books take longer to develop than a mainstream novel, and are akin to a graphic novel or magazine.

The good news is that the book is complete, and I am very excited about the finished product. It is far and away a better, more interesting, dynamic and accessible book than "Obscurious" (which was intended to be dark and brooding).

The bad news is that I'm not ready to sign off on it as finished. I'd like to perform more tweaks to it, and will not make my targeted release date of 12.12.12. There has been personal turbulence along the way which has delayed the release of "Xenomorphine", including a full redesign of concept a couple of months ago, purchasing of new laptops and software, and, generally, the answering of a deeper question of whether I want to keep doing this, sacrificing my hours in the name of Art, further distancing myself from common and normal orbits for sake of creativity, self-imposing exile in the name of production.

I like being artistic, but sometimes have a difficult time with the monk-state of the life of an artist.

I'll blog about my process--and the trials and tribulations involved--at another time when I have an open creative window. Immediately, I am driven to finish up "Xenomorphone" and make the paper and eBook versions available as soon as possible.

The new release date for "Xenomporhine" is now 1/15/13, and I am targeting both paper and eBook releases for the same day.  More information to follow regarding both.

Thank you very much for your patience and participation in my artistic orbit.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Artemis Sere's Creative Objectives (2013)



Artemis Sere's Creative Objectives (2013)

These are projects that I am targeting for completion and launch in 2013.  I am only aiming to complete ten projects, as some are more comprehensive than others. Some of these projects are still being fleshed out, and project details being determined. Please check this blog for more information in the near future. 2013 will be a very ambitious and productive year for me.

These projects are ranked in order of importance, along with a brief description of each project and the estimated launch date. Thanks for your interest and participation in my orbit.  All concepts and content copyright 2012/2013 artemis sere.

  1. 1. "Scream Queen" [December 2013]
    My first novel and an introductory story to the "Fetch" Trilogy. Jess Loveless has it all--a successful rock band, a B-horror movie career, and fetish model following. A freak accident flips her world upside-down, and while she struggles to recover, she discovers a side of her talents that she never knew existed. And would've been better off not discovering. Available via Lulu.com and Amazon.com.


  2. 2. "Xenomorphine (eBook)" [February2013]
    "Xenomorphine" is Book2 of my Bonesetter's Revenge collection. The books were designed interactively for paper, but I am also making the original color version available as a purchasable, downloadable eBook. Available via Lulu.com and Amazon.com.


  3. 3. LAG CD Project [January/Feburary 2013]
    CD cover art for a local rock band named LAG.


  4. 4. "Scream Queen" Jess Loveless Book Cover Photo Shoot [June/July 2013]
    Working with an unidentified local artist for the cover


  5. 5. Artemis Sere Serenity Gallery Showing [Sept 2013]
    A public display some of my best works from my Serenity Gallery, a collection of posterized pieces of my art. Location undetermined.


  6. 6. "Obscurious (Darkestar Risen Edition)" [April 2013]
    "Obscurious" is Book1 of my Bonesetter's Revenge collection. It was originally created in Black and White, without a digital edition.  This version is a reconcepting of "Obscurious" for digital, with creative revisions and tweaked style. It will be primarily available as an eBook, with full shadowy color. Available via Lulu.com and Amazon.com.


  7. 7. "Xenomorphine (Junkie Shakes Edition)" [November 2013]
    "Xenomorphine" is Book2 of my Bonesetter's Revenge collection. This version is a crazy revision of "Xenomorphine", with wild style and kinetic feel. It will be primarily available as an eBook, with full tweaked color. Available via Lulu.com and Amazon.com.


  8. 8. "Xenomorphine", "Seerum Studios", "Antithesis Press" Merch/T-Shirts [May 2013]
    Merch. Who doesn't want a cool t-shirt?


  9. 9. "The Skeleton Men" Sketches [December 2013]
    Concept designs for "The Skeleton Men", Book3 of the Bonesetter's Revenge, which is planned for a 2014 release.


  10. 10. Untitled/Undetermined Artistic Collaboration [TBD]
    Don't have this concepted or planned yet. Target to collaborate with a local artist on an undetermined work. This is flexible and variable.

Friday, November 9, 2012

"Awakening" (Ray Morris)




Awakening
(posted to The Grim Triune writer's circle private exoboard by Oliver Drake, pseudonym of the late Ray Morris on July 20, 2004. I have not edited it or spellchecked this piece; it is was the final piece Ray posted to the message board, where he, Jason Graham and I were collecting content for a fiction trilogy project)

The suns began their ascent through the sky. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves that fell from the nearby grove of trees. Awakened by the sound of a flock of birds taking flight, the mysterious figure dressed only in a rust colored robe rose to his feet. He awoke lying in the grass next to a pond in the clearing of a thick forest of trees. He was quite disoriented, knowing he had never been to this place. “How did I get here?” he wondered. Then he realized he didn’t even know where he was supposed to be! “What is going on here?” he said to himself. Consumed by a feeling of panic, he searched desperately for a familiar landmark! Reaching up to run a hand through his hair, he realized he had none. Running to the pond he looked at his reflection and didn’t recognize what he saw. He was bald and had a tattoo of some sort on the side of his head, though he could not make it out. Absent- mindedly he rubbed the smooth stone that he held in his hand. “Where did this come from?” he thought to himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a reflection in the water. 

(vision)The soldiers carried the coffin across the snow. The sobs of the grieving could be heard though he could not see them. It appeared to be a grand procession, with many men dressed in glorious armor. They trudged on through the snow never moving from their determined path. (end vision)

“Am I going crazy?” he thought to himself. “Visions, funerals, knights and through all of this, I do not know where I am?” Something, though he wasn’t sure what, was urging him to travel north. The woods were empty, not a single animal stirred. He traveled on in silence; then in the distance he heard the pounding of war drums. His walk had become a run, almost in response to his steadily increasing heart rate. As he got closer to the source of the pounding, he heard the clash of steel on steel and screams that seemed to come from all around him. His body continued on, though his mind was in a state of confusion. He ran as if possessed, ignoring the rocks and sticks under his bare feet. His lungs burned and his muscles ached yet he continued on until the forest gave way to an immense field that was consumed in utter chaos. 

He looked upon the scene with paralyzing fear! What he saw was the army of a city desperately trying to defend its gate from the assault of an army of humanoid creatures, the likes of which he had never seen. This army was made up of scaled creatures with wicked long teeth and claws as long as daggers. What kind of creatures were these men fighting? The armored soldiers fought with a fury that was almost bestial. Swords flashed, axes swung, and arrows flew from every direction, and still the beasts pressed on. All the while he could see women tending to the wounded. He could hear spiritual chanting coming from all around the battle as if the healers and people of the town were singing a hymn: “urging on our defenders to fight even if it seems futile, we will emerge victorious if we only have faith”. In the middle of all of this there was a spectacular tree of majestic beauty! The tree seemed to be slick with sap as it ran freely down the trunk. The beautiful singing healers were collecting the sap as it cascaded down the tree. You could see them giving it to the wounded that were all around the tree. There were peasants fighting along side the soldiers with what ever they could find to use as weapons. Some had sticks, others had rocks and pitchforks; they cherished their beloved city and felt honor in standing next to its defenders. The mysterious stranger was trying desperately to make his way to the gates of the city, when he was surrounded by three of the vicious beasts. With out conscious thought he began the complex incantations of a spell. “Phatathanalasaz ashir verilosium” and before his very wide eyes the creatures screamed as they were bound in a stasis field unable to move. Astonished at what he had just done, he continued on his path, for he was being surrounded again. He saw guards fighting desperately to keep the creatures out, when a sharp pain exploded in his side! He saw the ground rush up to meet him and then there was nothing…but……blackness.

Seven figures stood above the unconscious man. They were the Druids of the Twisted Oak, who had been around since time on Ryvven began. They and only they knew who this man was. The druids were each a small fragment of Ryvven’s essence that was cast down to form the Great Tree of Creation. They are the only beings directly linked with mother Ryvven herself and the connection between Ryvven and the Temporans, Ryvvens eyes and ears on the prime material plane. The Temporans were a separate race created by Ryvven to govern the land, for if ever the balance shifted to heavily to one side or the other they would bring about the Prophecy of Renewal. The prophecy is said to bring the end to all existence!

There were no war drums, no battle cries ---- only silence and a blinding light. He did not know whether he was dead or on his way to the other side. 

(visions)“You are in neither of those places my son,” came a majestic voice filled with power and yet comfort. “You are in the Tree of Life where nothing can harm you. Rise to your feet Drythakmere, for your journey is only beginning. We have brought you here in an effort to help you, which I am afraid may cost us dearly!” “Why did you save my life?” Drythakmere asked with a shaky voice. 

“Yes. I am sure you have many questions, but I am afraid we have few answers. What can be said is that you are in the kingdom of Vales, and as we speak, mankind is fighting for its very survival. The magics you exhibited on the battlefield run richly through your being, though they may seem foreign to you as of yet. As time goes on they will come to you with great ease. The stone you carry, The Druids Stone, is an ancient artifact that will lead you in the right direction. Your road is a long one and your trials will be quite dangerous, but know this Drythakmere: if you should fail, then the hopes of all existence perish with you! Your journey will begin in the most ancient of ancient cities. There is a warrior priest on that battlefield that you must find; his name is Father Sigeon Payne.” (end vision) 

When Drythakmere opened his eyes he was looking upon what could have been the most beautiful creature ever created. He looked upon the healer with wonder, there was a sweet taste in his mouth. Drythakmere noticed the pitcher, which was filled with sap. He caught his reflection in the sap, and there was a flash.

(vision)The procession came to a halt in front of the pier. The lid to the coffin was lifted and there was a most brilliant light spewed forth. And as soon as it appeared the coffin lid slammed shut and the light was gone, replaced with an impenetrable darkness.(end Vision)

When he looked up, the maiden was looking at him with a sympathetic expression. Then she handed him a few vials that must have been filled with the healing sap of the Twisted Oak. She bid him a fond farewell and moved on to the next soldier who needed her attention. 

Drythakmere sat looking at his surroundings, unsure of his next move. He was brought quickly to reality when the growls and screams of the armor-skinned creatures seemed to be getting closer. He noticed they were not completely without guidance; there were robed figures that appeared to be directing the monsters. Standing on the edges of the battle, there were six robed figures that were deep in concentration, apparently needing to concentrate to maintain control of the beasts. 

He began to formulate a plan, “I must get to those clerics somehow.”

As he made his way across the field, he saw there was another man with the same idea. This man swung his mace like an extension of his own arm; he wore the robes of a cleric, but not like the ones manipulating the evil army. These robes were of silver and blue and seemed to match the armor that the soldiers of Vales were wearing. Reaching the beasts’ masters, both men converged on the group of robed figures with fire in their eyes. Drythakmere sent a ball of flame from his hand that engulfed the first man within a chamber of fire. The cleric smashed the next with a powerful swing of his mace. The robed figures noticed their brethren being attacked and summoned the creatures to defend them, but they arrived too late to save them. As Drythakmere used his magics, coming a little easier now, the cleric used his mace to dispatch the rest of them very quickly. They turned their attention to the krae-tin that were making their way towards Drythakmere and his priestly companion. The krae-tin were attacking themselves and anyone else that got in their line of sight. Without guidance they ravaged anything they could find. With their unorganized attacks they were quickly losing their superiority. 

Though this battle was far from over, Drythakmere took this opportunity to meet this warrior who fought by his side. “Hello friend. I am Drythakmere and you are?” 

“Well met, my name is Father Sigeon Payne cleric of the order of Aurric. I have spent many days traveling the land of Giengra, and have never met anyone who could throw magic with the power you have exhibited here today!”

“They said I would find you here, but I wasn’t sure if they were really there. It all seemed like a dream.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the creatures and they quickly got back to business. They were setting to defend themselves when out of the woods came the most ferocious battle cry they had ever heard. They looked and before their eyes a warrior dressed in the skins of an arctic bear tore through the krae-tin like a tornado. His axe ripped them apart with a fury all its own. They ran to his side and together the three of them decimated as many as they could get their hands on. 

The soldiers and town folk saw the disorganized krae-tin running blindly, looking for something to attack while the archers set upon the castle wall targeting as many as possible. 

All on the field were awestruck at the sight of a beautiful white steed carrying an armor-clad warrior on its back. His squire, who was trying desperately to keep up, followed the knight through the gate. All of the soldiers on the field saluted the pair as they rode by, but they appeared not to notice. The knight slew all of the creatures that got in his way. Riding away from Vales, he never looked back.

The party had killed all the creatures in their vicinity, and was regarding each other in amazement at how well they had fought together. They looked at the gates to Vales and realized this battle was far from being over. Hundreds of the krae-tin still fought the soldiers. 

“What is your name son?” Father Sigeon asked as they made their way back to the battle.

“I am Arcturis Bighorn, son of Nydastramus Brig-Mist Chieftain of The Clan of the Talon, from the lands of Briggard.

“It is our pleasure to meet such a valiant warrior as yourself. I am Father Sigeon Payne of the order of Aurric, and this is Drythakmere. We too happened upon this fight and lent a hand where we could.”

Arcturis stood speechlessly staring at Drythakmere, and suddenly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “You have the symbol of my clan painted upon your head therefore my axe and my life are yours to command. My father sent me from our village, to lend my axe to the good of all man. He was a very wise and powerful chieftain, and knew that our people were but a thread in the great fabric of life. There is a much greater evil at work then just these filthy creatures. My path led me here, and now it seems we share the same path.”


to be continued....


[Edited by oliver drake]

Monday, November 5, 2012

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

scout's honor




"scout's honor"
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

Raise two fingers for honesty and integrity. Recite the words that morally ground. Live for reverence, abide the God. For truth, it is respected; in faith, it is protected.

As long as we obey. The law. The code.

Their law. Their code.

By what law is a scout truly bound? The scout endures the lonely, distant paths, scanning, mapping, exploring, observing, adapting to the environment around it. Guided by a primal, genetic intuition and harmony, the scout lives open to disappear into foliage, to hunt,

to unearth and learn.

A scout is reverent to the land around it, but not to a deity first. Natural harmony requires reverence of hallowed ground and local lore, but the scout remains unaffiliated, unspoiled and open. It must objectively survey, serendipitously traverse and converse first with the Earth and its creatures. A ranger is not afraid of the dark, nor angles too quickly toward light. It does not prance, nor prattle, but makes measured way through the thick of the species.

It pays allegiance to the people, yet ever defends the crawling edges of the ravenous and the greedy that know no balance. It scopes the shadows, understanding, shifting, redrawing the lines when necessary. It holds the ecosystem as self-evident,

and pure. No myth required for orientation, no gift or tribute indentured for navigation.

Raise two fingers for strength and accuracy. Hold your breath and draw back the fletchery. Live for benevolence, abide natural law. For truth, it endlessly wanders; for proof and principle,

Scout's honor.

the topography of happiness




"the topography of happiness"
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

I often wonder if Sisyphus stopped to enjoy the view from the top of the mountain. After an eternity of pushing the boulder uphill, he would make it to the top, a wiry and weary prisoner to someone else's wrath, see the wicked landscape of Hades from the tallest heights, and be comforted by his sentence. I suspect that sometimes he tipped the boulder himself, sending it in an angry, violent descent back into the dark, vile depths below.

Lower than the damned dwellers, deeper than the cursed and fallen shadows, the collected plaque in the bottom of the ecosystem of life.

A base and hopeless beginning. There, where the mountain of guilt meets the canyon of woe, he finds the strength to climb again, even if he doesn't want to. An endless ascent to a view of unfavorable oblivion.

He squares his shoulders in the hellish gloom, rights himself soundly beneath the well-rounded behemoth, and budges the boulder up, slowly, repetitiously, forcefully, until the dust has been completely kicked from its resting surfaces and momentum carries it

up, ever up, for eternity,

until the inevitable apex is reached, and descent is a necessary response

to happiness.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

the wisdom of we



born to capture these rapturous reflections.
burn them into the eyes of others.

we are the cameras of the damned,
the Polaroids of the dispossessed.

our truth is travesty;
our history disastrous casting.

we walk among them, but never feel.
represent their lies, with a brush surreal.

we are a race, not a
harmoniously moving herd.

we flock.

we fuck.

we fight, never give up,
never give in, never have balance,
find far more ends
than beginnings.

who are we
after all,
we of broken
springs

who are we
but the fallen
queens and
kings

of the
living

Saturday, October 20, 2012

blightspeed




from "blightspeed"
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

These days, we train with sand sprints, forcing us to push harder even though we have half the momentum. Ever faster, winded, weathered, and wasted by the race we call human. Beneath the flesh, our organic mechanics are the same, varied by chaotic genetic evolution, in a spin cycle that will never stop, never slow down, unless external forces rise to face us. We are in constant motion and mutation, the virus and the carrier one and the same.

Perhaps we are the virus evolved, through natural selection and rapid recombination, given voice and bestial hunger. Feeding faster, on life and information and each other, sister and brother divided to opposite sides for access to the trough.

A man dove from space, broke the sound barrier and survived, a free falling star that fleetly fell with man-made wings. Faster, from towering heights. Fighting fiercely to evolve beyond our dermal boundaries, to explore the outer shores of this present reality, the irises of the virus always scanning and adapting and learning how to design survival.

With every advancement, a new map of physical reality, the boundaries stretched like an overactive bladder.

Our realm is the petri dish where we observe and consume. We devised a dynamic economy built on consumption, evolving endlessly and requiring more resources with every speedy second. Inflation pushes us further from center, from the simple core to the edges of the expanding universe. This is unstoppable, this driver asleep at the wheel from a diabetic coma, with no options other than chaotic collision in the dark, distant, lonely nowhere.

That which defines us each as unique aliens to this space is the same timeline that every star faces: a dwarven reduction and a husk of a future, consciousness transplanted creatively from one celestial body to another, the virus and the carrier one and the same, advancing at the speed of blight.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

to the ruin of us




from "to the ruin of us"
step four: orientation
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

"Let go, or be dragged," the wise Roman knows. And even now, stripped bare of flesh and fantasy, I cling still. To a memory, a whisper of the future that once had me spellbound. Love is an echo and a MP4 file now, all traces of the scents of romance long gone, and replaced with the cold emptiness of freedom, a pure and unrestramining cloak of chaos. I suppose I asked for this, divergence from the common, caustic road of human.

Knuckles worn to raw from the endless war, bones blackened by the fires of passion. Ghost Rider minus a fiery chariot.

I am now the wispy counselor to ghosts, called to soliloquy when interest grows, returned to the shadow upon completion of session. Speak truths, scare hearts, and return to the disquiet box from which you rose.

This is what dead friends do. We with history, forced to coexist within a joined purgatory, haunting each other until memory fades, never gravitating closer, trapped in a recessive shade.

I hold onto that life with ghastly might, unable to sever my own extreme bond to you, no matter how sharp I fashion my scalpel.

junkie shakes




from "junkie shakes"
step six: six martyr place
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"




addicted, to what is
curing me, to what is
killing me
the seeds were planted
too deep in these genes
to be uprooted by
common human
means
ditry rigs and
unsanitary things
the hunger screams
in vicious and vengeful
dreams, I
push the plunger
marry the quake
slip the secret square
and shake, junkie
shake

scapegoat branding




from "scapegoat branding"
step six: six martyr place
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"


Smells of cracked leather
And dust, recoiled and weathered
Until she releases it
From her grasp, and it falls
Long
Long
Long
Long
And strong
Twine teeth and
Bitter breath,
Slicing through air
With a blur and a
Crack,
As black lightning
Across a still sky
Calling blood
From flesh,
Culling truth
From lie
Carry the brand
Of failure, full
And complete;
Bear the burden
Of Scapegoat,
Your scars
Indiscreet

Saturday, August 4, 2012

project images of "Xenomorphine"

Original Stepcover, Step6: Six Martyr Place (2011)


Oritinal Stepcover, Step5: A Union of Storms (2011)


Original Stepcover, Step4: Orientation (2011)



V2, original cover, 2009


Original Cover, 2009

xenomorphous motto




Be Prepared.

That's the motto of the Boy Scouts.

"Be prepared for what?" someone once asked Baden-Powell, the founder of Scouting,

"Why, for any old thing." said Baden-Powell.

The training you receive in your troop will help you  live up to the Scout motto. When someone has an accident, you are prepared because of your first aid instruction. Because of lifesaving practice, you might be able to save a nonswimmer who has fallen into deep water.

But Baden-Powell wasn't thinking just of being ready for emergencies. His idea was that all Scouts should prepare themselves to become productive citizens and to give happiness to other people. He wanted each Scout to be ready in mind and body for any struggles, and to meet with a strong heart whatever challenges might lie ahead.

Be prepared for life - to live happily and without regret, knowing that you have done your best. That's what the Scout motto means.

from "Be Prepared: The Motto of the Boy Scouts of America"
Excerpted from page 54, Boy Scout Handbook, 11th ed,
(#33105), copyright 1998 by BSA, ISBN 0-8395-3105-2
http://usscouts.org/advance/boyscout/bsmotto.asp

patient antithesis



from "patient antithesis"
step four: orientation
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

we'll never cross this
chasm that has cracked
between us
we'll never bridge the
canyon that has expanded
our distance

i have the strength
to see this through
to hold the ropes
while collapse
ensues

in opposition we stand
in nothing do we trust
we know it would come to this
patient antithesis

mesocarp



mesocarp
step four: orientation
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

he who isn't true
to whom he could
be

is rotten and
diseased
from seedy core to
pomaceous
skin

its sick nectar
none but poison
now, its gentle
and succulent flesh
withered and
hollow

fallen far from
deciduous limbs;
swollen heart
succumbing to
fermentation
and original
sin

beware the fruit
appetizing and sweet
spare the sooth,
deny and retreat
consume the flower,
tissue, tendons and all
swallow the carpels
and the myth's bitter
calling

its slick nectar
fully assimilated
now, its acidic
and divisive message
caustic and
humanless

sermonella poisoning




I went to use the restroom at a coffee shop and found a three-page, hand-written, photocopied "sermon" on the urinal.  This is a tweaked synthesis and summary of that rambling message, which reflects much of how I feel about the "genuity" and pure human "goodness" of scripture... (*note the sarcasm*); details have been changed to affect the innocent, other countless souls that may have contemplated and been corrupted by the "sermon on the urinal".

and lo the urinal spoke
of scrypture:

all we, like sheep,
have gone astray
we have turned everyone to his own way;
and the lawed hath laid on him
the iniquity of us all;
for there is not a just man upon the earth,
that doeth good, and sinneth not;
for all have sinned and come short of the glory
of the dog; for the wages of sin is death,
but the gift of the dog is
eternal life through (blank) our lawed;
to declare, i say, at this time his righteous
mess, that he might be just, and the justifier
of him which believeth in (blank);
and it is appointed unto men once to die,
but after this the judgment;
the (blank) is not slack concerning his promise,
as some men count slackness; but it is long-
suffering to us-ward, not willing that any should
perish, but that all should come to repentance;
and whosoever was not found written in the
book of life
was cast into the lake of fire;
but (blank) commandeth his love toward us,
in that, while we were yet sinners, (blank)
died for us.

(blank) sayeth unto him, I am the way,
the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto
the failure, but me;
neither is there salvation in any other:
for there is none other name under
heaven
given among men, whereby we must be saved;
wherefore, he is able also to save them to the uttermost
that come unto the dog by (blank) seeing he ever
liveth to make intercession for them;
for by grace are ye saved through fealth;
and that not of yourselves:
it is the gift of the dog;
not of works, lest any man should boast
for whosoever shall call upon the name
of the lawed shall be saved;

for the dog so loved the world,
that he gave his only begotten sun,
that whosoever believeth
in him should not perish,
but have everlasting
life;
he that believeth in the sun hath
everlasting life;
and he that believeth not
in the sun
shall not see life,
but the wrath of the dog
abideth on him;
that if thou shalt confess
with thy mouth the lawed (blank),
and shalt believe in
thine heart that the dog
hath raised him from
the dead,
thou shalt be saved;

verily, verily, I say unto you
he that heareth my word,
and believeth in him
that sent me, hath everlasting life
and shall not come into condemnation,
but is passed from death
unto life;
but as many as recieved him,
to them gave he power to become
the suns of the dog,
even to them that believe in his name;
how that the lawed died for our sins
according to the scryptures;
and that he was buried,
and that he rose again
on the third day, according to the
scryptures;

but, after that, the kindness and love
of the dog, our failure, toward man
appeared, not by words of righteous
mess which we have done,
but according to his mercy
he saved us, by the washing of regeneration,
and renewing of the wholly virus;
which he shed on us abundantly through
(blank) our failure; that
being justified by his grace,
we should be made heirs according
to the hope of eternal life;
and the times of this ignorance
the dog winked at;
but now commandeth all men everywhere
to rep(res)ent because he hath appointed
a day, in which he will judge
the world in righteous
mess by that man whom
he ordained;
where of he hath given assurance unto all men,
in that he raised him from the
dead.

if you want to be saved from the penalty
of your sin, to be forgiven by the dog,
to become the dog's righteous, cleansed child,
and have life now with the dog
and internal life with the dog,
you can pray the following
prayer, sincerely. salvation is
a free gift the dog offers
to everyone;

(blank), I admit that I am a sinner.
I know that I cannot save myself.
I rep(res)ent of my sin and put my fealth
in the blood that you, (blank), shed
(on the cross and in crusades) for me.
you can declare me forgiven, justified.
I except you as my failure and lawed
and thank you
for dying for me
forgiving me of all my sin
past, present and future
and thank you
for saving me.
take control of the throne
of my life and make me the kind
of person you want me to be.

(blank), you are the dog,
at one with the failure and
wholly infectious
virus

and all I wanted to do
was take a piss

echoes of the empty hallways



the acoustics
of this corridor
are beyond
compare,
hollow and hellish
with no air to
spare

He spent his night bouncing from bar to bar, seeing various shows and checking in with plastic people in the dim glow of strobe and neon. No one would have suspected what was to happen in the coming hours. His head was a depressed tempest. In the haze of early morning, he emptied three bottles of sleeping pills, arranged them chaotically in a blue pile on a white plate, stood the bottles dramatically on the plate, forcing the mass of little blue bullets into a forward station.


And then he took a picture. Content with his work, he posted the picture over a common social media site.  At the time, I'm sure it was a cryptic and curious shot to his followers and fans.

"This is how the end begins", he wrote as the caption.

Some hours later, he was found passed out in his apartment. He was pronounced dead, left to wander the empty hallways of the great unknown.  All that he was, all that he created, all that he intended, washed away by a flood of sleep and endless silence.

In time, he will be dearly remembered by few, unfortunately forgotten by many, his legacy left to wither in the corrosive winds of tomorrow.

He left a body of work to represent himself, a global network of respectful fans to mourn the passing of his flesh. He exited with a sad, cryptic and powerful cry down the corridor of his life, one final, primal scream to carry his memory across the ages and spaces and hearts, a voice self-silenced too soon, artistic potential surrendered to the grand escape.

Few probably know why he did what he did. I surely don't. I choose to not know, to accept that he felt his exit necessary and to appreciate the echoes he left behind. I understand this is the way of the creator--some stars burn out of light and life fast and furious; others have enough internal combustion to power through endless cycles of inflation and deflation, expansion and recession, life and death.

The cerulean image of the plate and the pills is still burned in my mind, his curt exit epitaph still reverberating in my soul. That synthetic array is the lasting image I have of him, but his sound will always echo throughout the empty hallways of this creative chamber, providing aural purpose to the king of these virtually impossible dreams.

Lightspeed, Jamie.

ghost47



Like most other tattoo enthusiasts, I started my road with a bad ink choice. In 2001 and only a couple months after my divorce, I walked into a tattoo shop in La Crosse and took the plunge. I didn't do much research on what I wanted.  I simply walked into the shop, with the burning desire to commemorate this point in my life.

The start of the darker road, the schism between who I was and who I was becoming. Diagnosed with two chronic health conditions only one year earlier, my life had completely unraveled. First it was my health, then my job, then my love, my marriage, my condo, my friends... and everything I knew as familiar.  In one year following my prognosis, I was single, broke and living alone in a new, cursed world.

I felt like a ghost--physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And, thus, I adopted the nickname. It seemed to fit. Typically, people don't assign themselves their own monickers. Friends or family bequeath such labels upon you. But, in this case, I felt like the incorporeal dead.  Non-present. Translucent and disconnected.

The wires couldn't be reconnected to life, not in the common means.  In that darkness, someone else awoke.  It was necessary to face the disassociation and make it part of me.

"Ghost" became a nickname.  And not just a name, but a way of existence. In the tattoo parlor in La Crosse, I found an Oriental Kanji which was labeled "Ghost", and signed up for the permanent branding. The strokes of the kanji are shaped in such a way that it looks like the numbers "47". To this day, I haven't met a single person that can validate that the image means "Ghost"; in fact, the image now exists more as a deathmark, or a memory imprint, than an accurate statement from another language.

At the time, I couldn't know prophetic it could be. 11 years later, the "ghost" has become a dominant part of me, the artist that has always slumbered within, made to mute by unsupportive hands, awakened by dissonance and the coalescing of metaphysical voices. All that remains of the first tatt is the echo of a number, and translucent identity, measured by rate of fade, rather than age of erasure.

All that's left is 47--timeclock or coincidence, the answer draws closer with every dying day, and with every new image of recognition branded upon my flesh, with every bruise on the armor of this invisible sheath, this echo of who I used to be. Always present. Always reminding.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

a slow swan song



There are little white bumps developing on my legs. I guess my father has them too, supposedly connected to his Diabetes. But I'm not Diabetic. I know where these strange masks come from: the course of poisons sent from tweaked organs. I think my time limit is based on the concept that I'm poisoned inside out, from the deep clogged pockets, quickening blood to the Bilirubin stares. It manifests itself like an expanding outer shell, like Swan after the apocalypse, her mask thickening and hardening with every passing day. I feel the yellow in my eyes, the venom peeking out of the available pores and collecting into scale-like fragments.

And I feel filthy. Inhuman. Imperfect. Impure.

Maybe it is to become my shell, my cocoon, my final wrap. Pharoahs were mummified in careful cloth and surrendered to the other side in pyramids of wonder and coffins of gold. Even the divine-on-Earth didn't live long. I wonder if Fifteen is an accurate number, and realize with the fatigue of every passing day that the score could be accurate.

We all have to fade someday, let the rigor take over and mortis finger the keys. Some are just destined to hear the piano tune faster than others. The tall black keys strike low. The white keys high.  I sometimes wish the piano wasn't so black and white, that the tones were greyer.

I didn't ask for this. I woke up one day to an uncommon path, to a cursive sentence and wicked ball-and-chain. I knew I would have to face this alone, realized the artist path would be the only way to find harmony in a world of the perfect, the captivated, the callous and careless. Caring partners are too few and far between these days, the cool women giddy and drunk on the vapid liquid of normalcy and plasticity.

Someday, we won't fail so easily, our flesh and harmony less collapsible. This species isn't meant to drift and disappear like flotsam on an endless ocean, like a Swan in a thunderstorm. We are meant to evolve, ascend and explore, become something greater than the sum of our individual parts.

I won't be around to see that human concerto, but I must work to tune the instruments.  As the little white spots expand all over me, onto my hands and face,

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Xenomorphous Laws (51-75)




The "Xenomorphous Laws" are scattered thoughts about this blog in relation to my second book "Xenomorphine" (The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2). I hope these are as wise as they are entertaining.

Xenomorphous Laws (51-75)

51. Synthetics are a circular non-cure.

52. Bounce.

53. Let go, before the rope burn causes scarring.

54. Listen to your demons; they've weathered more than any angel has.

55. Don't get caught in the web.

56. Patrol your heart.

57. Often, regression is progression.

58. Couth and tact are the tools of the nimble lockpick.

59. Follow the worms, for the know where to burrow.

60. Don't veer too far from innerspace if you can't take the cold.

61. Flesh will eventually fail you; that does not mean you are a failure.

62. Live now, not later.

63. The vain need plastic to maintain their mannequin lives.

64. Find balance, even if the search introduces turbulence.

65. Harmony results from synchronicity--a constant compromise between waves, hearts and minds.

66. Control your erosion.

67. We began with one language, and will return to common conversation someday.

68. We face wars from within and without; we must exist as one to survive the onslaught.

69. Force retreat of the armies that have massed before you with confidence, focus and flame.

70. We are all shades and hues of the same spectrum.

71. No love is perfect.

72. Life has only one, true deadline.

73. Waste your time, and time will waste you. And bury you and help write your obituary.

74. A push-up a day keeps Atropos away.

75. An open book speaks to an open world.

Xenomorphous Laws (22-50)



The "Xenomorphous Laws" are scattered thoughts about this blog in relation to my second book "Xenomorphine" (The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2). I hope these are as wise as they are entertaining.

Xenomorphous Laws (22-50)

22. Exorcise the superfluous.

23. Avoid the extremes. I've been too skinny and too fat and neither are worth the swing.

24. Connect the dots inside; we are many, not one.

25. Find a course that works for you, and no one else; that is who you should be. There are more asteroids than planets in space.

26. Reserve judgement.

27. Hold the applause.

28. Be born every day, not just on the calendared one.

29. Live for beginnings, not endings, and observe the secular strands that connect the two.

30. Be the dust-up, and shake loose the silt of the planes.

31. A star never loses illumination; it just relocates in space.

32. Don't get lost in the clouds for too long; the oxygen is too thin for an extended stay.

33. Be the first to change, not the last. There's less of a headwind if you lead.

34. Learn to love the pain; it is the only physical constant.

35. Always have a back-up plan.

36. Make sure that back-up plan includes a full flask, just in case you need to kill the infection that results.

37. Some poisons cure.

38. Diminish your greed; focus on your needs.

39. You are stardust stew: your composition and presentation are different, but all ingredients are similar, regardless of the details of the recipe.

40. Your body depreciates in value immediately once taken off the lot. Don't fret about nicks and scratches encountered along the road.

41. Singularity is inevitable, and is the undeniable direction of the human machine.

42. There are some complex answers that are beyond human comprehension, even if the questions are simple. Don't stress the vast stuff.

43. Run as fast as you can through the fog.

44. The decay is in the details.

45. Hold Evelution's hand as she learns how to stand.

46. Live simply, and simply live.

47. Create your own separation from the flock.

48. If you don't recognize the face in the mirror, break the glass and reassemble the shards into a familiar visage.

49. The code is acidic, and so are you.

50. If the serum glows, take two.

the passing storm


"Xenomorphine" in development
Step_Six: Six Martyr Place


Monday, April 2, 2012

six martyr place

six martyr place (v1)
step six: six martyr place
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

grim arachnation
beyond the false
door, evil. tattered ends
lead to sacrifice and
into a siX.M.P. prison, of
sterilization, rank sanctuary
and barren
oasis.
evolution
became me,
just as whore
became her.
test subject number
86333, in the
hallowed halls,
physical pre
arrangement,
caustic change.
old dreams and
grounded hopes.
murderer. martyr.
guide. sherpa.
desperate,
beyond
the storms
of wrath.
torn apart into a vast
cumulus aftermath,
in this silent
wake of days,
and sullen
grace,
we die
for the cause.
for the clause.
for the laws.
for pause.
for our case, under
obscurious burning
skies, forsaken
with lies.
and redemptive
spikes. mio piacere,
ready set and
prepared be.
justice. peace. faith
fallen. eternal curse,
the worst terrain
imaginable.
end without
end, rugged, black
path. vengeance
willing, patient
antithesis
is me.
nurse.
doctor.
doorman.
spectre.
neighbor.
inmate,
brother,
with no chance
of escape.
these red windows
pattern our
partnership,
color this
crimson rich,
blacken the
dimmer
switch. I am
the astor place
of swollen walls.
shattered panes.
and empty
hallways, echoing
of tragedy,
begging for
mercy. on rusted
nails, sunken frames,
smashed hammers
and torn away
dreams.
we are
destitution
and abandoned
development,
left to rot,
by the moved on
and forgetful.
poor you,
and your mournful
ways, don't judge me
as I become
the enemy.
sermonella poisoning
in venal course,
deep concrete channels
with scriptural force.
the lies drip deep,
corrupting with taint
bleaching the color
from spiritual paint.
theo(ry)logy chisels in
this mausoleum of the mind.
worship of the damned,
stigmata of the most wicked
kind.
this is the final
resting place for a shade
in fade. most wicked in
diction, confined
asphyxiated and
outshined.
close the doors
and draw the shades
the closets are empty
the walls coffinated
trapped for life
in murderous space, my
permanent residence now
six martyr place.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

most wicked diction


most wicked diction
step six: six martyr place
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

this is the one
you should avoid
one that shatters the lead
and offers little resistance
to what is ahead
beyond this frame
this most wicked game
no stopping
once the blood is laid
patterned in the shades
of this mortal stain

fall for the fact
within the fiction
beware the truth of this
most wicked diction

bring your inquisition
your nooses and your nets
march your crusade east
until the sun never sets
example the heathens
trample the resistance
claim favor and divinity
in the blood of the
unrepentant

shades drawn


shades drawn
step six: six martyr place
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

i cull the blinds in day
to make the light die away
pull them blind at night
to make the dark stay
it speaks to me
in sketchflesh tones
i capture them in parchment
wrap their ashen bones
in their presence
i humbly belong
at one with their essence
in shades with
drawn

cloaking device



I wretch on the beach with my eyes closed tight, not shuddering out of fear or depthful imagining of some wavecrashing Zen. No, I turn at the sight of couples locked in passionate lipstuff on the sand, partially-clothed, in happy, gleeful, blissful oblivion. It is like watching softcore, frustratingly-controlled porn, and only works to reinforce my loneliness. Accidental voyeurism seems to push me into a dark places often these days. I avert my eyes from intimate scenes in television and movies, steer clear of romantic songs on the radio or in my personal music list. In fact, I even find myself redirecting from eye contact. I don't think in terms of dates anymore, nor in companionship. Marriage. Girlfriend. Fuckbuddy.

No state seems reachable for me anymore.

No matter what I do, this path seems beset. People ask me bluntly why I'm single, and the answer is complicated, a mix of the years of sifting through various places and spaces and circles and orbits, to my uncommon physical appearance and philosophical leanings, to my strugglesome history. The simple answer is "I don't how NOT TO."

My fate angled into a direct collision course with Jupiter, and the massive cyclops sent me chaotically spinning into netherspheres. A shattering of life structure and hopes and dreams and normalcy was unavoidable. This xenomorphous aftermath is what I was gifted.

Strong asteroids have better control over their trajectory, firmer hulls can cut cleanly through ocean waves. I coast and float, observe and redirect. This is how the drift has always been, ever since the early days of running from German girls in Waldenbuch. I learned it from soccer. Run to the open space, that's where the pass will lay, if the midfielder's leg works. Swim to open water, away from the sharktoothed shore.

This frustration affords me great material, but a poor mast of memories. Today, a good friend of mine for many years dropped me as a friend on Facebook. I pretend like it doesn't matter, but her support of my art and my struggle was something that was a steady force in my world over the last five years. I suppose I took her stable friendship for granted, as the artist tends to--I can seem aloof because I am focused more on production than connectedness. I may have not been equally as supportive of her world, as she was of mine. Ultimately, I don't know why she dropped me as a friend. Her path is the common, cowardly one that is dominant in my universe:

Abandon ship, and leave no trace.

I then came across another person, one who was greatly supportive of my work and stance, that left Facebook altogether. And then I came across more people that had severed connections with me, or blocked me altogether. Or people that just shacked back up with exes, and decided that I no longer fit in their world, as they had once soon intended. Some were either women that didn't work out or felt spurned by Chris, when they approached Artemis with interest, or people that don't agree with my Secular Humanist message.

Either way, I've begun to wonder if I know what it is to be a friend.  Or if friendship changes dramatically with age, with the years tending to pair up people for the long walk to the tombstone door.  Pairs tend to gravitate toward pairs. Just as planets develop, with foundational elements gravitating toward each other and coalescing into a strong core, layer upon layer firming and cooling into integrity.

Asteroids are not so lucky, and are sent careening into the empty space, hoping to eventually find a place to rest. Artemis has become my cloaking device in the empty space, the vast passage between the past and the future, the vacant middle of nowhere.  Here, I tell stories to myself, cling to those attentions that are still watching and listening, and hope that elements will continue to stick around for the works I have yet to offer.

Or am I hiding behind a cloak of my conviction? Am I the contradiction, living too aggressively and selfishly to be attractive to the orbits where I want to take up revolutionary residence?

I wish I knew. These star charts seem foreign now.  The night skies empty and glowless.  Perhaps I've wrapped myself so thoroughly in my own creative avarice that I no longer know passion, know happy, know human, know how to operate the light inside this cloaking device.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

the red spot

the red spot
(excerpt from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2
complete poem will be available 12.12.12.)


sometimes
it seems like the storm
is a lifetime wide,
a vast bloody pupil staring
from surface to space
gracefully swirling
and blusterous
inside, the violence

never ends
until there is nothing left
to disinte
grate

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Xenomorphine Table of Literary Content


FROM "Xenomorphine (The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2)"
To be released 12/12/12.
(Order will change prior to print, based on art design and development; current draft order of content. Concepts copyright 2012 artemis sere.) 

XENOMORPHINE
Step4: Orientation
  1. Tulsa
  2. Xenomorphous Laws
  3. How To Enslave (A Nation)
  4. The Day the Darkness Died
  5. Deadlines
  6. Alive in the Land of Xs
  7. Doublecross
  8. Push-ups
  9. Woe the Road
  10. Gnomonocle
  11. Single File
  12. Cartographical Heart
  13. Victim of a Faulty Grading System
  14. The Topography of Descent
  15. Zatara
  16. Pick One
  17. Synthetic Hope
  18. Redirecting Route
  19. The Spindizzy
  20. Slideroads
  21. Back to Basics
  22. Classassination
  23. Lessen Plans
  24. Follow or Fall
  25. Scapegoat Branding
  26. Inquisition
Step5: A Union of Storms
  1. Deadweather
  2. The Tornado Within
  3. Wastelaid
  4. Fellshelter
  5. Count The Coming Thunder
  6. The Siren's Serenade
  7. Static Skies and Erratic Reasons Why
  8. Intersection
  9. Discharge
  10. To the Ruin of Us
  11. Into the I
  12. Turbulent Entities
  13. Blown Away
  14. Falling Up
  15. Sturmaz
  16. The Red Spot
  17. Supercells and Salty Hells
  18. X
  19. Sound and Fury
  20. That's Why We Hold Hands
  21. A Matter of Degrees
  22. Duck and Cover
  23. Flood Insurance
  24. Deluge Tunage
  25. Debris
  26. The Grand Unification
Step6: Six Martyr Place
  1. Beyond the False Door
  2. Lost Vegas
  3. Old Dreams and Grounded Hopes
  4. I'm Sorry, I Got the Sherpa Drunk
  5. Astor
  6. Become (the Enemy)
  7. Sermonella Poisoning
  8. Obscurious Burning
  9. The Wake of Days
  10. Poor You
  11. Most Wicked Diction
  12. And Your Little Dog Too
  13. Arachnation
  14. Shades Drawn
  15. End Without End
  16. Mio Piacere
  17. Echoes of the Empty Hallways
  18. Patient Antithesis
  19. Junkie Shakes
  20. Theo(ry)logy
  21. The Golden Fool
  22. Dimmer Switch
  23. Redemptive Spike
  24. The Tattered Ends
  25. These Walls Bleed
  26. Faithfallen