Good News: Although it isn't the most professional way to sell artwork, I have started a deviantArt account and I have 75 pieces up for sale. check out my profile and pick up a print!
Bad News: my Threadless design was cut out of the running, so if you haven't scored it yet, dont bother. If you have, then I thank you deeply for your support. i shall be revising the design and resubmitting it shortly, and I am currently working on several other submissions. more on that later.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
PLEASE VOTE FOR ME ON THREADLESS!
My design "Primary" is up for scoring on Threadless.com. go and Vote for me, so I can get it printed!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
I Herd My Buffalo With A Sawed-Off, 8 Gauge Dispostition. And I Keep The Safety Off, Honey.
This could be the last time I allow myself to breathe the same air as you, for a considerable amount of time. I've only ever been capable of one thing in its purest form; love. But, as life has taught the living indefinitely and infinitely, efforts need to be made.
for truth.
for results.
for valiance.
for hope.
for betrayal to mean anything.
for the efforts of a man of faith
to
reap any silver
blood must be shed.
t.o.n.i.g.h.t. the umbilical is cut. the blood she spills is, from this day onward, her own.
the stories he writes: transcribed in white blood cells on white canvas in a white room under white lights, grinding his white teeth. white lies.
shortcuts aren't as brave as longcuts, since they can't tell when i'm joking.
i eat piano keys for a romantic evening out, with the belle of the ball. as luscious as the silken wings on a dragonfly, perched atop the crest of an upright strawberry, stained rotten from the war of redskins and cotton-farm valkyrie.
the gramophone weeps for the sound of heartache running down the walls, like sap from the belly of a narwal.
"fly fly, little oil-heron."
tonight i have dined with villainy. made acquaintances with Balias, and traded mindsets with Fiends. I cry hello to the dawn. Pray it kills me. Because another day under the heat of her dress just may be torture enough to slay the torturer.
justice comes in the form of bullet-ridden denim; a pair of generic RayBans; and a shameless, unshakable faith turned into an ego 60 feet tall.
will there be enough water for the two of them?
I reckon not.
...
...
No, I surely reckon not.
for truth.
for results.
for valiance.
for hope.
for betrayal to mean anything.
for the efforts of a man of faith
to
reap any silver
blood must be shed.
t.o.n.i.g.h.t. the umbilical is cut. the blood she spills is, from this day onward, her own.
the stories he writes: transcribed in white blood cells on white canvas in a white room under white lights, grinding his white teeth. white lies.
shortcuts aren't as brave as longcuts, since they can't tell when i'm joking.
i eat piano keys for a romantic evening out, with the belle of the ball. as luscious as the silken wings on a dragonfly, perched atop the crest of an upright strawberry, stained rotten from the war of redskins and cotton-farm valkyrie.
the gramophone weeps for the sound of heartache running down the walls, like sap from the belly of a narwal.
"fly fly, little oil-heron."
tonight i have dined with villainy. made acquaintances with Balias, and traded mindsets with Fiends. I cry hello to the dawn. Pray it kills me. Because another day under the heat of her dress just may be torture enough to slay the torturer.
justice comes in the form of bullet-ridden denim; a pair of generic RayBans; and a shameless, unshakable faith turned into an ego 60 feet tall.
will there be enough water for the two of them?
I reckon not.
...
...
No, I surely reckon not.
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