A Roque of Ixpremiads

Lode, the waining trembles of sentient orthonauts fly! What dreamy and miasmic turnbulls wait in the gnarly wings? One treads not on such dainty, delicate tomes. The festooned reliquaries grumble and hum with unsanitary expectations. One does not suffer such imbrications lightly.

– Stout heart! Fondle knot the tender eggs of men! Your unfiled nails might scratch and tear and summon sanguine leakage upon your hands and the earth between your feet!

Crimson fluids gush from fresh rent flesh and congeal into wrens and rooks and other winged beasties. Clear water, fecund with womanish stuffs wash away the evidence, but the roque remains. Do not fear the ixpremiad, but embrace it. Make it your own. Color it in scents of pastures and loose-clothed mornings like the marmalade of the Sun, sweet up front and bitter at the back.

Centurion! Do you heed the warnings of your sister’s mother? What works for her falls flat for you. Sitting in static at the foot of your birthing bed, Time’s gondola and gambit conspire to dongle to the status quo. Such translations rarely do justice to the anticipation and afterscent of desire’s placenta.

©2017 Stuart Dummit

Sore

soremuscles

©2016 Stuart Dummit (Protopostartistic Artifact – electronic drawing – unsigned)

This is an electronic drawing. It was originally called “Sore Muscle” but I realized that it was speaking to something more than my physical muscles, but my emotional and spiritual ones as well. I place this image here as a reminder to myself that becoming strong is not a static goal, it is a process, just as any status, any state of being. If it becomes still, static, fixed, it is essentially dead and not goal worthy. The undulating, writhing, roiling mass of blood and flesh, sensation and desire must be marshaled and made to service something greater. What, I am not sure.

 

My Heart Is Exposed

 

 

  1. My Heart is Exposed
  2. My Heart is Exposed: Breached
  3. My Heart is Exposed: Murdered
  4. My Heart is Exposed: Alive

There is nothing real here, only the exposure of my heart. The cool pain of nakedness. The fear of discovery. The remorse of trust.

©2016 Stuart Dummit.

There Was A Crow

I have been writing. I have been writing stories that I want to integrate into a larger story that chronicles a series of defining developments in the lives of a small group of characters. With each of these characters I find that there is something about a crow that resonates. I recall a line from Martin Scorsese’s film Kundun where the sister of the future Dalai Lama recalls the birth of her brother: ‘…there were crows.’ Yes. There will be crows.

There was a crow.

There Was A Crow.

©2016 Stuart Dummit