On ink

I can't really believe I am doing this. This means it is actually over. I feel sick. I am terified. I am sitting in a public library  (the need to write or blog without the internet at home is making me feel desperate) and I am struggling to breath. It is this bit of ink in my skin that means everything. It made you a part
of me. I am ignoring the blood. That isn't quite so visible but now it is going to be all over. I felt like I had to keep trying because of this bit of ink. A birth mark connecting me to you. I hope this is enough. I hope this is right. I have no choice but to destroy this bit of ink and be born again. A constant reminder. A reminder of all the memories but moist of all the curse that it wouldn;t work. That you that me would never change. We didn't for each other. We got killed my ink. The memories before. the memories after. The happiness. The anger. The loathing. The pain. The jelousy. The fear. The lack of trust. The escapism. The joy. The ecstasy. Everything in ink wiped clean.
Without ink I am free?
The panic I am feeling right now is suffocating. My eyes hurt. My head aches.
This is withdrawel. Cold turkey. The ink has to be the light.

Candy says...

20 Chadworth house
Home of Elizabeth Ophelia, Alexandra Randall, Tim Holloway and James Holden
2011

Painting in petals of the past

Stalk as dry as her cracking brittle bones
Scraping at the corners of the air,
Scratching the rim of the replacement vase.
The cold shiny steel sucking the stained roses red bloodless life.
Their fragile state holds time
Moves place.
The transient shadow cast on the new greying wall wavers hitting cold damp air,
Floating through dimmed window shattered plate, pane of glass,
Bladed past.
One petal remains.
Hanging on as if clinging to some purity lost in new found innocence.
White overpowered by sordid bleeding blight.
These roses are old and belong to a different me.
There is a pink to the grisly rain and these emblems need to run free.
The petals in my palm shiver on the wind as they scatter into the swirling sea.
The earth takes on a new form
Painting patters of pain that is, that are, too pretty to see.
Sinking deeper and darker the gentle flash fades away.
Waves of pleasure hit and eb and flow in new found ecstasy of my lost found mind.

Cunt of the Week (The last of Tim's pencils..)

because we are moving into my new proper house tomorrow so I will have my stuff back...

Portraits of you in pieces and destroyed ( that doesn't exist anymore)

The memories are not intact. The dissection apparent. Lobotomy of the part of my mind that was with you. it doesn't matter anymore. The purpose of the portrait is complete. 

Has moved out and moved in (for now)

With the amazing TIM  (listening to Grace Jones) and times will be good. . .

More fun times and the search for a bigger house continues... for our growing family... (James and Alex) 

scream

the final sacrifice

moving on