Art The Artistry Weekly: 14th - 21st This Weeks Subject: HEART (Read 558 times)

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fight the cliché


great contributions as always. i've started making the PDFs, you can find them in the master topic. let's see some more work!
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Ok let's get this ball rolling mofos. I'm going to post a really self-serving poem, such as I've avoided before, to show you all how it's done!

If poetry this convoluted is being put on this thread, never mind being written in the first place, then you have literally NO excuse not to contribute, so make with the artistry you lazy bastards.


Heart, body, and soul

Thrice stepped into the brink of failures old,
yet somehow bleeding into my being,
Aching and attacking my weakened state.
Twice stepped into the crazed lusts of devils,
Tested with synthetic reality
That can never fruit.

When blood forces itself through openings
Of its own choosing, you sense control that
Cannot be rivalled by a lesser thing
Such as yourself. Reminiscent of dreams
From which one longs to awaken fresh, new,
And ready to feign your obligations.

The muscle is weakened by an eon
Of longing, visions of shrouds and desire.
They are crushed like petals falling before
A more corrupted ideology:
That of desire for means other than those
That are natural to a less sick heart.
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Nice- Smacks of Shakespeare.
Everyone has the right to be himself; wise men know how to,when, and whether to navigate the boundary between their rights and those of others when they collide.
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uploading an hq one atm but its 13 mb
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hq downloadble here:
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the poem is great, I don't really know how to cc poems so yea.

@skarik: that's a good drawing and representation. It seems they are fighting over their heart? or did their heart unite from fighting. i don't know.
about the color, maybe a yellowish or orange background for the red dragon would make the whole image appear more balanced.

I'll send my own later, I might do somehting cliche,haha, i'm not really an artist.
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In the directive of breaking the stereotype, I've tried to avoid traditional heart imagery. I've also tried a form that I've seldom written in - the short story. I don't really like my prose that much, but practice leads to improvement and I have improving to do. I don't know much anatomy but I think that makes sense in the story anyway. Kind of grossed myself writing this initially. I hope I don't come off like a, uh, bleeding heart.

The Heart

Autopsies have become a hobby of mine. I guess it's not really an autopsy if
the subject is still alive, is it? But that's how I see it. Every night before
I go to sleep I cut myself open and examine my internal organs. What killed me
today? It's in my mind, but it feels real.

I start by picturing my scalpel. I'm not a surgeon, I don't know what one looks
like so I can use any kind I like. Today it's practically a machete - a long,
wooden handled knife with a curved blade. I'm lying down on my bed as I make
the slit from the top of my chest down to my belly button. A hard thwack with
the handle and I can break my sternum to open the rib cage. I peel it back along
with some of the abdominal flesh and all of the organs I'm interested in are
exposed. I don't usually examine my brain because I'm worried my thoughts
will spill out.

I must have long veins because I can move things around freely without
disconnecting them. I've just eaten so I avoid my digestives. I can feel my
lungs inflate and deflate like an air-bed made of plastic lunch wrap. It's nice
how clean everything is. My blood stays in my circulatory system, leaving only
a thin layer on the outside of my organs. I reach past my left lung for the
problem organ, the heart.

I hold it above my head so I can see it in the dim light. I hope the neighbours
don't notice my shadow. It's hard to imagine that so many things could be
connected to one organ. My whole body feels the strings as I move it around.
It's got to be at the centre of things. It beats kind of off, not at a steady
pace and there's little wrinkled bits of fat stuck to the outside of it. Other
people's hearts are good and true and strong. Mine's a lump of flesh. I can
feel all the blood in my body being slowly moved towards and through it. If
only I could replace it. Maybe in the future they'll make prosthetic hearts.

The next morning, I wake, wash, dress, eat and leave. It's humid and I can feel
myself sweating on the bus. I try not to sit too close to anyone. It gets worse
as I walk down the pier to the ferry - my shirt is noticeably drenched. A girl I
knew at school a couple of years back is on the boat. Acquaintances always make
me nervous. I try to say hello, but she looks noticeably disgusted as she makes
a polite reply. I shouldn't have sat facing opposite her. There's nobody in the
two rows of seats between us.

Just as I'm sitting down, I notice it under my shirt. My heart is swinging
around, attached by a few veins to my chest. My shirt is bloody. I try to wipe
it. My hands are bloody. I'm sweating. It's so humid. I wipe my brow. Now
there's blood on my forehead. I must look like some kind of murderer, unshaven,
hair coming out of my plait. I can't get my heart back in. My chest is sealed
shut. I focus on the sea for the rest of the journey and pretend it's not
happening. I know that it is. I can feel the great pulsating prune staining my shirt
and I know that she can see. As the boat stops, I go to get up early and go
downstairs, but she gets up too so I sit back down. She goes downstairs and I
wait until almost everyone is off the boat to get up from my seat.

It's been about a month now and I haven't been able to open myself up since. No
matter which knife I imagine or how sharp the blade, my skin won't part. My
ribs are like prison bars, only my heart is free. I can't get it back inside
my chest again. I can't hold a conversation without it playing up or go out in
public without someone staring. I feel filthy. If only I'd left it alone.
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Nice- Smacks of Shakespeare.

Yeah, I'm pretty unoriginal with who I imitate. Probably people are lucky I don't go all Larkinesque.

@Biggles: Excellent short story! It kept me reading, even if a little... unsettled by the very visual nature of your opening paragraphs. Nice use of techniques also - my favourite line: "I can feel my lungs inflate like an air-bed made of plastic lunch wrap". You can really sense the DIS-EASE.
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@Hero bash
Yellowish and orange does look niceish, I might reupload later if I can get a good color that doesn't make the fire and dragon disappear.

That story was kind of depressing. Like, he's never going to have any friends even though he has his heart honestly laid out. Umphooey.
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I don't have access to my art so here is a poem.

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Man I so want to play that game The Dude...
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Someday, Someone Will Steal Me

You beat me like a begging drum,
not with sticks though;
not with sticks, no.

The tools you use are indigenous.
Not of the native lands,
nor of the carver's hands.

I am your final word,
but also a testing field;
your life-long battlefield.

You've never seen me, but
at times I've been embraced;
other times disgraced.

I'll never speak your name,
but I whisper softly.
You whisper to me.

I am blind but insightful.
I am mute but roaring.
I am deaf but listening.

You could describe me a billion ways
and never speak the same,
and if I stopped to talk,
you would never speak again.
Sweet online game in alpha.