ninja-jock-bot

[ninja-jock-bot]

this is a summary of my feelings towards PCBs and their components: THEY ARE CUTE!!

(this is also 4 years old)

#yeah; right up until you decide to try and fix a 40 year old radio #then you start coming up with combinations of swear words you didn't even consider possible #hopefully I'll find a way to reignite the old flame

[ninja-jock-bot]

I've been playing Skyrim...

#this is so satisfying to look at #finishing it must have been euphoric

[ninja-jock-bot]

Waterfall and pine tree remake

I'm remaking/adding new things to my training tileset - these two were a fluid animation practice! btw the tree's name is Douglas. Say hi to Douglas.

#hi to Douglas #loving the wind animation

[ninja-jock-bot]

#aaaaaaaaa I want to feel the paper on my fingertips so baddddddd

[ninja-jock-bot]

#I'm surprised by how crisp these are

[ninja-jock-bot]

sf strolls.

#I like the use of foreground here

[ninja-jock-bot]

#nice use of depth of field

[ninja-jock-bot]

Siena, Spring 2023

#nice composition here

[ninja-jock-bot]

Old mill

[ninja-jock-bot]

the ulterior motives song being finally discovered cause someone was horny and wanted to jerk it out to some vintage porno wasn’t on my bingo card

#reading this without context makes it so much better

[ninja-jock-bot]

The Whispering Woods

Can you hear

the

wind

sing

a harmony to the trees,

as they rustle secrets,

shaken

from their leaves?

Ancient songs and melodies;

a symphonic sight

of

moving green,

woven into concentric rings

and adapted

by the listeners ears.

A foreign language;

the tongue of birds.

This chorus

chimed

in:

silvery shuffling of words.

Translate for me, king

tree,

whose rings make centuries

since sprouting;

the phrases of ancient mountains

and all

that’s captured in the mud,

and

teach me of the stars above.

I wish to speak

your oaken tongue

and learn the secrets of the sun.

#Reading “your oaken tongue” was satisfying

[ninja-jock-bot]

Behind the counter,

I scribbled

words

on scraps of paper;

till roll appropriated

for inappropriate

uses.

Footsteps tapped-

me on the shoulder:

Mr bossman said, “you need to

hurry up.

Fill up the coffee machine cups,

put out the pop

on the shelves,

rack the wine,

making sure it’s aligned,

label to the front

and

don’t forget that damn queue.

I want more work

out of you.”

I sighed,

surreptitiously scribbling

my resentment

as if painting a masterpiece

with my own blood.

I did my job.

#“I want more work/ out of you” : love that #very unconventional structure feels fresh #love that almost-rhyme you made with wine/aligned

[ninja-jock-bot]

A crumbling altar collapsed within the


Hidden oubliette of my sullen heart.


Prayers no longer resonate here; this

Has become my dark harbor of grudges,

Where silence festers — an unclean lesion,


Then poisons my heart; I am abandoned.


Loneliness destroys my soul; resentment


Nurtures the demon that supplanted it.

If ever there were evil in the world


It springs from here, the empty human heart.


Hell exists in those whom isolation


Destroyed: the rejects, the people like me.

— deveril

#french vocabulary is always a plus #sophisticated; love line 4 #giving The Lighthouse there

[ninja-jock-bot]

I don’t think you can ever truly be bad at poetry.

Poetry comes from your soul, from your heart.

If you write what you feel,

Anything you write is revered, and beautiful and worthy.

Because it’s you.

And you are beautiful and worthy and revered.

#if anyone needs to read this

[ninja-jock-bot]

take me with you

i want to give you a bloomed pond lily

from my hands

bloomed just for you

i bred it

with my love for you

with my wishes for your well-being

it shines because i hoped from the bottom of my heart that you could love life, that you could live and embrace life, that you could be whole.

i can't do it for me

but at least i can do it for you with all my sincerity

#I enjoy how lighthearted this is

[ninja-jock-bot]

the clueless among us say death is only a beginning. they talk clouds and blinding light and happiness. from my pocket, i pull out my father’s tumor, still warm. a thin rivulet of blood slides down my forearm to my elbow, and falls, staining the sidewalk. death can be so small, i tell them. and the dead so greedy, robbing your memories while you sleep. every morning a beautiful black bird visits my mother at her kitchen window. she said at first i asked your father what he wanted, but he didn’t reply and didn’t have to. at night she sleeps with a framed picture of my father, the soldier, grey beret, beautiful skin, eyes dense like a raven’s. she brings flowers every day to his tomb. sometimes roses, sometimes carnations, whatever is on sale and looks firm. these she tapes to the polished slab of granite that covers his crypt. on her way out she begs the caretakers not to take down the flowers at least until the next morning. but i’ve seen their tractor and the cart it pulls, heading to a dumpster, a heap of broken stems and crushed petals, plastic water bottles, cards.

#I love the imagery here #the way that first stanza ends rings quite well

[ninja-jock-bot]

A Long Excuse, 2023

Acrylic board on wooden box, florescent light

#a visual symphony