About The Schizo Kid

I am a 39 year old writer/visual artist and musician from Cape Breton Island. Exploring writing without any pretense or attention to form. Raw, mad, strange. Come for the stupid metaphors and stay for the run on sentences. I think it was Sylvia Plath that spoke about expressing yourself even in the worst circumstances or situations, usually when I write something worthwhile It might seem like therapy and not art. Living through the chaos and having anything at all left is what writing is to me.

“Twin Serpents”

This piece was inspired by the “Serpent of Midgard” it’s an abstraction of traditional Norse metal and leather works that continue to inspire my work. This is India ink/gel ink 2017

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“Hand of glory”

These are two inverted images from two drawings exploring the occult significance and history of the “hand of glory” I tried to draw it from the perspective of a demonically possessed person relating information to someone else. I took some ideas from the documented history of the use of these Magik objects (8″ by 10″) india ink

“Right Possessed” This is a term of endearment I am told.

I don’t know what sort of classicfication. But I will put it into the Cape Breton vernacular under an offhand discription of someone who is interested in the Occult. “Right Possessed” Yes I am right possessed.Yes,I overheard one lady say elequentily to the other. He looks “Right Possessed” It was perfect like taking the ultimate insult and saying yes it’s consise. It has a certain poetic quality and I devoted some time to doing a drawing based on the term. Possessed to keep making art. I don’t control the hand, the hand controls me. Don’t you see.wp-image--279566484.

Ghost in the Machinery

In the eye of the storm, weather battered and Darkness has fallen. I have lived a thousand lives and now I must rest. Actualize what comes from my third eye. The chaos has a number, the random has a math.

We’ve exercised the fabric of the earth, thread bare and scorched. Lifting all that exists and wanting nothing.

Wise people will insist that God has a plan, a witch will tell you, we are not within God’s plan. God’s plan is to murder and kill the prophets and stop the earth from consuming itself. The sequence has been initiated.

“The truths are lies and the chosen are few. The surveillance state leads us to disappear never. To know a life of my own?  All that you take for gospel is bought and sold. All that I value is not silver, paper or gold. It is emancipation. ”  

Since I can’t have freedom,  I will be a ghost in your machinery, a phantom in the circuitry.

Jan182016_4645

One eyed

Torn apart, Serviced by the storm. I feel like a feral animal wrapped around the vines of the chaos of birth. Disorder and my spirit is soaked in sweat and the rain will never cease. Spirit portal spirit portal what is this foul smell.

“My son it is garbage day eve in this humble working class neighborhood, and some people don’t separate that shit…it’s like a fine cologne, an ambient piece of rotting music that only your ears can perceive.”

“Ok, thank you, do you think that the devil understands me a bit better than most. Snakes and ladders and politics. Mutations of humanity all gorging on my flesh. Soul travel, ticket punched, bones hollow. Days in the overcast plastered sky. the trees creek and the water flows, but my intentions are to disappear and write poetry again, fall in love, make car payments. I don’t know life is short and death is without end. I am doomed to walk without a soul or guideposts. Withered pages of drawings, hen scratched poems, rantings and addresses, love letters, lyrics, the foot marks of a life lost.”

“You’re just a Bad seed. You are mine now, the metamorphosis is complete. You are disconnected, banished and doomed beyond any redemptions, so relax become comfortable in pain and accept that you were born under the blood moon, a bad omen….the trajectory of your life is lost. You must accept that chaos and suffering is your new occupation.”

(Monotone narrator) Inserted back among the living, to walk amongst ghosts and pretend for our sakes to be human. The DNA indicates that he is of alien origin and not the cute little grey aliens, these are mutated fierce blood thirsty aliens. The human experiment is failing, weneed him back. Earth is flooding and sinking, twisting and heaving. Where the fuck is Superman or fucking wonderwoman now.

“You’re all backwards, inside-out and upside down, your fucking deranged circuitry is all wrong, it’s not completely your fault. It must have been the Years of isolation, and all the unkind words and beatings and having your whole life thrown into turmoil. You have to accept you are in exile. You have become a reptile, a serpent coiled around your own legs.”

Poetry excerpt fr the black book

When the earth grows dark, I see the backs of my eyes. The day is done, and I try to unwind. One eyed and slumping into my chair. How can I play it if I don’t feel it? Blues turning Black. Wiped into a frenzy under the full moon light. Under Azazel’s hand. Bone witch with the sermon of second sight. When I get the blues, I get ’em bad. Mean hearts don’t know anything about love. Well I did love many times. That was before the shadow’s shadow became my lover and friend.

Smudged ball point pen. I read the invisible message done in lemon juice under the lamp. Sent from somewhere else it read..”The place where you live is occupied, occupied by everyone except you. You are now under the command of Samsung and Samsung owns you, do you understand?Jan182016_4692

“Unrehearsed Birth” The Schizo Kid Poetics Vol. 4

A Black ink and charcoal self portrait from 2013.

A Black ink and charcoal self-portrait from 2013.

Unrehearsed birth, my talons submerged under the damp earth.  Time stuttering in reverse.  I curse underneath my breath.  The pieces of my skeletal thoughts and fragmented verses, that’s all that’s left.  aligned with the far left.  A tortured scribe; a stubborn narrator.  A stalled elevator.  Suspended, earth-bound by purgatory’s story.  Immersed in cauldrons of selves.  Ideas stacked one on top of the other like disheveled book shelves.  I delve into the wells of hypocrisy, like “Why do artists suffer the worst fate under this veil of democracy?”  Descended from the beat of the drum, expressing real life experience and spitting out street poetry, laced with what some might call cynicism.  Well that’s better than oppression or fascism.   My world’s a collision of hope and despair blended into my expression, to avoid depression or anger…like a downpour in a desert drought.

I pick the pen over the sword, but sometimes the sword looks tempting.  Reinventing the shape of the language, my slanguage of metaphors explores the spaces between politically correct and obscene.  Can I say what I think? Just like a right-wing think tank comes up with new and exciting ways to squash young talent.  Destroy those who question authority.  Hard not to feel subordinated when you’ve been educated by life, not school.  Retooling my arsenal of syllables.  If you think that you’re saved, then maybe you’re gullible.  I find idiocy hard to swallow, but I refuse to wallow in self-pity, staying sharp like a razor’s edge.  Dredging up the mystery of centuries of knowledge.  Make a “to do list” or a “refuse to do list” and let yourselves be heard.  Conjugate my madness like a verb.  I’m absurd, like a caged bird singing about freedom. Yeah, more like serfdom or slavery.

Studious with these vocal chords used for a purpose.  I resurface, then back down into the underground without a sound.  Analyze with these Jade eyes.  My eye on the prize.  I’m broke, but wise.  Never in the grip of vices that can tighten like vice grips.  Slips and tangles like tangled hair.  Sometimes life just ain’t fair.  Hour by hour my mind turns sour.  Refrain the echoes of my disdain.  Viciously entropy and anguish take over your brainwaves, like sitting too damn close to an old microwave.  The brave are few..  I get  misinterpreted or misconstrued by society.

I try to win with a weaker hand, contemplating in quicksand. I understand torment. I reinvent and ventilate my rage. I won’t ever act my age.  This street corner is as good as any stage.  Page after page I engage like the Zen master.  It’s the pursuit of happiness that we’re all after, or maybe it’s stacks of greenbacks; romance from fictional paper backs.  Train tracks are becoming obsolete, but are a metaphor for freedom and exploration.  Navigating territories unknown. I feel abused and dirty. Beaten down like a crumbling city pay phone.

I meditate and regenerate my time and space, like a black board that’s been erased, and replaced by new ideas and new perspectives.  The struggle is more than can be said.  Try to stay fed, and outta the red.  Shoes on my feet. Hat on my head.  Earn my daily bread.   Climbing through wormholes, dead sea scrolls.  The hands of time creak and scrape forwards.  My future is hopeful and fatal.  The skeletal cradle’s namesake is Muddled, like puddled water.  Don’t follow me I’m lost.  This is the cost.  This throne is made of flesh, blood and bone.  My head’s stuck in the wishing well.  The night sky sends me its charms, I try to stay out of harm’s way.  Night turns back into day and I wonder where the Magik comes from.  Where it goes to?  A metronome, a metaphor, a closed-door.  Climbing into bed, not sure that I can endure another.  Back to life, onward and upward.  My words an extension.  Fallen into the realms of ghosts.  A ghost walker walking through the void.  Death is the fate we can’t avoid.  Trembling in the grips of panic and a sense that you’re moving into oncoming traffic.

“Sitting beneath the Dead Moon” The Schizo Kid Poetics Vol 3

I left a trail of paintings behind me most of last year. this is a cyclops I donated to Veith Gallery in Halifax.

I left a trail of paintings behind me most of last year. this is a cyclops I donated to Veith street Gallery in Halifax.  Spray paint on a wooden panel.  2014

Etchings, sketchings and silently the dead moon waits for the password.  It takes it’s pound of flesh. Losing my breath. My disease makes me want to leave.  Just gotta roll up my sleeves. Starting to believe in this graveyard of dead leaves.  She holds me back from the ledge.  Back from the edge.  Out of service, this machine blinks in the dark.  Suffer for my art,  So, Do you wear the mark ? Mirrored sideways reflecting the image looking curiously back towards my line of sight.

Invisible scars, keep my pen scratching between the notebook’s pale blue lines.  I recoil, I try to unwind. I stay standing studious and blind.  I find the best thoughts surface when I let go and give up…Fill up my broken cup.  Moving with the tangled weight of joy and doubt. Making sanity a liar, crawling, soul searchin’, ain’t nothing that I’ve found.  This  Automatic writing dangles from my finger tips, eclipsed by the dead moon.  I’m in the sanctuary of the bastard sage.  Infinite like a painting seen through the eyes of the ages. Pages and pages tossed like refuse on my living room.  Lifting my head up to stare madness and torment straight in the eyes.

The information, and the intonation of my voice.  It’s echoed through this hollow space.  Ethereal and Crushed under the vice of life.  Lifeless, the solitary artist.  The moon restorative to the man spinning the cornered narrative.  It resonates as the words bend under my pen.  Spent the dawn, sent the demons home to reflect on what they’ve done.  Books on shelves, manuscripts.  I dove into the torrent of the writer’s room, the place where the desperate joy sits.  Where thoughts are hatched and peek through the winding thatch.  The phantom at my side, to whom I confide.  The place where I step cautiously inside, so as to not be swallowed by the empty page.

Explain, explain my refrain.  Drained out the urge to stop to lay blame.  Unhitch me from your whipping post.  The Phantasm  of dreams that lay dormant.  What spooks you the most, the teething ghost.  I’m the pale neighborhood demon host.  The dusk, the glowing dust, I must somehow turn my poisoned thoughts back to trust.

The opinions of me and my minions seem to fall on deaf ears.  The constant pull of torment and fear.  Just when you think you’re in the clear, the dark rider never fails to appear.  I erode and extend my verse to you like a romantic gesture under the lamplight.  It’s a fixed fight.  Did ever feel you can shine like a new dime that’s been doing time?  Climbing out of bed to face the demands of isolation’s request.  Just do my best, keep the cards close to my chest.  I look to the crooked sky into the crow’s naked eye.  The burial of  my liberty is all that’s ever offered.

Shape-shifting metaphors behind locked doors.  Left behind to cringe and explore. The duty and the abandon.  My resignation is forth coming. On the mend, around the bend. Back to give the eulogy, purge the entity that is me.  Shed my skin and begin anew.  I walk in the shadowed narrative that’s true.  The shade of my eyes is black and blue.  Deer in the headlights.  Snake bitten and smitten with you my love.  Late into the night just laying in the bed, gladly nursing love bites.

The Schizo Kid  2015

“The Docks of Rotterdam” Poetics by The Schizo Kid

To live a moment, a decade.  Hands black as the ace of spades.  The dockyard plastered in ash and fog.  This visited lost place.  Tall tales as long and deep as the harbor.  The symmetry and the certainty measured in tides.  Salt water, Death was nothing but a symptom of age.  A small fortune hidden inside a boot heel.  The young sailor’s worldly possessions.  A boot knife, a billy bat, and a locket.  A yellowed photo tucked carefully into his coat pocket, obscured by weathered faded ink.  A mermaid tattooed under his rib cage for good luck.  The screeching bare knuckle quarantine called home.

Amnesia, no solitude. Survival was just a rude business left up to the hand’s of fate.  Hemp rope, clinging to hope, splintered wood and stale bread.  A polished coin hung around your neck with leather.  Eyes squinting and soaking in the sting of the sun. A bird bath, a fish hatch and stacks of wooden crates like a heaving grave yard hugging the deck of the shore.  Disguised eyes.  Friendship was a myth seldom told.  The necessity of strong drink and fast women.  The sun slumps over and fades like a worn clock.

Emptied treasures.  Contraband hidden expertly.  These tarnished men, polished yet grayed by sweat and every ship is a replica of 20 more laying at the bottom.  Looking out small portholes like a scratched fish eye lens.  All depth perception lost to nausea.  A floating fever.  The mind a cruel storage unit eclipsed by the moon, disappearing into the horizon.  Self taught survivors.  Warming their hands over a candle flame.  Untamed by the disorder and the chaos of life.  A permanent huddled void.  Iron and rust, scarred faces and arms like tree trunks.  A thumb  tack put squarely onto a withered wall map. Life, death’s end paraphrased then sold over a card game.  Dog eared notebooks, tattered leather-bound books.  Playing cards with Naked ladies peering  suggestively with bare legs and long necklines and rouge applied like a second skin.

Bad weather, stoicism squeezed into stretched cloth.  Nothing regal or formal about this existence.  No aristocracy or pleasantly here…Just back breaking work, then the manic childish fever of shore leave.  Men spending every penny on cigarettes, scag, booze and women.  Patched sails, pale Norse faces.  Mended shoelaces.  The purification through pain scattered across tattooed arms.  Faded patches where the ink didn’t take.  A lover’s name carefully but obviously covered with a banner or a ship’s anchor.

The quiet necessities of life, like frantically weaving hemp rope for sails by lamplight, like a women’s braided hair…but too long to be attached to a lady.  Palms, faces and knuckles swollen and cut from scuffles. arguments over gambling debts.  Each man carrying vices to remain sane.  The sailor grin’s like a child with kerosene hands.  The constant splash of the sea.  Awkwardly walking out onto the dock, as if drunk with sea legs, and money to burn.  They spend everything that they earn, then get back on board the purgatory of this life.  The evidence of the staggering and sobering death toll.

A pirate image that I pasted to my cassette case that I used to store things in The Schizo Kid 2014

A pirate image that I pasted to my cassette case that I used to store things in
The Schizo Kid 2014