“Volva’s Request”

Working on a companion piece for this called “Vitki’s reply.” I continue to explore my Norse roots with this series. Basically the sigil is used to help the “Volva” win over the man she desires. They are both looking at the same sky, same moon and asking for the same things, just from different perspectives. I am exploring “Sigil Magik” and “Seidr magik” through my work. If you look closer you will see there are 9 fingers instead of 10. This represents self-sacrifice and the 9 worlds of Norse Mythology. Story boarding this into sections to eventually make it into animation. By having these two find each other through the “Web of Wyrd” the desired outcome of the original piece is brought into fruition. It becomes a mirror of your waking life. So, by visualizing and creating the 2 characters representing the masculine/feminine respectively, you are weaving the threads of the future, in the same way that the “Norns” control the fate of everyone through the “Web of Wyrd.” That’s how magik is interwoven into your existence. Magik and the rest of Norse life was deeply intertwined and not seperate at all. (8″ by 10″) india ink.

“Demonized” a series of Drawings exploring the acceptance of possession.

Started off as a series of coincidences. I was exploring Magik and doing a series of Drawings based on my explorations of Norse Magik. I ended up initially doing some drawings based on the idea of “The glory hand” in occult history. It was my reinterpretation of photos and accounts of the pickled hands of hanged convicts and witches were used as divination objects and I researched and found many amazing accounts and it peeked my interest. Then I started exploring my own lifestory as maybe a build up to this series. So, I started to do a series based on reinterpretations of occult imagery and trying to personalize each piece as being an account of my own experiences. This piece is an abstraction and also a sort of self exploration of my own life and the idea of embracing yourself and your nature without fear of retribution or death. I know many Witches will echo my sentiments but we ain’t that accepted anywhere on earth.


“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.


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.