i really fucking love shorts

#1
i dont know if you know this about me but

i like to wear shorts

and sometimes do art

i write write a bit in the writing thread as some of you know
but i do quite a bit of visual art so im making this thread

i dont draw a whole lot of pokemon related things
but i most def will on request

but heres some of my non pokemon work


i cant imagine cinderella would even have to clean up much






stole some outlines from nastyjungle


someone took a video of a really drunk chick at my school talking about an exceptionally large penis she has mounted.





some of my photography stuff






theres a lot of shit on the left of this one from scanning but you can pretend i did it on purpose in the darkroom because im so avant-garde

writing:
Section One
I was biking to the park on my rusty green bicycle I had gotten to bike to work when I was fifteen. Listening to the spokes of the wheel clack against what was left of the plastic ends of my shoelaces I remembered. D how pissed off I was back then. Pissed off at my age, my parents, and the world. I seethed at the lack of respect I got just because I was a year too young to drive. I was pissed my parents wouldn’t let me get my nose pierced or my ears gauged, although now I’m relieved they didn’t. But mostly I was pissed off at the world. I was growing up in a lost generation of kids, choking down so many kinds of chemicals I couldn’t feel any emotion at all, let alone any of depression, anxiety, hyperactivity, or boredom. Locked in a country I didn’t believe in, and the country itself was trapped in between two wars. Two wars with a faceless enemy. One that may be the man next door with the shifty, slate- gray eyes, Perhaps the older woman who shops at the grocer you where you work.
Exhilarated by the feeling of my short, boyish hair being pushed back by the wind, tousling it as if it was that one distant relative everyone has, The one who expects you to remember him, regardless if he last visited you when you were still crawling around and could barley construct a legible word. I check once again if my messenger bag containing my days work was firmly secure. It was good to be home, in my stomping ground. I knew these cracked sidewalks I walked so carefully when I was a child, negotiating my feet as to ensure the integrity of my mothers back. I knew the dip up ahead, the pothole I swerved around a mile back, and the hill I was always afraid of descending as a child, I laughed remembering how terrified I was when I was rolling down that hill the first time. Caterwauling so loudly I must have garnered attention from everyone in the neighborhood, just to find that the sensation it gave me behind my navel was quite pleasing, I doggedly tramped up the incline again, stopping at the top. Needing to rest my asthmatic lungs for a while before repeating the process, although this time shouting with glee, rather than distress. I remember the time when I was seventeen, severely intoxicated, and tried to replicate the results I got when I was a child. That was a fiasco. I got severe speed wobbles halfway down, swerving wildly three-quarters of the way down, and sliding down the last fourth, breaking my collarbone and spraining a wrist. My parents were furious; it was the first time they found out about my drinking. If only they knew to which heights my infatuation with psychoactives had grown since leaving home, and attending college.
Entering the college wide eyed, and afraid, I quickly established a close friendship with the beatniks. My portfolio of drugs I had tried had expanded considerably from its humble beginnings of cannabis, alcohol, and tobacco. It now included Molly, Ritalin, Psilocybin, and even DMT once, (although I’m not sure if that counts because I coughed it all up like a green little pussy.) As I rolled onto the grassy lawn of the park and unwound the chain from underneath the seat of my trusty bicycle I felt a hand clap my shoulder. Startled, I turned around, not knowing what to expect, but feeling relief when I saw it was only my pal from high school, Geoff.
“How you doing you little fucker?”
“Fuck you for scaring me like that, you asshole” I replied

Geoff was around five foot nine with a slight build. He was a joker, always getting into trouble, but was sharp as a tack, if lazy. This had come to be his enemy when looking for colleges that would accept him. Even with an impressive portfolio, Geoff only got accepted to the community college, where he studied visual arts in a dirty, (as are most) art room. I spent my eighteenth birthday posing for him to do draw. I still had the yellowing pages from his sketchbook, still caked with the dross of his charcoal, outlining the figure of my slight body, the lines of my sides, and the points of my small, hard, breasts. Geoff was a great artist, and was quite attractive, although he appeared to be asexual, even through his adolescence. He had offended quite a few of the local queen bees by his short, curt replies to their flirtatious communications, and, although he had taken a few on dates, he had spurned all attempts of the females to have a physical relationship with him. He had been known to cause quite a commotion at parties and was an absolute riot when stoned, which was most of the time. Geoff was also quite an asshole. His wispy auburn hair was never tamed, and he was a pain in the ass my modern standards to get in touch with. The only form of communication he had was a landline in his room, simply for the reason that he didn’t want a two hundred dollar brick in his pocket all the time. He had even been given a cell phone by one of his friends once, but he threw it down a sewer grate, much to the dismay of his friend. He said he didn’t want to pay money for something he had at home anyway. Geoff was one of those indie fuckers, almost a hipster, but not quite.
As we walked slowly to the willow tree by the pond, our usual lurk, I noticed that he carefully planted his hemp clothed feet, slowly and in purpose. This was how Geoff was, his eccentricities generally accepted, if with some resistance, by adults. When we sat down, I took out my laptop as he reached into his many voluminous jacket pockets and took out a small folio and a pen and started to sketch ducks swimming along the glasslike surface of the water.
As I relayed my experiences of college to him he took out a thin, tightly rolled cigarette and peered around the park before lighting it. He took a deep drag, and the pungent scent of cannabis hit me. We passed the joint between us, until it burned my finger, and than lit another. Spending time with him I realized how much I missed his company, catching myself wishing he was not so restrained in his sexuality. He finished his sketch and to me, reached down and tweaked one of my sensitive, semi-erect nipples, the cool spring air had lifted, he got up and walked away. I wasn’t too bothered by it, as it wasn’t uncommon for him to do things like that. I tried futilely to finish a paper that was due when I got back to school, but my wandering thoughts always came back to him. I realized this as I caught myself typing ‘Geoff’ and decided it was futile to make any headway. I resolved to go out and find him.

Section Two
I kicked off my beat up pair of green converse, and stomped off to my room, fatigued from my fruitless search, and cranked up the heat in my room and played a Smiths record, thinking of him, of me, and of what I was doing here. I realized I was still stoned, and dismissed all of these thoughts as bullshit, the inane ramblings of my altered subconscious. My mum knocked on my door and asked if I was coming down for dinner. I told her I didn’t have much of an appetite and would grab a bite to eat later. She agreed and went back downstairs. As I wracked my brain as to why I was so perturbed over the seemingly random encounter with Geoff, I didn’t even notice that the Smiths album had ended. I woke from my dazed, half stupor, and heard my mother and father arguing at the dinner table. My mother shouting that she was sure that she smelled pot up in my room, and was sure I was high. My father was arguing that if they learned anything for going to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings with me, it was that trust is paramount to a healthy relationship, and that they had to trust me. He said that false accusations would only help shatter my already strained mental health. I heard a faint buzz from my bag, and felt a slight tremor course through the frame of my bed. I took out my phone and noticed that I had gotten a call from Geoff’s solitary phone in his room a few hours ago. Also, I had received a text message from my friend, Mindy I opened the message, a pit forming in the bottom of my stomach, the fine hairs on the nape of my neck standing at attention. All remnants of a buzz I still had from the marijuana left me as I read the words the message contained.
Melissa. Geoff just killed himself. Call me when you get this.

Trembling I felt my knees give out and buckle under me. I landed heavily on my mattress and, with my trembling hands I threw my phone across the room, if I had ever had any concerns of the sound it made when it landed of the floor after bouncing off the windowsill, they never reached my brain. As I shouted to my parents that I had to go to Mindy’s I was racing down the stairs, sliding in my socks, I took them two at a time, having known them for all my life, seven to the landing, two stairs to the right, and seven more to the ground floor. Pulling on my dirty Chuck Taylors, leaving the thin laces untied I raced out the door, before my bewildered parents could even form a protest on their tongues.

“What happened next?” I heard, Shocked by the sound of a voice other than my own after talking for this hour, I struggled to keep the shakiness out of my voice I continued.

I hopped on my bike, pedaling until my lungs were on fire, and felt as if they would burst out of my ragged throat at any moment. I skidded into Mindy’s driveway, and throwing my bike on her manicured lawn, raced up the three stairs to her house. Not bothering to knock I opened the door and barged in. Mindy’s mother looked up and said quietly that Mindy was in her room. I scrambled up Mindy's stairs and thrust open the door to her room, and found her lying on her bed, bent double, two thin lines of mascara painting her temples. I walked over to her and roughly pulled her up. We agreed to go to his house. Before I knew it, I was sitting in the passengers’ seat, screaming at Mindy to drive. When I was in sight of his small, red-sided house, tears had sprung unbidden into my eyes and perched on my eyelids, threatening to fall at any moment. We pulled into the driveway, his parents’ car nowhere to be found.
As we walked up the driveway, Geoff’s neighbor opened the door, and told us that Geoff was in the hospital, with his parents, although he was dead when they left. We bullied out way inside and walked into our room sternly shoving the lone guardian of the house aside, his protests falling on ears blocked with emotion. We entered his room and noticed the extension cord tied to the post of one of his bunked beds. We leaned on the doorjamb, in shock. I noticed a folded note of yellow lawyers’ paper on his desk. I opened the well-thumbed note. It read


Sometimes real eyes cannot realize
What is happening in the real life
And one needs
To cast a shadow over the issue
In order to see what it is
That’s hidden by the light
There’s a fog coming
Rolling in from the sea
One that can
Cover me.

“So I suppose that’s why I'm here.” I mumble, peering up I see the man’s kindly face. I glance down at my folded hands, but stop when I notice the dark masses marring the otherwise plain surface of the man’s notepad. Peering over the binding of his pad I see them clearly. Doodles of many things, small microcosms came to life on the fibers of the paper.

“fuck you.” I say and walk out of the office haughtily, dropping my co-pay, a balled up ten-dollar bill in the doorway. I guess that’s what’s wrong with me. On the slow drive home on winding roads, through small, hilly, towns. I thought. I don’t know if the therapy had worked or not, but I felt a little better, having that lump that had settled in my stomach that day, three years ago, wretched out onto the floor of that assholes office. I hope it finds a new home in him.


please
let go of my ears
i know what i'm doing
at least
enough to still my knocking knees
as i walk across the broad span
of water


I watched, as they walked by, as they always do, the rain inquisitively trying to catch up to them, tapping on their stooped shoulders, silently asking for answers they could never have, for how does one answer a question that is not inquired?
Bah. I'm getting garrulous in my old age, romantically describing the subtle scenes around me. Not much else to do for a man like me.
As I watched them flow and ebb as they went about their chores in the sallow monotony of the day. It seemed as of late, more and more of these dreary occupants of The City were being pressed out of some material my a great homogenous mold, popping out spry and dapper, ready to make a name for themselves. The dark, craggy, sky showed no suggestions of clearer whether. Not that it mattered much to me, stooped underneath a storefront awning, wrapped tightly in some scrap of fabric. As I tracked them with my expert eyes, they tried ineffectively to dash in between the raindrops as they fell.
“Hey Mister, Spare a quarter?” I implored. He strode on, speeding up as he passed by me, feigning ignorance to my beseeching. His redolence was piercing, even through the rain I could smell the sickly sweet stench of the sample bottles of cologne he stole from his work, and dabbed behind his ears. In a veiled attempt to keep enough rancor out of my voice, but enough to convey the innuendo I called out after him, venturing tentatively onto the taught tightrope.
“You know” I hollered “it’s now well known, but not all of us homeless are stung out junkies.”
He turned around and intoned, in a strident and uninflected voice
“You know, not all of us notice you bums” as he suddenly flicked a handful of change onto the wet ground, as if sowing seeds, Spreading them out just enough so I would have to brave the veritable deluge to collect the meager capitol. I was seething at this vacuous euphemism and felt my fists ball, my long, unkempt nails sinking slightly into the wool of my tatty gloves, but I needed the money, and thus was the life of a beggar. I hastily fixed the mask of indifference that was slipping off my face, turning my cheek as to not show him my perturbance. As I squatted down to pry today’s pay off of the wet asphalt, I turned around and jumped out at the man, wiping the sneer off his face, showing just enough crazy to make him think I was indeed a formidable foe. As he sped off, I counted the coins I held in my hand, enjoying the feeling of the rain cooling my fevered brow. I peered down trying to decipher the pieces I worked so hard to attain. My orbs searching, attempting to read through the dim light and around the steam that was emitted by my palm. I counted eight Abrahams and three larger Jeffersons, one Roosevelt, whose rough edges were slightly smaller than that of Abraham’s, and a weighty Washington, larger than all the others. And a bus token. I bit my lip at the emotions that consumed me, having sold my dignity to a man I did not even know for a mere fifty eight cents and one bus token.


i am but a shadow found in tides of noon
let me take the weights off your mind
because my back is getting broken
from holding up the moon
you should take a little snooze
i will take the problems
far away
and place them deep inside a jar
and them
when you wake we will dissipate
and leave them all far behind


let me get my needles
and stitch you back together
lets get closer
to whisper and murmur the day away
give me some more ammo to fight the night terrors
and keep them at bay
ill unwind the fabric
from my camera strap
your scent hits me like a train
but i would never jump back
as i smell that pink bandanna
the thin reminder of you
that once bound your heather hair
nothing else to wonder upon but your musk on the air


you start to feel the doubt shedding, you stand paralyzed at this new sensation/ feeling sick as if watching a beheading, but instead, your letting the feeling flow through you/ in you/ out/ you try not to let it consume you. you hear the crick crack of the muscles popping and feel the bottle shudder and the cork popping. as you stand there hypnotized
you realize
your creativity shocks you with the barriers swept away. you think you might actually feel good today. aint no prozac peters or adderall abbeys that can hold you back throwin words at you just to bounce off your taught eardrums/ cant take this shit/ hold on a bit.

you try to cut through all the blab/no bullshit. you say fuck today and as all the notions of the politically correct fly out/ they were trapped behind your eyes. you realize you can sympathize/ strategize/ hypothesize/ on the very meaning of what it is to be alive. you criticize and control your life and you step outta someone elses shoes and outta thier eyesight. you step back into you. in throught the mouth you pull your skin on/ correct your slouch. your alter ego flushed away/ down the drain/ all this fucking pain is back to haunt me.
get back to work screams fucking Lurch your asshole boss. he catches himself wishing he knew the taste of your lip gloss/
and i thought this might be a good day
you snap back hear the click clack of the keyboards/ clear away the brick-a-brac, and drone on like the worker bee/ working for the queen/ the good little brainless fucking worker bee. you cannot decide you you want to be/ your identity crisis overwhelming/ the thought you have no say in where your going.
start to cry/psyche broken, cycle broken! snap out don't you dare call out just drone on
my little bumblebee


im thinking before i go to sleep
missing you in bed
maybe in just knee deep
thoughts of you running through my mind
blowing shit up
but nothing of the important kind
lying here my head is in the sheets
trying to hold down my wheaties
while thinking of you
girl
you control what im saying
sometimes what i do
like a Jewish puppeteer sniggering in between
the pews
i cant cry
because ive run dry
sitting here
tasting raspberries
and
looking at the sky
through this ceiling
i imagine
is twenty feet thik
its sometimes hard to see
what isnt laid out in front of me
so spell it out
dont leave me with these doubts
becasue i cant think
i'm being pulled
draining down the kitchen sink


the air through here
is stale and fake
gone the chilly breezes that
kept me awake
lying here
sweating through the mattress
saturating
this conversation isnt what i thought it would be
as i gimp along
i exclaim
we dont even make three-quarters of one
the shit that is forced is not longer fun
the words you speak
drowned out by my old bones creak
and the disco beats humming
the bass thumping
this isnt what i remembered it to be
im feeling a bit claustrophobic
pressed in by
unfamiliar skin
sweat lubricates bare skin
as alcohol does tongues
this just isnt enjoyable to me
i sit down and order a drink
hear the records spinning
the deejay think
this dream aint no omen
i think as i wake
more boring than i thought it could be
this shit is unappealing to me


hung up by the bootlace
stranded in this latitude
nothing to preoccupy the
mind
cannot get what is behind
its already fallen
you walked away and left it forgotten
as you walk this dusty road
wondering where your head is at
you may have found it
but it changes in a snap
just as you were thinking
over a box of cracker jacks
should have spent your two cents
on something low fat
but it gives you something
to gnaw on
chomping on the gristle
trudging slowly
through the rainy
drizzle
ive had a fucking bad day
mind is cemented
thats where its at


circle
the strangest of shapes
wondering if it has an end
it goes round round round
thinking silly
two dots and a line
this shit just turned into a frown
or is it a smile?
just one big pile
of jumbled up lines
like a coke fiend desperate
for a good time
what are they?
shapes i mean
stuck in a world where nothing is as it seems
aint got no spot to gleam
laying there on my page
perfectly round
bought from the doggie pound
should i return it to the
dog house?
get a triangle
sharp on the outside
dont care about no feelings
on my insides
was that a stretch?
perhaps i should take a rest.






if you guys like my stuff i will post some more and i most def write storys and draw shit on request
however writing requesting is mainly a hay, write me a story bro! type thing
 
#2
You're not linking these right. Right click on your picture and go to "view image info" and copy the location, and paste that instead of the link.
 
#4
i like your art bomb

i really really do

especially your france man

oh and if you are doing requestss
budews and magbys and magmars are always
excellent choices
 
#5
thanks a load dude
that means a lot esp from you

i had everything else i knew about france in my sb
but i was going to upload it to facebook and i have quite a few french friends who may be offended

however! i figured out why france sucks at war

the louvre is made of glass

those who live in glass houses shouldnt throw stones

hmmm?

i was pretty drunk though so take with a grain of salt
 
#6
the french are the best at surrendering we cant diss them ok


i monitor this thread eagerly for more updates
i am most excited about your draws
but i like your photos as well
most def better than my amateur photography
as well as your writes

not bullshittin you i really dig this
 

ΩDonut

don't glaze me bro
is a Pokemon Researcheris a Programmer Alumnusis a Forum Moderator Alumnusis a Contributor Alumnus
#10
Good choice of caption and expressions on Gyarados and Dugtrio. Dugtrio almost had me laughing to the point of tears.

You have a great eye for this stuff.
 
#12
I like it =) Something I would imagine that would be pretty funny in your style is a pants on the ground Zuruggu or Zuruzukin. Gyarados' poorly shaved beard and eyes had me laughing pretty hard there xD
 
#13
that concept is hilarious
i tried to draw the zuru thugs before though and they turned out horrid
i can try agin

and nastyjungle that is the BOMB DIGGETY

FUCK FEAROW

note: zapdos and fearow are hard to tell apart without color
 
#17
buh i hate digital art




did these like a year ago


very first peice done with my tablet

been distracted watching fooley cooley

will upload some older sketches of non pokemon relatedness

im the meantime a short poem

like pavlovs dog id be better off with artificial intelligence
wouldnt drown on the growing ocean in my mouth
but as it is
im trained to spit and slobber
and the sound of you siren song
 
#19
Koffing is amazing. I love your shading and flame-like texture on it. Best piece I've seen in a while (Yilx hasn't updated though >_<) Nice work overall.

edit: just read your poetry ;_; :chaos:
 
#20
i really fucking love your art. You have a specific style that's really unique and all. A picture's worth a thousand words, but I don't have time to write a thousand words, so I'm just going to say that it's really good. Luvdisc'd.
 
#23
busy vacation, did some photogpaohy for my friend's album, and shot/participated in a recording sesh. but my internet ran out so im on dial up until tuesday
so no new shit for a while :(
 
#24
i gottza get some more art i left at school

a lot of my time will be spent making huge ass prints

like
12x16 big

thats fucking big

lotsa doodles

i really dont have any direction right now.
any suggestions

I NEED GUIDANCE
 
#25
god what is this, a triple post?


t shirt design im screen pringting

imagine enerything is at 100% opacity instead of 50%
i didnt have time to brush in the purple