Sunflower Skins

December 8, 2013

Guam’s Bible Promises, pt. XXXV: The Exception that Breaks All the Rules

35-rulebreaker

“But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33)

Click here for Guam’s outtake!

Click here to read last week’s episode “La La La Can’t Hear You”!

December 1, 2013

Guam’s Bible Promises, pt. XXXIV: La La La Can’t Hear You

34_lalala“Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear.” (Isa. 59:1)

Click here for Guam’s outtake!

Click here to read last week’s episode “33”!

November 24, 2013

Guam’s Bible Promises, pt. XXXIII: Deep in Thought I (don’t) Forgive Everyone

33_deep_in_though

“… Yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies.” (Lam. 3:32)

Click here for Guam’s outtake!

Click here for last week’s episode!

November 17, 2013

Guam’s Bible Promises, pt. XXXII: You Shall Not Pass On

32_Shall_Not_Pass_On

“But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33)

Click here to see Guam’s outtake!

Click here for last week’s episode!

November 10, 2013

Guam’s Bible Promises, pt. XXXI: Heavenly Musings

31_heavenly_musings

“The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand forever.” (Isa. 40:8)

Click here for Guam’s outtake!

Click here for last week’s episode!

October 6, 2013

Guam’s Bible Promises, pt. XXVI: I Would Do Anything For Love (Even That)

26_Anything_For_Love

“Fear not… I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.” (Gen. 15:1)

Click here for our outtake!

Click here for last week’s episode!

April 23, 2013

Mrs. Spider

Filed under: art — Tags: , , , , — Sunflower Skins @ 2:13 am

Mrs.Spider

March 31, 2013

Guam’s Bible Promises, Pt. IV: Easter Rising

Bible_Promises_4

“I am the resurrection, and the Life: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead yet shall he live.” (John 11:25)

“And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.” (John 11:26)

I hope all our atheist pals are having a safe weekend not celebrating torture.

Click here for Pt. III!

November 29, 2010

Guam Talks to a Bee

Filed under: art — Tags: , , — Sunflower Skins @ 5:56 pm

July 27, 2010

Experiment 14: Mister Drunken Ramblings Again

Filed under: experiments, prose — Tags: , — Sunflower Skins @ 12:01 am

Fuck you, I’ll piss wherever I want, Mister Lawn. You could stand a little watering anyway.  Nobody kissing in the shadows, at least. ’Member that time ’bout couple weeks ago, got my pecker out ’n then there’s these two kids, high school maybe, staring at me like I’m the perv. She’d even missed a button on her blouse in all her scuffle-cuffuffle. Nope, nobody here. Ahh. Time to move on. I don’t mind these walks so much anymore, these late-night walks. It’s quiet and peaceful, and if I’m quiet too, no one’ll bother me. I can stumble down these streets like a ghost. Like the ghost who’s with me. At first I couldn’t even go on these walks, though I wanted to so bad. Wanted Miriam with me, like always. I just stayed at home without any thought of the future—of how I would continue my daily life, pay bills, buy groceries—basically function. And I heard her everywhere, god I heard her all the fucking time. She begged me to join her, to follow her outside—into the wild depths of our old dreams and memories, into the bliss of regressing. I could no longer do it alone; not without her, not without some kinda help. Outside, I began walking our familiar ways, winding among the streets, searching for her—hidden in any tree or bush, under any car or porch. The retail district was no better, for she appeared as every mannequin and postergirl. Downtown led me to the best place Miriam’s ghost could offer: a place to sit—and laugh—and enjoy memories rather than cry over them—to drink with others than to drink alone. I haven’t got close connections with hardly any of them, but they let me in on their games—me, the wise old timer, the one who can’t take a shower without a railing to grasp onto but who can still flip a switchblade dead centre with a pint of rum under his belt. Goddammit, don’t you think I know it, I’m pathetic? There’s the part that stumbles home, that drags the bad leg and sees all the ghosts—that tries to dance—stumbles—and there’s the part that staggers home ’shamed, also seeing all the ghosts—trying to ignore them, trying to drown them. But where can I go if I must leave my empty, lonely home? Amongst these grim and gloomy streets, where once we walked—happy? Happiness. O yes, I remember that. But fuck it tonight. I’ve swallowed more liquid happiness than emotion can sustain—and so I am numb. I stagger homeward—without you, my love. Tomorrow night I’ll walk the walk again, hoping to find you and the old way. That I miss so very much. Fuck, it’s cold out here.

October 12, 2008

Hulga’s Gift

Filed under: poetry — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Sunflower Skins @ 11:35 pm


Hulga the Angel descends in the dark.
Her stump leg scrapes the ground. She knows full well
Her presence brings no peace nor chastity.
Not here, not anymore. Because I am
Re-stitching this dress, pulling out the seam.
For each knot I tie, the tighter will be
My new skin, adjusted by the years
To fit over new curves, new bones, break new hearts.
Let down the hem, iron out the creases:
This chocolate silk dress is yours. I made it
For you. Time only makes my blood run cold
And memory gets richer with heat, with want.


Hulga points to a violin player.
She says, “Maybe this was the only man
You ever really loved. And even then
It was only your desire you loved.”
It is more than just her name that is ugly.
It is my shame, my lust, that in itself
Makes my identity, summer after
Summer. Put on my dress, cut by a bow.
Measure my life against the day we met.


There will always be death in this body.
Hold it close, embrace wounded memory.
Truth is embedded in divine flesh. Yours.
I will hear your music for my whole life
And I will remember your tenderness,
Part of me forever, like a stump leg.
If you see me haunting your dreams, or don’t,
Whether you can or cannot forget me;
I will wear this dress with everything
I ever wanted in you or in him.


Hulga points to a reveling sinner.
She says, “Maybe this was the only man
You ever really wanted. Even still
It was only yourself that you needed.”

September 26, 2008

Mon Petit Mort

Filed under: poetry — Tags: , , , , — Sunflower Skins @ 9:54 pm


Now into this life I see
The shape of you across my bed:
You are the Little Death of me.

The city spread out like the sea,
You reached to the wound in my head.
Now into this life I see.

Whate’er touch meant—my want—only
Love not your wife; choose me instead.
You are the Little Death of me.

Consume my heart entirely.
All words are for my Belovéd.
Now into this life I see.

Our bodies shake; we are set free
From the past. Shame and guilt are shed.
You are the Little Death of me.

A world apart from pain, we
Awaken ourselves from the Dead:
Now into this life I see
You are the Little Death of me.

September 22, 2008

Excerpt from “Re-Membering”

Filed under: prose — Tags: , , , , , , , — Sunflower Skins @ 12:42 am

Re-Membering

I cut out his heart first.

Then his eyes. The nape of his neck. His tongue.

After that I laid out all of my favourite parts, the ones I had loved best, formed them into a picture of what he used to look like. I kept changing the shape, making the heart centre and encircling it with the others, or twisting the useless, hanging veins into patterns like Rorschach inkblots or butterflies.

I broke his jaw so I could extract his teeth.

I skinned his fingertips and hung up the prints like stained glass.

And finally, I smashed in his skull so I would be able to see his brain. Hold it. Follow the folds of the frontal lobe and trace the contours of his cerebellum. Pull away the temporal lobe until I could pick out the amygdala and feel its hyperactive buzz. Find his mind in the mess of entrails that lay around me. I was knee-deep in blood and this is where I began my search.

He had asked me to do this to him. We loved each other more than life; we loved each other so much it transgressed into death. We wanted to know the dividing line. He asked me to find it.

Asked me to kill him.

For truth.

For soul.

Because in mortality we could never love each other enough.

[Order the full “Re-Membering” & “Acts of Omission” chapbook through www.myspace.com/sunflowerskins or sunflowerskins@gmail.com]

September 16, 2008

Excerpt from “Paradise Within”

July 29, 2008

Heat

Filed under: prose — Tags: , , , , , , , , — Sunflower Skins @ 5:07 pm

It is the summer of 1890, July. Paris is hot. Relief can be found in the wheat fields.

Lie my head back into the soft ground. Tall golden stalks surround me on either side. Van Gogh loved his absinthe so, his vision was yellow. My colored eyes, huge, flicker up to his face. I’m Sien, drowning myself in the river, I’m Theo, watching over with a brother’s care. I’m Kathy, walking through the beautiful light.

How could I have not known the wound was fatal? I put the revolver to my chest. And yet it took two days to die.

It is a common misconception that “Wheat Field with Crows” was Vincent Van Gogh’s final painting. “Daubigny’s Garden” is more likely, although he spent many of his last days gazing sublimely around Auvers. The painting that survives depicts a foreboding sky with black clouds rolling in and a flock of crows flying over the field. They are held to be the symbol that Van Gogh knew he was about to die and some critics claim that he killed himself while painting it. Three paths of indecision weave their way through the wheat.

The canvas stands before me naked and pale like a beautiful woman. Masturbate in front of me. I began to use oil paints eight years ago. Now I dip the fine hairs of the brush into a glob and paint a long, dark sky threatening the hardest rain to ever hit the fields of Auvers. The yellow and amber wheat is shining like patches in the sun. And the black rooks fly off into the horizon: leave death in their wake, or go forward towards it,

Three paths. Choose.

I take the brush and paint a long, dark line down from my collar bone to the curve of my left hip, stroking, just barely, my pelvic bone. Desire. The oil lies on top of my skin in thin layers and it will not dry for a long time. Not while you’re here. You are not here, Vincent. Desire is a dream with your face, he says, desire was a dream.

“La tristesse durera toujours.”

It is the summer of 1890, July. Paris is hot. Relief can be found in the wheat fields. My eyes, huge, flicker up to my reflection in the glass. This is not my final painting. No one knows but see it in my own face, speak last words but I’m painting, painting. The black crows are flying, flying away–

Choose.

July 28, 2008

A Moral Duty

Filed under: poetry — Tags: , , , , — Sunflower Skins @ 11:33 pm

I.

No one knows anymore for whom to pray;
Or to, or why, or give me reason, how
To accept what you’re fighting against now
Because it’s any time, it’s any day:
Stitch shards of shrapnel away and allow
War to not be mine. But to me you say,
I am chosen, I will be there someday;
And gently I wipe the blood from your brow.

Challenge to my heart, turn my peaceful mind,
Watch gas holding your throat in yellow choke,
Wonder, is this really how truth comes through?
You say, a soldier knows his way though blind.
But if you go up in a cloud of smoke,
Would the president change it all for you?

II.

I placed faith in peaceful measure until
I met the Military Man one night,
With a smile so charming he just might
Bring Afghanistan to a sharp standstill.
He and I battled, though on the same side;
He through the army and I by my words,
To find our own peace; so scatter the birds
As the blast carves in the greatest divide.

It occurred to me that you’re going to die,
Your dog tags broken, mouth set to swallow;
You will be happy, serv’d your country well.
Next to a land mine your body will lie,
And grief will come, though no peace will follow.
And if all is in vain, no one can tell.

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