Copunicus.

Hey guys, check out and and support our great new graphic novel series, Desdemona! Awesome pledges for everyone, help support independent comic books! Thank you :) Please reblog and spread the word!

please check it out, and reblog to help spread the word :) thank you so much :)

New bicycle: Gazelle Formula Race 501 with Campagnalo, Cinelli, Vuelta and Shimano 105.

Do you dare to experience the most horrific tale man has ever known? Of treachery, persuasion and desire – of all those things we strive to understand? I thought as much, friend. Curiosity is your key, after all. Do you see this totem? This totem swinging from my finger? Whoever is paired with this totem will experience an endless nightmare. Yes – this totem carries an energy. Their body will be governed by ungodly means, and they will be spectator to their own obliteration. They will struggle; each of them does – but struggle will only seal them tighter. Do you see this totem, swinging before your eyes? Do you see the totem swing and how it matches your heartbeat? Whether this totem shifts to match your heart, or your heart to meet this totem – it doesn't matter. The swinging totem matches the beat of your heart. The totem is your heartbeat. You swing when it swings and stop when it stops. Do you see the totem skip? It skips at the edge of its swing. So I can catch it. And when I catch this totem, the heart of whoever is paired with it will be in my hand, and I will govern their life. Do you feel the totem beating? Good – we can begin.

“A curse upon my tuneful tongue!” Sang Benny one day, to the other mice – He couldn't help but move his lungs In ways that made his words sound nice. “It suits elation – but what of sorrow?” Then, whose voice would Benny borrow? “For all is well, when I feel swell And am compelled to serenade – But when these fears, that dwell Within, emerge? I cannot persuade My voice-box – it is so stubborn – Even though it's mine to govern! “What I would give, to live just like The other mice – not speak in tune – And rid my life of the endless mic Which binds me to this lonely dune.” Young Benny was stranded, in foggiest thought – These songs were a flight that he must abort. “I am the special guest, at party times – Yes, then my plight is further celebration. But in all other climes, they hate my rhymes,” He wrote in the box: Reasons for Operation. “If only happiness could stand, with constancy, Perhaps I wouldn't be pushed to this degree. “When I'm like them, maybe they will Call and hang out – how great that will be – My empty lungs, for the first time, will be filled With the comforts of a real company!” Sang Benny, before the doctors severed the root – So often, a mice is blind, but Benny was mute.

yes - or ‘handled’, more like, i’ve done nothing with it since the summer. it’s taking leave but it’s not forgotten, and i have a big supply of wing pix just waiting to be envisioned. best to follow and keep an eye, the second wave is nearing ;) or should i say - wingster is coming.

Philip Pullman comes to class

ever felt that impish urge? that urge to splurge whatever dirt is chewing on your nerves? rumbling from within, like some conceited cauldron? perhaps, it would be wisest not to drop your guard and say it -  there are some who like to bubble, deferent in blindness from a dislocated perch, caught in cold conferrence with uneasy reason - is it best to exhume this threat or live in a stable, but hollow, health? often, what you utter will not stand you in good stead, but whispers in your head are cunning, and they coax quiet compulsion - there are those who'd take the happy lie above sad truth - but then again, seems like knowledge trumps a shrugging guise, and silence would be torture when i see the truth beyond her eyes.

Consumed by gloom, a man returned and placed his keys upon the table – followed by a hat, and scarf, and some gloves he had grown to love. Then his shoes, his pantaloons, which in the blitz had been reduced to rags and kicks – he placed them all upon the table. Then the death encountered before return. The screams, which seemed unreal but no – they were concrete upon the table. Then, he placed his shattered dreams, great shards of which stuck from the sagging table. Then his fears which, through the years, had amounted to a great degree, weighted even more by death he saw, before return. Through his window, he pulled clouds of grey and black and stacked them – rather on the table than upon his sagging back. All was piled – what a mess! – like the stress within his head, all upon the table. Then the faces of the men, who'd helped him from the steaming wreck, who checked his life was pulsing and who wrapped him in their warmth – they were piled, too, upon the table. Then the hatred, brimming in the crowds who'd gathered around him; all was swept within a shawl, and he dragged it all upon the table – too heavy for a single hand, it required all his strength. He placed there innocence, guilt as well, he placed there shame – and denial too – until he thought, for sure, the table legs would bow and break. My, what a sensational table! Like Atlas in its practice – now and then a wobble, even a splinter or a creak, but in the end it proved that he was who was truly weak.

Plight of the yeti is marred by a cruelty most abominable - They do not understand you woolly man, who hides in hills.

The twelfth chime resonates – a sign that night is thickest, now – but we cannot adopt a doze when bewitched by endless books, by bar-charts and barometers – we are trolls in the library depths, barnacled with ailed academia. Daylight now the time for slumber, whilst Midnight's become the other – prime time for productive spurts, wired by nitrous squirts – combustion in a caffeine form that spurns already burnt out brains. An infinite mist of missed information – we stumble through the grog and are not graced by Midnight's peal – no matter how tired we feel, looming work will reel us in and seal our cold tomb, tighter. Sparrows once tuned our wake but now they sleep, and only bats can keep our company in this dirge of this darkest degree – a madness merging in the kind of surge that leaves our sleep behind. But ventures in nocturnal spheres advance perception through dim light – clearer now, than day, is blackened fabric of the dank Midnight.

'There was one snake no animal will ever forget – a baby boa constrictor, who sat one night with his dear friend Jim, a preoccupied stork who was unable to recognize his companion's bout of hungry seizures, which started with a gale of spasms and would not be deterred. 'Not much can cause a heaving herd of critters like a hungry snake – one could get consumed, if you didn't stay around its tail – “Careful!' cried a panicked sloth, “dear Lord, good stork, he's right behind you – about to follow through – get out while you're still able!” 'But then, the boa began to set his table, selecting from the crowd the best of bites, for he heard it was what snakes do. A total roundabout of reason spiralled through his mind – “Get thyself a feast, of pigs and cows and deer – cease your fast but start slow – what about some quail?” 'Cries rang out, of good nature's betrayal – “This is the end of every snake-related fable,” mourned a sheep, whose mother dear became a tasty morsel. Still alive inside, she heard the bleating of her son's soul. “Goodbye, son, and get away!” she cried from the snake, as he eddied about. 'The cottage was ruined by late-blooming bout – and most of those running were destined to fail – but hunger is a harrowing game and can beget all sorts of complications. Too much on the table leads to serious indigestion. But sense was not preferred – who could blame him with a buffet stocked so dear? 'He then engorged what he thought, at the time, was a deer – but it was a moose, whose head was out of sight about the time it was consumed – first, the boa was undeterred, but then his belly stirred and he realised his new ail. And it was in this interlude, that others were able to avoid becoming food for the snake they would never forget. 'So listen, my worms, as you ready to leave – don't ever get greedy or neglect the bout your uncle faced; his belly wasn't stable, he had deferred the antlers, which stuck out like masts with no sail.'

does writing make you happy? does happiness make you right?

uprise bubbles - latent still - beneath controlling states who rule with a blatant hate - they no longer control us - reassuring of their crimes with a demeanour, so demure, dangling a deceitful lure before the warm and naive -  they implore imbalance with a bureaucratic malice - passing oath on fantasies which blanket callous fallacies -  who can stop this travesty when they control the world? question all the lessons taught by diplomat depravity, propaganda gaining force through economic gravity - unheard voices swilled in mouths that bear a sharpened grin, then spat at the bottom of a barrel topped by an oily scum.

we smother this planet with docile decay, flesh fused to fossil in frantic array, muscles colossal, in clamorous fray, as life is defined in the most meagre way – delusions of brightness just layer the grey, this predestined quest, resistant to sway – pallid apostles of endless delay, we wander as artefacts, numb to the day – impossible now for us, not to obey the repetitive strands of this cyclic soiree, from tepid tradition, we can't break away! shackled in stone by a dull dna.

one shouldn't suffer forced concealment, one shouldn't have to hide within themselves, and coming out implies a danger that previously demanded shelter - stricken in the dark, fearful of exposure, struggling to reveal something so pure that many, it seems, cannot yet stomach its essence - how do we intend to lend our hands in worldly matters when obselete malice is sparked from a boy who isn't into girls? how can countries built by declarations of independent thinkers - thinkers who didn't erode their senses with bigotry - deem some to a less fruitful existence, thanks to unfathomed facts upheld by bribing bureaucrats? do not take their money if they are less human than yourself! we shall no longer define these divisions as wrong, when other sciences celebrate each new partition of man - we remedy archaic stance with waves of repulsion that are hard to stain remove, and hindsight - that mighty bitch - waves the sullied shawl across our face and our stumble succeeds the collapse of each, and every, wangled epoch -  eradicate these slums for sexuality - evolve as the other apes did - recognise that life runs deeper than some cunning constructs of chromosonic concept - We Are No Longer On The Straight And Narrow - another path cannot be wrong, if here we find ourselves - blood runs red, whatever its direction, and through us it will flow and forever find its way to unbiased hearts.