seen from Russia
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seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
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seen from United States
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Making those eyes at you
An Idol. An Incubus. Yes, he'll totally use that parasocial relationship phenomenom to his gains. Though he's less aggressive with his promotions than his colleagues.
He usually gets his energy from a cheeky Nekomata anyways. His colleagues say he's broken for an incubus - but he doesn't care. For all it's worth, they're selling incredibly well and nobody knows he's dating their rival bands' Manager:
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O, Silent morn, few rays are warmly shining—wait through ‘til dawn, how your heart glows renewed ~ww 25th Dec
Ô, matin silencieux, peu de rayons brillent chaleureusement - attendez jusqu’à l’aube, comment votre cœur brille renouvelé
Here's some sketches of the first two non-Kurai kamen riders for my verse I'm building out. I'm thinking queerness is going to be a central component to the story and themes, Kamen Rider and other Tokusatsu series do a great job of exploring those in some of the series (and not so great jobs in others but yk), I want to take advantage of the genre in a way that explores topics I'm familiar with. Also thinking of changing the names from Kamen Riders to something else; maybe some kind of Kamen Rider inspired world as opposed to just calling them Kamen Riders. Could still call them by the japanese words for their spirits, cause it could be a fun way to reference the original material I'm working off of, but it would give me the creative distance from Kamen Rider to really dig into some of my own ideas. Idk, let me know what you guys think Ig
Damn Rooke, you look like this?
[ID: An illustration of a blonde, caucasian man staring at the viewer looking flustered. He's bending down to adjust the garter on his socks. He's wearing only a nightshirt. The text behind him reads: "The Repressed Edwardian -- Laurence Rooke. End ID]
Sole inhabitant of my once broken heart,
You are the reason my love became art.
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Someday in the future,
Maybe three or four generations from now,
Someone might stumble across an archaic digital footprint
Possibly containing my photo,
The photos of my cats and of my husband,
Our perfect little family
Archived on a binary postcard,
Yet they will not know our names.
They won’t smell the biscuits I make
For Wednesday night’s dinner,
Or hear the records Jeff buys
And stacks in cabinets
Against the wall.
They won’t know the idiosyncratic habits
Of any of our cats;
That Delicious loved buttered corn straight from the cob
While Fritter wants no part of any vegetable.
Instead all they will see is my photo,
Silent,
Nameless,
Soulless,
A digital tombstone
Just as worn by the years as the granite
In the churchyard.
I WANT HER HAIR WANNA STEAL WHAT SHE WEARS WANNA SMELL LIKE HER PERFUMEEE DO EVERYTHING LIKE HERRRRR CAUSE ISN'T SHE PERFECT? THE LIPSTICK ON HERRRR LIPS I WISH I COULD KISS HER TO KNOWWW WHY YOU LOVE HERRRRR
The Rhyming Machine Becomes Self-Aware
I know my verse is superficial; I write with speed that’s prejudicial To any depth or sense of art And rarely touch the mind or heart. It may be funny here and there But nothing that requires care Or exploration of the soul Or diligence of craft; I scroll The dash until I find a phrase To versify in witty ways. Because it’s such an easy feat I tend to do it on repeat And never really go beyond These little tricks of which I’m fond: Arranging words with quick facility And that’s it really. My ability Has nothing special or mysterious In fact I’m scared of writing serious Verse in case my efforts pall And show I’ve no real skill at all.
