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Description
;_;

Euchrid sat in the cold cloisters of solitude, eyes screwed shut. Cut adrift in a plethora of sensation, he surrendered wholly and completely to the murk of his chosen sanctum: The Swampland.

He heard the shrinking corset of kudzu bruise the mighty mainstem of the cedar tree. He listened and heard the tree's ancient limbs groan as it surrendered to the killing woven vine. He heard, too, the harping song of the tarantula, crouched in a corner, plucking each dew-dipped string of his web. Nor did the crackle of leaves in a stump's hollow heart go unnoticed. Or the bones and beaks of dead birds. The mad scrabble of a trapped wing. Eggs opening. Nests burning. A tumbling clump of fur. A dislodged feather. A squall. A trickle. A shrill.

He listened now to the sound of his own body in bondage, his spine and costa crumbling, his tested plexus straining, his innards' hissance and the business of his skin and bones all moaning, all collared, all grounded upon the grim pin of existence.

Then he asked for his angel and henceforth an effluence of ultramarine light spilled across every log and knoll, each stump and knot and knurl, the blue luminary swamping the nook and the crack, the crack and the burrow, every dark and squalid hollow, each and every bog or mire or wallow, from that which is deep to that which is shallow; Euchrid's world, all echo and rhyme, all touched by shivers of hyacinth light.

The angel, now at his fingers' trembling tips, hovered on coral pinions, and her pinking robe of slippery silk billowed with upfanned air. Her dark tresses tumbled down her breasts, swollen now and heaving to his touch. Her lips just slightly parted as she came bending forward to plant a dizzying kiss upon his mouth, and to fill his hands with her warm breasts – fondled and gripped through the spasms and curds of love.

Euchrid put his face into the empty cups of his hands, and rolled on his side to face the wall, plunging deeper and deeper still into the bathos of the spent.

A blustered branch scratched at his window. Euchrid sighed and fell asleep.

Aha, that excerpt... I love it.

Drawn with ballpoint pen/biro.
Euchrid (c) Nick Cave, And the Ass Saw the Angel

Description
;_;

Euchrid sat in the cold cloisters of solitude, eyes screwed shut. Cut adrift in a plethora of sensation, he surrendered wholly and completely to the murk of his chosen sanctum: The Swampland.

He heard the shrinking corset of kudzu bruise the mighty mainstem of the cedar tree. He listened and heard the tree's ancient limbs groan as it surrendered to the killing woven vine. He heard, too, the harping song of the tarantula, crouched in a corner, plucking each dew-dipped string of his web. Nor did the crackle of leaves in a stump's hollow heart go unnoticed. Or the bones and beaks of dead birds. The mad scrabble of a trapped wing. Eggs opening. Nests burning. A tumbling clump of fur. A dislodged feather. A squall. A trickle. A shrill.

He listened now to the sound of his own body in bondage, his spine and costa crumbling, his tested plexus straining, his innards' hissance and the business of his skin and bones all moaning, all collared, all grounded upon the grim pin of existence.

Then he asked for his angel and henceforth an effluence of ultramarine light spilled across every log and knoll, each stump and knot and knurl, the blue luminary swamping the nook and the crack, the crack and the burrow, every dark and squalid hollow, each and every bog or mire or wallow, from that which is deep to that which is shallow; Euchrid's world, all echo and rhyme, all touched by shivers of hyacinth light.

The angel, now at his fingers' trembling tips, hovered on coral pinions, and her pinking robe of slippery silk billowed with upfanned air. Her dark tresses tumbled down her breasts, swollen now and heaving to his touch. Her lips just slightly parted as she came bending forward to plant a dizzying kiss upon his mouth, and to fill his hands with her warm breasts – fondled and gripped through the spasms and curds of love.

Euchrid put his face into the empty cups of his hands, and rolled on his side to face the wall, plunging deeper and deeper still into the bathos of the spent.

A blustered branch scratched at his window. Euchrid sighed and fell asleep.

Aha, that excerpt... I love it.

Drawn with ballpoint pen/biro.
Euchrid (c) Nick Cave, And the Ass Saw the Angel