#bonedog

[gabbagebin]

Zobbe Sketch Page

I want to kith,,, [unpaid promo] Check out Spectrum of Hybrids! The itch.io page

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[bluesucanuse]

BLUES: SONGS OF THE DAY

THE ARTIST IS: BONEDOG

THE SONG IS: "I NEED SOME TIME ALONE"

GONE FISHING

[alvallah]

BONEDOG | by Eva H.D.

Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home.

You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful.

And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn.

You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of…

Anyway…

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time…

Well… Anyway… You’re back.

The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness.

You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.

[lizyork8509]

Nettle & Bone by T. Kingfisher

What a dark little fairy tale complete with fairy godmothers, witches, an ex-knight & a runaway princess/nun trying to save her sister. Loved it! But even a fairy tale and be dark & horrifying - and this one had it’s moments!

The romance between the knight & the princess was what got to me (and sweet Bonedog - a living skeleton dog). I also loved the devotion the princes had for her sister. The dust-wife witch was badass with her demon chicken while the sweet godmother was a fluffy treat.

As with every book I’ve read lately, Adam Driver is usually cast in my film version as I read. Here he plays the knight to our heroine. Florence Pugh is our brave princess. Cate Blanchett is the gruff, mysterious dust-wife. But I couldn’t decide on the fluffy godmother - Miriam Margolyes perhaps?

Anyway, I loved this story - had to buy my own copy immediately.

[mxalmighty]

Look who's back!?

[gloomyhippy]

One of my favorite poems

Bonedog

a poem by Eva H.D.

Coming home is terrible

whether the dogs lick your face or not;

whether you have a wife

or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.

Coming home is terribly lonely,

so that you think

of the oppressive barometric pressure

back where you have just come from

with fondness,

because everything’s worse

once you’re home.

You think of the vermin

clinging to the grass stalks,

long hours on the road,

roadside assistance and ice creams,

and the peculiar shapes of

certain clouds and silences

with longing because you did not want to return.

Coming home is

just awful.

And the home-style silences and clouds

contribute to nothing

but the general malaise.

Clouds, such as they are,

are in fact suspect,

and made from a different material

than those you left behind.

You yourself were cut

from a different cloudy cloth,

returned,

remaindered,

ill-met by moonlight,

unhappy to be back,

slack in all the wrong spots,

seamy suit of clothes

dishrag-ratty, worn.

You return home

moon-landed, foreign;

the Earth’s gravitational pull

an effort now redoubled,

dragging your shoelaces loose

and your shoulders

etching deeper the stanza

of worry on your forehead.

You return home deepened,

a parched well linked to tomorrow

by a frail strand of…

Anyway…

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days.

One might as well, at a time…

Well…

Anyway…

You’re back.

The sun goes up and down

like a tired whore,

the weather immobile

like a broken limb

while you just keep getting older.

Nothing moves but

the shifting tides of salt in your body.

Your vision blears.

You carry your weather with you,

the big blue whale,

a skeletal darkness.

You come back

with X-ray vision.

Your eyes have become a hunger.

You come home with your mutant gifts

to a house of bone.

Everything you see now,

all of it: bone.

[misscromwellsmonocle]

Bonedog

Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of… Anyway… You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time… Well… Anyway… You’re back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone. Eva H.D.

[askbonedog]

rip the previous iteration of this place- same pup, same dumbass behind the screen- not sure if this will become a story blog / ask blog again or just be a place to store/upload bonedog and universe stuff, but here we are.

[artgalleryghost]

[fktztuxn6x9]

VirtualRealPorn-At the Changing Room Newly married indian couple on honeymoon sex video linked Ebony milf playing with dildo Hot ass teen leggins gray self spanking by wood paddle Magdalena, Hot Blonde Deutsche Latina Milf privater double anal gangbang mit sandwich Busty blonde Kelli poses outdoors Alana Evans and Sienna Day scissor Until They Cum Metendo na buceta da minha esposa safada

[ewclipsenn]

Volver a casa.

Volver a casa es horrible, ya sea que los perros te laman la cara o no. Ya sea que tengas una esposa o una soledad en forma de esposa esperando por ti. Llegar a casa es terriblemente solitario, tanto así que añoras con ternura aquella opresiva presión barométrica de donde acabas de volver, porque todo es peor una vez que estás en casa. Piensas, con nostalgia, en las alimañas que se aferran a los tallos de la hierba, las largas horas de camino, la asistencia en carretera, los helados y las formas peculiares de ciertas nubes y silencios, porque no querías volver. Regresar a casa es espantoso. Y los silencios domésticos y sus nubes hogareñas no contribuyen en nada más que a todo el malestar. Miras con sospecha las nubes como son, hechas de una materia distinta de aquellas que dejaste atrás. Tú mismo estás cortado de una tela diferente, turbia. Devuelto, repudiado, mal recibido por la luz de luna, infeliz de regresar, holgado en todos los puntos equivocados, como un traje lleno de costuras, un trapo andrajoso de cocina, usado. Llegas a casa como a otro planeta, ajeno. El tirón gravitacional de la Tierra, un esfuerzo ahora redoblado, suelta los cordones de tus zapatos y hace que arrastres los hombros, grabando aún más profunda la estrofa de la angustia en tu frente. Vuelves a casa hundido, como un pozo sin agua ligado al mañana por una frágil hebra de “qué más da”. Suspiras frente a la avalancha de días idénticos, bien podrían ser uno solo, y uno a la vez. Bueno, qué más da, volviste. El sol sube y baja como una puta cansada, el clima inmóvil como un miembro roto mientras envejeces. Todo permanece inmóvil, menos las mareas cambiantes de sal en tu cuerpo. Tu visión se nubla, llevas encima tu clima contigo; una gran ballena azul, una oscuridad hecha esqueleto. Vuelves a casa con visión de rayos X, tus ojos convertidos en hambre. Y así, regresas con tus dones mutantes a una casa de hueso. Todo lo que ves ahora, todo, es hueso.

-Bonedog.

[bluesucanuse]

BLUES: SONGS OF THE DAY

THE ARTIST IS: BONEDOG

THE SONG IS: "MONEY"

BLAME THE CAT

[where-the-cicadas-sing]

“Coming home is terribly lonely.”

[rollymolly]

You come back with x-ray vision,

Your eyes have become a hunger.

You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone.

Everything you see now, all of it,

Bone.

[mxalmighty]

Figured I should post these somewhere other than AF and DA, since one's only open for a month and the other's becoming more and more disused by the day for me; Carcino, Bonedog, Sky, Matteo and ERROR, my chosen five for this year's ArtFight lineup; see the rest here!

[medtech-mara]

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