he carved many sculptures in his day. sculptures are truly ugly creations. their framework exposed, beauty is far from a reality. however, with careful attention of the artist, detail is carved into the structure and it thus becomes a sculpture.
orange, red, brown. and the grooves: long and narrow. just wide enough for water to slip through them and hang off the roof like limp fingers. these were the tiles my father went to buy, his keys dangling on their chain off his ring finger; these were the tiles he died for.
we never put them up. i wonder if this is kindness or cruelty.
It’s right there. Everytime I pass it I have to touch it, in some way. One day it’s a brush of the shoulder. A brush of the hand. Sometimes, when I have the time, I’ll just lean against it, without worrying what others think. It doesn’t really matter, does it? It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, all that matters is the small heart carved into the tree, our initials with a + sign between them, reminding me forever of you, the only thing you left with me on this earth, you bastard.
Her art projects thrown in a heap under the entertainment center would never be admired, even less now with the blanket of dust over them. So along her walks, she etched into every tree she passed, in the hopes that some passerby would take notice.
orange, red, brown. and the grooves: long and narrow. just wide enough for water to slip through them and hang off the roof like limp fingers. these were the tiles my father drove to buy; these were the tiles he died for. we never put them up.
ned came out onto the porch and sat down on the top step. barry watched him while still trying to keep an eye on his carving. ned place his head in his hands and was silent for several minutes before asking “what are you making?”
“nesting dolls,” barry said, “for my niece for christmas.”
“christmas is a long ways away,” said ned.
“it’s gonna take a long time to get these finished. i have to make five of these at exactly the right size so that they fit one into the other perfectly. and i’m only on the first one.”
“i’m sure they’ll look pretty when their done.” ned glanced around, met barry’s eyes and turned back. “is that chicken i smell?” he said.
barry remembered the chicken leg he’d brought out for a snack and had left, wrapped in a paper towel, on the railing. he set down his knife and block of wood and unwrapped it. he gave a start and jumped up, crying, “aw, yellowjackets!”
a pair of hornets had found their way inside and now were gnawing at the meat.
“hold on, i’ll get it,” ned said and gently picked up the chicken leg. He wrapped it back up, palmed it, making sure the hornets didn’t escape, and tossed it several yards to the base of a peach tree. immediately, jenny-lee shot out from under the porch to retrieve it, but, discovering it was food and not a ball, she began to devour it instead.
“stupid old dog,” ned said, “gonna get a mouthful of bees.”
barry chuckled and sat down and resumed his wood carving.
a horsefly hit the bugzapper and died leaving a spray of blue sparks as its ghost.
“whoah! zap!” ned said and grinned widely.
Barry stared laughing a breathless old man laugh before wincing and dropping the wood block and knife. he cupped his hand and swore.
“what,” ned said.
“i cut my palm,” he replied and show the long red gash across his hand.
“you want me to–”
“no, i’m all right. you stay here, i just gotta get it cleaned up.”
barry retreated inside the house and, spontaneously, before even leaving ned’s line of sight, he began laughing again, uncontrollably.
If I could carve disappointment from the air, it would be in the shape of my emotions. It would be a miniature version of myself. I’m not all disappointment but I’m getting there if I don’t shape up and appreciate.
I admire the red that surrounds me as a shape appears across your chest.
The elegance of it’s flow is breathtaking and I must stand back and gaze at it a moment as I smile.
My work is so pretty, and now, though I have taken the one that was in you, you wear a deep red heart.
And into your flesh, my mark I have carved.
Her figure was a perfectly carved sculpture like those your see in museums. She had curves, but not oversized, obese curves, just womanly curves. She had a delicate face, beautiful icy eyes and a petite nose. She was carved like a doll.
I just did this. Carve, like carving pumpkins, you used to call me punkin. I was your punkin and I loved that nick name because you were so punk. Now I use that nick name on someone I actually love.
Carve out my niche — find my place in the world.
It’s by your side.
Just dig in, push out the obstacles, let my roots grow…
I am the tree of our future,
the organic expression of our love.
carve. carve your name in a tree, in a heart. Deep and true; it imprints the soul deep in to the world. carve. carve a life of molten flesh. carve lives from trees and set them a fire. carve love from the heart and set it a fire.
She carved a deep furrow in the mans torso. He backpeddled screaming, she persued. The dingy alley made his screams and her cries of fury echo. Finally he slowed, and she sprang forward, knife leading.
Blood poured down around her hand.
pumpkins are like hearts
easy to pierce with knives
and other things
[unnamed].
make me a face
but carve gently
like you do at halloween
crafting your curious art.
you are a witch.
When I was a kid, me and my brother had a set of bunkbeds in our room. When he got too old to share a room with a girl, I had the bunkbeds to myself. An ill-advised birthday gift of a swiss army knife meant I cut the hell out of the bed. M
I carved a name into a tree and then we went home and carved pumpkins. sometimes you carve things into your skin that you don’t want to forget. there are things carved into my memory, similarly. knives carve.
I can cut her body so perfectly, like life with a backround so bright, it hurts. When will she fall out of that shape and realize that metaphysical justice will prevail?
I wish I could carve my thoughts into the membrane of my brain. Fossilize moments in time. Brand ideas into my inner skull. Make it so that I don’t forget what’s important. Make it so that I don’t forget who I am.
Cavemen used to carve in caves. They must have been pretty smart since they drew pictures about hunting and their lives. Carving into stone must have been very hard.
I don’t need to think about this. It comes naturally – the deep grooves of the wood, the scent of smoke and metal as I carve the long, slender bow of wood. It’s a familiar habit, one that I had abandoned long ago for the city life. Now that I’m back, I’m back for good. It’s so quiet, compared to the city hubbub – but I love it all the same.
into my soul. and take out all the gutty nasty bits so that i am clean and new and alive and rejuvinated once more. you’ll be my salvation, hacking out the bits i can live well without. and im oh so grateful, thankful, for your adoration. i love you more than the world.
to sculpt and create something. to bring something that wasn’t there before alive. some people know what they want and can do it correctly. others just go as they please. i don’t carve much. people can carve their ways into your lives. it could be a metaphor. carving. verb.
it was a pretty little thing
a broach carved in ivory
i bought it for her ‘cos it reminded me
of her skittish nature
she was like the little cat o the broach
carvings on the tree, shredded like paper sleeves. you and I remain, beyond forever the tear in the wood cuts beneath and the peeled bark bleeds from the strength of our love.
I largley carved out the letters S O S into the sand, far enough into the island, so that the tide wouldn’t catch it. I waited. I waited for hours. Finally i heard a jet overhead. Someone would save me. I had hope.
Carve is something you to do a turkey at thanksgiving which is a holiday in which we celebrate the massacre of indigenous peoples by those that arrived in America from Europe.
she carves the letters into her delicate skin, tracing the edges of the knife along the blood trail as it weeps out but there are no tears in her eyes warding off the pain echoed in her heart.
The shavings fell about her slender hands, pushing, sanding, scraping the wood-dust and chips out of the block, slowly forming a work of art unique to herself and to the moment she was in; truly, this was the physical representation of the beauty of time.
She carved into her body, arching her back, loving her, touching her, caressing her. Skin slapping against skin, she moulded herself to fit into the curves of her lover, as the other did the same for her.
he carved many sculptures in his day. sculptures are truly ugly creations. their framework exposed, beauty is far from a reality. however, with careful attention of the artist, detail is carved into the structure and it thus becomes a sculpture.
orange, red, brown. and the grooves: long and narrow. just wide enough for water to slip through them and hang off the roof like limp fingers. these were the tiles my father went to buy, his keys dangling on their chain off his ring finger; these were the tiles he died for.
we never put them up. i wonder if this is kindness or cruelty.
It’s right there. Everytime I pass it I have to touch it, in some way. One day it’s a brush of the shoulder. A brush of the hand. Sometimes, when I have the time, I’ll just lean against it, without worrying what others think. It doesn’t really matter, does it? It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, all that matters is the small heart carved into the tree, our initials with a + sign between them, reminding me forever of you, the only thing you left with me on this earth, you bastard.
The slow drumming of hammer to chisel to birch listens to me more than my family.
Her art projects thrown in a heap under the entertainment center would never be admired, even less now with the blanket of dust over them. So along her walks, she etched into every tree she passed, in the hopes that some passerby would take notice.
orange, red, brown. and the grooves: long and narrow. just wide enough for water to slip through them and hang off the roof like limp fingers. these were the tiles my father drove to buy; these were the tiles he died for. we never put them up.
ned came out onto the porch and sat down on the top step. barry watched him while still trying to keep an eye on his carving. ned place his head in his hands and was silent for several minutes before asking “what are you making?”
“nesting dolls,” barry said, “for my niece for christmas.”
“christmas is a long ways away,” said ned.
“it’s gonna take a long time to get these finished. i have to make five of these at exactly the right size so that they fit one into the other perfectly. and i’m only on the first one.”
“i’m sure they’ll look pretty when their done.” ned glanced around, met barry’s eyes and turned back. “is that chicken i smell?” he said.
barry remembered the chicken leg he’d brought out for a snack and had left, wrapped in a paper towel, on the railing. he set down his knife and block of wood and unwrapped it. he gave a start and jumped up, crying, “aw, yellowjackets!”
a pair of hornets had found their way inside and now were gnawing at the meat.
“hold on, i’ll get it,” ned said and gently picked up the chicken leg. He wrapped it back up, palmed it, making sure the hornets didn’t escape, and tossed it several yards to the base of a peach tree. immediately, jenny-lee shot out from under the porch to retrieve it, but, discovering it was food and not a ball, she began to devour it instead.
“stupid old dog,” ned said, “gonna get a mouthful of bees.”
barry chuckled and sat down and resumed his wood carving.
a horsefly hit the bugzapper and died leaving a spray of blue sparks as its ghost.
“whoah! zap!” ned said and grinned widely.
Barry stared laughing a breathless old man laugh before wincing and dropping the wood block and knife. he cupped his hand and swore.
“what,” ned said.
“i cut my palm,” he replied and show the long red gash across his hand.
“you want me to–”
“no, i’m all right. you stay here, i just gotta get it cleaned up.”
barry retreated inside the house and, spontaneously, before even leaving ned’s line of sight, he began laughing again, uncontrollably.
pumpkin
If I could carve disappointment from the air, it would be in the shape of my emotions. It would be a miniature version of myself. I’m not all disappointment but I’m getting there if I don’t shape up and appreciate.
I admire the red that surrounds me as a shape appears across your chest.
The elegance of it’s flow is breathtaking and I must stand back and gaze at it a moment as I smile.
My work is so pretty, and now, though I have taken the one that was in you, you wear a deep red heart.
And into your flesh, my mark I have carved.
Her figure was a perfectly carved sculpture like those your see in museums. She had curves, but not oversized, obese curves, just womanly curves. She had a delicate face, beautiful icy eyes and a petite nose. She was carved like a doll.
I just did this. Carve, like carving pumpkins, you used to call me punkin. I was your punkin and I loved that nick name because you were so punk. Now I use that nick name on someone I actually love.
pumpkins. wood. creations. snowboarding. skiing. cut. knife. edge.
Carve out my niche — find my place in the world.
It’s by your side.
Just dig in, push out the obstacles, let my roots grow…
I am the tree of our future,
the organic expression of our love.
True, love.
carve. carve your name in a tree, in a heart. Deep and true; it imprints the soul deep in to the world. carve. carve a life of molten flesh. carve lives from trees and set them a fire. carve love from the heart and set it a fire.
I once tried to carve my inatiles in to a tree like in the movies.. it didn’t work out.
She carved a deep furrow in the mans torso. He backpeddled screaming, she persued. The dingy alley made his screams and her cries of fury echo. Finally he slowed, and she sprang forward, knife leading.
Blood poured down around her hand.
listening at the window I stood terrified at the thought of the entrails on the floor I knew he couldn’t control himself I was so afraid
pumpkins are like hearts
easy to pierce with knives
and other things
[unnamed].
make me a face
but carve gently
like you do at halloween
crafting your curious art.
you are a witch.
When I was a kid, me and my brother had a set of bunkbeds in our room. When he got too old to share a room with a girl, I had the bunkbeds to myself. An ill-advised birthday gift of a swiss army knife meant I cut the hell out of the bed. M
I carved a name into a tree and then we went home and carved pumpkins. sometimes you carve things into your skin that you don’t want to forget. there are things carved into my memory, similarly. knives carve.
I can cut her body so perfectly, like life with a backround so bright, it hurts. When will she fall out of that shape and realize that metaphysical justice will prevail?
I wish I could carve my thoughts into the membrane of my brain. Fossilize moments in time. Brand ideas into my inner skull. Make it so that I don’t forget what’s important. Make it so that I don’t forget who I am.
Carving a bear out of ice would be awesome to do as a vacation idea in iceland!!! So would smoking there (pot).
Cavemen used to carve in caves. They must have been pretty smart since they drew pictures about hunting and their lives. Carving into stone must have been very hard.
I don’t need to think about this. It comes naturally – the deep grooves of the wood, the scent of smoke and metal as I carve the long, slender bow of wood. It’s a familiar habit, one that I had abandoned long ago for the city life. Now that I’m back, I’m back for good. It’s so quiet, compared to the city hubbub – but I love it all the same.
into my soul. and take out all the gutty nasty bits so that i am clean and new and alive and rejuvinated once more. you’ll be my salvation, hacking out the bits i can live well without. and im oh so grateful, thankful, for your adoration. i love you more than the world.
to sculpt and create something. to bring something that wasn’t there before alive. some people know what they want and can do it correctly. others just go as they please. i don’t carve much. people can carve their ways into your lives. it could be a metaphor. carving. verb.
Carved in my memory is your face,
A glance stolen,
turned into a kiss.
It ended in trajedy,
but you are still carved.
it was a pretty little thing
a broach carved in ivory
i bought it for her ‘cos it reminded me
of her skittish nature
she was like the little cat o the broach
I carved my initials into the barren wood. I admired the living curves as they emerged beneath my knife.
carvings on the tree, shredded like paper sleeves. you and I remain, beyond forever the tear in the wood cuts beneath and the peeled bark bleeds from the strength of our love.
I largley carved out the letters S O S into the sand, far enough into the island, so that the tide wouldn’t catch it. I waited. I waited for hours. Finally i heard a jet overhead. Someone would save me. I had hope.
He looked at the blade in his hand and considered the repercussions. He could do this and satisfy that insatiable need or stop. Simply stop.
into my skin
a name of love past
etch into a tree names of our dreams
together forever
dont forget me
an everlasting scar
carve wood murder face beaver homicidal turkey food puppets carver peanut butter crave widdle southern ly
Carve is something you to do a turkey at thanksgiving which is a holiday in which we celebrate the massacre of indigenous peoples by those that arrived in America from Europe.
she carves the letters into her delicate skin, tracing the edges of the knife along the blood trail as it weeps out but there are no tears in her eyes warding off the pain echoed in her heart.
The shavings fell about her slender hands, pushing, sanding, scraping the wood-dust and chips out of the block, slowly forming a work of art unique to herself and to the moment she was in; truly, this was the physical representation of the beauty of time.
She carved into her body, arching her back, loving her, touching her, caressing her. Skin slapping against skin, she moulded herself to fit into the curves of her lover, as the other did the same for her.