Some More Old Art I Found Going Through My Sketchbooks

Some More Old Art I Found Going Through My Sketchbooks

some more old art i found going through my sketchbooks

More Posts from Rumograph and Others

4 weeks ago

Soap (Dexter Fletcher) in Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998, dir. Guy Ritchie)


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2 weeks ago

new phone !!!! i can now do many many cool new things (start doing digital art again)

having the worst day today. tilted my phone the wrong way and the whole screen just. came off ! so tape is the only thing keeping my phone from falling to pieces at the moment. i am definitely fine with this and not upset about this


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4 months ago
People don't understand what I mean when I say that I've died a million times. I'm in a train and in each carriage is a dead child. They are dragged off the train, one by one, and I can do nothing but watch. It's hard to tell a dead child from a living one sometimes. I get off at Camden and think about what casket they'll sleep in tonight. 

When I get out of the train station, my mind is full of nothing but the dead. I think about the suicide pacts I made with my ex. I call her on the phone, say it's been a year since I last touched a blade. I spend the next morning prying the blood out of my fingernails. I revise the ways I'll die over and over. Three bullets in my throat, one for each child I missed. I light another cigarette. 

I stumble through the market like I can't see two steps in front of me - in many ways, I can't. I spend too long looking at the wrong things, trailing my hands across the painting of Bowie, buying orange juice instead of the record I want, walking across the rainbow crossings over and over; there is a dead child in me and London makes him sick. His body hangs limp in every window I pass; you learn to deal with it, eventually.
Every twelve steps you take are someone's last. I stay at the Lockside until I'm gagging on my words and I can't feel the rain on my back. I taste it on every breath; I am dead in ways people don't understand and I will die in ways they wish they couldn't. Outside there are bodies floating in the river and only the ones already standing with one leg over see them. I stay inside for another hour or two.   

On the way home, all I can hear is screaming. I've always hated the underground. The screeching dies before it can reach me and all that hits me is the sobbing behind it. The underground is a burial the same way the road is a cemetery. There is nothing in the windows but my reflection slumped and rotting in the seats across from me. I wish I could find it in myself to mourn but you can only die so many times and still feel something towards it.

camden market '07 [13.01.2025]

(first piece of writing of the year !)


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10 months ago
Decided To Do Something With Crayons Last Night

decided to do something with crayons last night


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rumograph - is rumo real ?
is rumo real ?

the underground is a burial the same way the road is a cemetery

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