Monday, February 25, 2008


I can't see the light

I'm thrown in disgust

They speak of feats

The housed forever

A howling wind

Changed my course

It blew me out

Of bounds so sore

All the walls

All the walls that bound me

Descending bleak and put upon

I chew my cheeks

To wake up from

The vase grows bigger

To my eyes

These eyes that sniggerAnd despise

The wall grows taller up to doom

Shoes in my room

Thrown in disgust

At how I fall

To my worst

Of course you sayYou don't understand

Your words your fiction

Your crooked hands

But clearly nowI tell you man

That all I say Is all I can

For I am nothing But my sin

Until I learn

To caste them in

While young girls fangs And crystal wrists

Wait patiently For me to twist

I look away To distant rains

To water falls And honey days

And boys in blackAnd blue rinse eyes

Gaze whistly at my slender thighs

I twist a shade to my right

And spit at beelzebub on sight

And go on loving all I see

For here I live on patiently

Clerarly now I tell you man

That all I say is all I can

For I am nothing but my sin

Until I learn to caste them in

peter murphy, crystal wrists.


Not on top of my game lately. I won't bore you with the details. There are, however some changes to the menu here fairly soon. I can see you all yawning in anticipation.


Thursday, February 21, 2008


The Power of poetry comes from the ability to defy logic

Defy Logic Often

The Power of poetry comes from the ability to defy logic
Defy Logic Often

This is just a post to say to those I love and Fhionn in particular:

The Power of poetry comes from the ability to defy logic

Defy Logic Often



Wednesday, February 20, 2008


I found this today. Frankly it sent a shiver through me. I'll meet you on the otherside:

Sources close to freelancers inform me that DC Comics has a new in house policy for pencillers. Aside from very specific contracted creators (such as Jim Lee), any penciller contracted to work on a monthly book must deliver complete turnaround of 22 pages of work in four weeks. Not a month, four weeks. If that schedule isn’t maintained, they’ll pull pages and assign them to other creators. And you may run short of future work. A reduction in quality is more acceptable than a reduction in quantity.
Specific examples I’ve been given include the recent issue of “Wonder Woman” was half Dodson and half Ron Randall. Also why Koi Turnball was dropped from “Jack Hawksmoor.” And it has been pointed out that there are already three fill-ins on the new “Legion” schedule.
Creators are also being dropped from exclusive contracts over this new regime. Expect certain publishing vultures to swarm.

It seems at first glance to be pretty straight forward. I mean, who wouldn't want to get the book out on time right? I started that way, getting a book out pretty much on time for almost two years. Then I was pretty well versed in the furious pace of the so called "mainstream". Right here I'll do the old chestnut: Freelancer to editor, " well, you want it fast, or good?" Editor to freelanced, "both". Ho ho ho.

What really got to me was the response to this little news tidbit. Most of the peoole who wrote in supported the opinion that books should, regardless of quality need to come out on time rather than as made as well as can be made.

This strikes me as addiction. Not common sense, not hopeing for the best book possible, but rather just getting them. Now, it's a sad fact to most editors out there that the goddamn art takes to fucking long. If you are the kind of artist that really wants to ink yourself, well, you'd best keep it simple. Or, have a studio setup of several other artists you can flog off the small shit to. Best to just keep it simple, that way the editor can whip it over to a conglomorate of computer colorists to "fill in the spaces" that you had to skip over to keep it on time. Hurrah! on time! You lucky devil you, you can get PAID!

Then you start all over again.

Addiction. Gotta have it, even if it's been stepped on A LOT. It's better than nothing. Month in month out. The same dynamic is at play: quailty doesn't matter, the good will of your man doesn't matter as long as you pony up for the stuff. You usually do it alone so you can bliss out as much as the cut-rate shit will let you. Then, you're out looking for more because it wasn't good enough to last.

The addicts are killing the very thing they want. The dealer just keeps hitting it to maximize income while you just line up for more. Meanwhile the stuff you love so much is getting weaker and weaker until you secretly hate the very thing you love most. But you line your ass up anyway.

I left that world for that reason. Not because I was told right to my face, "I am the company and I'M drawing this, not you, so you do it my way." Not because I was told I couldn't draw hands right, even after I'D LIGHTBOXED THE DAMN THINGS FROM MY PHOTO FILES.

No, I left it behind because I saw what I loved, what I wanted to do with all my efforts to make beautifully done, was actually irrelevent.

Never again my friends. That's why I've spent to much time, to much much needed money trying to forge a different road for myself. Good or bad, I'll stay true to the thing I love.

I'm addicted to love. Without it, it's all just so much junk.



Monday, February 18, 2008



I went into the studio today, expecting, no, really expecting to just dig in and WORK .

But, while not reeeally frozen anymore, a cold front blew in late last night with winds from due north. The ambient ait temp was hovering around the upper forties in there. To cold to really get anything done. So, another day of forced inactivity. I feel abit like the donner party, only the sole member. Eat myself.

Right. Save me a leg.

So, here's a brief entertainment: just a little number by Peter Murphy,"The Scarlet Thing in You". One of the cleverest Sufi songs I've ever heard. Sufi love songs work on many levels, the trancendant, the mundane,( I won't say, profane because that would be misleading) and the space between. His Wife did the corriography. She's the Turkish national dance theaters director. It also rocks hard. Play it loud.

Right then.

It will become invevitable that the days grow warmer, though right now I'm trying with some willpower to not climb the drapes. I'm looking to buy fonts for the final lettering as I can't afford the real thing. Just more work for my bad self. Though, the damn things havn't gotten any cheaper over the years have they? Nosireee bob.

My friend Malena sent me a cut from the Hidden Variable cd her vocals are feartured on. I can't say enough. Honestly, it's pure spine tingleing stuff. She's gotta voice like river deep mountain high baby. Now, if it'd just come out. Seems these days all I do is wait. My ass is getting really comfy with my thumb.


Think spring my dear friends, think spring. Hard.


Friday, February 15, 2008


"In a green island, there was a mysterious meadow, ruled by a lonely robust bull who fed on its abundant foliage without having to share even a single blade of grass with someone else.
But the voracious bull would consume all its green slopes till sunset, growing big as a monster, but leaving the island completely barren.
This would at the same time give rise to an immense fear of starvation in him, as he had nothing left to survive the next day.

So by sunrise, this worry would torment and make him emaciated and thin as a thread.
But all of a sudden in the magical island, the grass would grow again high above his horns, and the bull set on a grazing-spree to lose even his leisure to ruminate.
It had been happening for centuries, but every night the anxiety of tomorrow would reduce him to bones and the bull could never convince himself against it."


Gulity as charged your honor.

The studio is still semi-frozen, but getting there.
When waiting on the inevitable, it's difficult not to dream of all the what-ifs of tomorrow.

Steady as she goes,

just because.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008


The cold snap let up enough to get back to work today. There was only one problem.
The last day I was there, somehow I'd bumped the only heat I have in the studio and without knowing it, pulled the plug. Three days of forty below zero.
The result: everything, and I mean everything, paint, jars of water, nozzels on varish cans, absolutely everything was frozen solid. Completely rock hard.

It will take several days of easy warming to bring everything up to snuff. Until then, I wait.

some more.

Ah, Fuck.


Monday, February 11, 2008


Iam Al-Kahira, the comparer of nonsense and flowers,

Iam grateful for my stupidity, admitted easily, yet I am concerned with specific
Details of style as I sit here in rags.

By circumstance not by choice this shrub has blossomed: by choice and not by
Circumstance this life has been left plain.

I made an effort and found stuff to ignore, leaving rusty strings unstuck.
I neglect the spectacular and overlook the apparently important with deliberation.

I’ve waited eons for the reversal of my interests: now life has become the joke
And the sweetness and hilarity of my own thoughts have turned into a
Point of fascination for me.

No matter what anyone tells you: I don’t belong to any creed or sect, culture or
Race, nor to any period in history.

My only qualification is the age of my soul: I own three hillside palaces of quiet
Pre-dawn moon sound.

Humiliation is my clothing that I wear to sit and bark with the dogs. I disconnect
Like dusk and most likely no one will bring flowers to my grave.

I am ardent without deed and I am information zero; unimportant iridescent:
Grand palace of mercy.

Till now I stayed in one place not avoiding you; now that the traditions
Are beginning to dissolve, I put on my winter coat and walk away. Business done.

My contemporaries have declared society to be the central item and are discussing
Things of importance as I’m speaking to you now.

As my mother taught me to, I keep to myself a lot.

I am the lover of trees, found worthy of loneliness.

I could be the postman, the milkman, the sick person, the transvestite.
It takes 1, 2 recognize 1…
I am the unknown dervish.

If you had any idea how important this piece is to me.
Time to go............



weeds in my cuffs
turning quickly carmine and emerald
leather coat covered in dust
sky horizon a line of trees mostly pine.
the distance narrowing
a dog fight in my peripheral vision i turn away in sadness
vast wings catch the last light golden and tenuious
rocks in a field
a dead tree over a stream
old ghosts crying by a river
moss on bricks
looking up waiting
looking down because
the sheen on a wild ducks head
blue lights in the bathroom
a sacred robe
strange music barely heard
nexus point
the sound of dry leaves in the wind
praying for an answer
the veil between places
winding a clock
acsending the stairs
a blue scarf
freeform exactly wrong
sudden memories of forgotten faces
kneeling and surrounded by beautiful dogs
the winter revelation of a long gone dawn
pink and grey and white and blue
times like these
how do i know this
faces in the trees
coins in my pocket
revelations happen
not being blind


This started as a random memory of a song long forgotten. I spent the morning looking for it online, the only result was this:
It made me cry the first time i heard it. Oh the "persistance of memories".
sometimes I pray for amnesia. I suspect all sane people do from time to time.

Sunday, February 10, 2008


It's nearly forty-two degrees below zero, and it has been for over two days now.
And once again I've been forced to close the studio. Gladly, just before the front hit I was able to finish a commision for a long time "follower". I have three, ( maybe two) more pieces to finish before "the book" gets further attention. I'm looking at two-three weeks of personal work to be completed before returning to the larger issue.

"Zulli" is Italian for " really frustrated". Of course that's the more modern definition. The old rustic meaning is loosely translated as " pissed off".

One of the most difficult thing for me to do is arrive at a certain detachment that makes the work easier. Instead I worry, rage, fret and screw myself into knots over things that elude my control where my work is concerned. There is little peace internally for me and there rarely has been. Seekers beware. The road is long, harsh and cold.

But, I gave up trying to either fit in or conform years ago, so I really am not complaining, rather I tend to marvel at my own struggles. I often find it all amuseing.

Then again, I don't.

As my old neighbor Eva back in New England used to say, "Whatayagonnadoaboutit."


Salaam's and stuff,


Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you’re perfectly free.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008


"Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds all your erroneous notions of truth
That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,
Causing the world to weep on too many fine days. "

Sometimes the most ordinary things can tear your heart out.
Can you hear the secret language of birds?
I wish I could.

Monday, February 4, 2008


Several months ago, just when the new site went live, I mentioned that my signiture was changeing after the first. It has. Now, and for the forseeable future it will be just "ZED". As in nada, zip, nemo, zilch, zero. Take it as a symbol. One where "I","ME", and "MYSELF" is not the important thing, what the work is, is what matters. It was just to, well, flashy. I seek in some way to remove myself as a barrier to perception while still giving in to the demands of the notion of art as professional commodity. Which, like it or not, it is. The idea that somehow the world will just freely give me enough to survive and prosper, even a bit, ain't happening dear friends. In fact, it barely is now.

I hope to change this in a few months, as I've pretty much agreed to sell my work at a highly professional auction house, where I'll cease the endless charade of eBay. When this happens, I'll be sure to set up a page here so those interested may join in the mayhem.
Ok, now that I've reminded you all of the siginture change, let me just say, that if anyone sends me old tradeing cards or whatnot and would prefere the old monogram, I'll be pleased to sign it this way, but, there will be a dash through the center so that one will know that it was signed after 2007.

Also, just to reinforce what I've made known to those wanting commisioned work, they will all start at six hundred dollars U.S. NO exceptions. They just cut into working time far to much.

Oh, still looking for the right agent. I had a tip for two different ones today, and after looking into them, alas, I had to scrap them both as unsuitable in my mind to represent, and or, sell my work.
You'd think, right?

That's it for now....sorta.
I'm also becomeing tempted by myspace. I'd like to know if any of you would enjoy that? I'm divided as of now. Something about the place just gives me the heebie jeebies. It may have something to do with diginity. Let me know ok?

All for now,
Be well and kind.


ps: the illustraion is a Khnopff litho I own, bought it in the good old days when I didn't have to choose between heat or food.


Saturday, February 2, 2008


I wonder how many people who read this are dependant on public approval to make a living?
How many people out there could survive on the whim of opinion? No matter how excellent the work they produced was or wasn't? For example, note the picture of the painting above.
It sold for five thousand dollars.

Now look at the one below that one.
Do you think it odd that the artist couldn't get five hundred for it?

Not that I'm upset, complaining, or pissed off, it's just I'll never understand say, useing a Van Gogh canvas as a doormat. They were you know.
I just wonder about people ya know?

The lyric below was from an album that got some college radio air in the late seventies, by Tonio K. called "life in the Foodchain. It was very much on my mind in the old Puma Blues days.
I recall it here because, well, I dunno, maybe it kinda fits.

Well your mother was there to protect you
Your papa was there to provide
So how in the world did the excellent baby
Wind up in this hotel so broken inside
You lie on your bed in the midnight darkly
Listening to every sound
Watching the shadows for anything moving
And hoping they don't come around
‘Cause it's dog eat dog
and it's cat and mouse
It's watch your step and cross yourself
And get back in the house
And it's do or die
It's push and shove
Because everybody's hungry
And there isn't quite enough
That's right we're talking about the good life
In the food chain
Love among the ruins
I guess that you've finally got to accept
That there's nothing you can do about it
It's kind'a like carving a turkey
Kind of like mowing the lawn
Everything gets to this certain dimension
Winds up on a customers plate and then gone
‘Cause it's dog eat dog And it's cat and mouse
‘Cause it's cut the cake grab a plate
And hope it goes around
And it's do or die
It's time to push and shove
Because everybody's hungry
And there isn't quite enough
‘Cause it's dog eat dog And it's cat and mouse
Ya know it's close your eyes and roll the dice
And shut your filthy mouth
It's time to push and shove
Because everybody's hungry
And there isn't quite enough
‘Cause it's dog eat dog
And it's cat and mouse
It's watch your step and cross yourself
And get back in the house
And it's do or die
It's push and shove
Because everybody's hungry
And there isn't quite enough
That's right we're talking about the good life In the food chain
Love among the ruins
I guess that you've finally got to accept
That there's nothing you can do about it
It's kind'a like carving a turkey
Kind of like mowing the lawn
Everything gets to this certain dimension
Winds up on a customers plate and then gone

Oh, back to work today, it it matters.
I've got a few commisions to is gatis to the local hospital, a landscapey thing. One is paid for. The rest are just personal work that will be posted in the Rose Gallery section, though I doubt anyone will actually look at them. But hey, that's life in the foodchain sparky.