Hey y’all. Quick post with a sketch I did on my break: Rocket Raccoon from Marvel.
I used Instagram when I took this picture since I’ve never used it before. I see why people who upload sketches and/or pictures use it. It makes everything look cool and artsy fartsy just by tapping different filters. Pretty crazy. Doubt I’ll use it very often but cool none the less.
Coming soon: Nickelodeon Pitch Art and possible comic strip!
I’ve been on a Hulk high all week! Read some Hulk, bought some Hulk, read some more Hulk, Hulked some Hulk. You know how we have those characters that we love and we know we love them but sometimes we forget? I forget a lot apparently. I’m on a Punisher kick now. So probably expect him coming up. Anyway I drew this in about 15 minutes or so. I like making Hulk more apelike. I got the posing from a statue I used to see in this comic store when I was 13 or so. It was an ugly statue…but it was always there (probably because nobody wanted to buy it because it was ugly) but after a while it grew on me.
I DID NOT WRITE THE BELOW POEM…I ONLY drew the above picture.
This is the place.
It breathes, it eats, and, at night, beneath a crawling ground fog with the luster of vaporized pearl, it dreams, dreams while tiny predators stage a nightmare ballet in sharp black grass. It is a living thing it has a soul, it has a face.
At night you can almost see it.
At night you can almost imagine what it might look like if the swamp were boiled down to its essence, and distilled into corporeal form; if all the muck, all the forgotten muskrat bones, and all the luscious decay would rise up and wade on two legs through the shallows; if the swamp had a spirit and that spirit walked like a man…
At night, you can almost imagine.
You can stare into those places where the evening has pooled beneath the distant trees, and glimpse an ambiguous shifting of the darkness, something large, large and slow, its movements solemn and inevitable, heavy with clotted, sodden weed that forms its flesh, its skeleton of tortured root creaks with each funereal pace, protesting at the damp and sullen weight, within their sockets its eyes float like blood-poppies in puddles of ink.
You can inhale through flared nostrils, drinking in its musk, green and pungent, there is the delicate scent of mosses and lichens adorning its flanks, there is the dry and acrid aftertaste of the pinmold that spreads across its shoulders, fanning out in a dull gray rash.
You can stand alone in the blind darkness and know that were you to raise your arm, reaching out to its full extremity, your fingernails would brush with something wet, something supple and resilient, something moving.
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