A Kiss With A Fist Is Better Than None

Personal art blog - Art I Swim With and Original Art by Kels — 30, agender

[peachpitkels]

[nobrashfestivity]

Burt Glinn Painter Helen Frankenthaler works on an abstract expressionist painting in her studio. New York City. USA. 1957. © Burt Glinn | Magnum Photos

[peachpitkels]

You must be bright from within!

[tireheb-deactivated20190529]

[liviafalcaru]

[peachpitkels]

Run Away Sun

[iiwaken]

tea time ☕

[jacobvanloon]

Now available - The Rip IX and XI single edition prints at store.jacobvanloon.com

[redlipstickresurrected]

Amy Beager (British, b. 1988, based Chelmsford, England) - Desire is Desire, 2020, Paintings: Oil, Acrylic on Canvas

[peachpitkels]

"The body is like a garden"

Kelsie Correll - Acrylic and pen on canvas.

[topcat77]

David Hockney

 Going up Garrowby Hill (2000) 

oil/canvas

[th3-0bjectivist]

“Fractal Core” - Spray and acrylic paint on wood

[peachpitkels]

“Is it good? Am I?”

@stunt-lads

[peachpitkels]

Description: green, blue, and yellow pushed together with a negative of a house and a colored snapshot of a motel. Words are, “the tension between burning your childhood home to the ground and wanting to paint it a different color so you can pretend to live in the dust.”

[starei]

indulge in your own company

[peachpitkels]

“

They knock on my door

The door is open

I say

“I am not here.”

They don’t believe me

Someone is answering, after all

“That’s whatever’s left,”

I tell them

“The Old Taylor Can’t Come to the Phone Right Now.”

“Why?”

“Oh. Cause she’s dead.”

I think that’s the fear

It’s what’s making me sick

Liminal women adjsunt

To the blood in the hair

The blood of it all

It’s dead its not buried

Ghost! Ghost!

Look at me

Look at your hands and tell me my face isn’t there

That my eyes aren’t your eyes

“I was murdered in Paris...”

I was killed but I am

I am not here

But I am — somewhere

I slam photos at windows

Scream “look what was done! To me!”

But I can’t get out of this room “

@stunt-lads

[goremeat]

“I sat, in between my reality and the falsehood of an overactive imagination. Half-lidded eyes witnessing the melding of this world with everything else. The garden is empty. I’ve pulled out all the weeds and dandelions and laid them carefully on my lap. I’ve left it all behind, and i cower in the unknown.”

— all dug up. (a.t)