Glowing Skeleton
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glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Glowing Skeleton
@glowingskeleton.bsky.social
160 followers 330 following 1.3K posts
Cherish the flame till we can safely wake again. The flame is in your hands, we trust in you. Our sacred demon of ungovernableness.

@aircrystal.bsky.social is my lovely wife

She/her

A Warning to the Curious
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glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Yahoooooo
November 24, 2025 at 11:44 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Movies rule...
November 24, 2025 at 10:36 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Me rn
November 24, 2025 at 9:53 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Josh......
November 23, 2025 at 9:44 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
November 23, 2025 at 9:41 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
I'm on my way josh
November 23, 2025 at 9:36 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
A blood sucking plant? I'm on my way.
November 23, 2025 at 9:34 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Here baby
November 23, 2025 at 9:32 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
D
November 23, 2025 at 2:47 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
UauauuuuauauuuaUuUuuuuUuuu
Earnest borg 9 dancing up on a stage with a beautiful milf
November 22, 2025 at 11:23 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Hhhhhbhbbbbbbhbhbüuuuü
Wide eyed Earnest Borg Nine
November 22, 2025 at 10:26 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Me posting:
A comic illustration of a skull yelling aaaiieeeeee! A bald man is reacting in terror
November 20, 2025 at 1:42 PM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Another poem
Lady Lazarus I'll start with a quote, the words of a real poet to burn before me, a smoked offering for those who stood here before: I will talk to you of Art, For there is nothing else to talk about, For there is nothing else… Life is an obscure hobo bumming a ride On the omnibus of Art. Charles B Griffith wrote that, for Roger Corman’s delightful Bucket of Blood, of course, and it's what I wanna say, so maybe this should be called for Charles B Griffith. Or maybe the Love of Dick Miller. Or maybe I lost it on poverty row. That's where you may have seen me before, bumming a dream off Bela Lugosi, off Vampira, off the Swedish angel, down there scrambling on my feet trying to find answers, outlook, and ways out mapped onto celluloid. Maybe I should hand it to Charles again, who further wrote: Burn gas, buggies and whip your sour cream of circumstance And hope, and go ahead and sleep your bloody heads off. Maybe sleep is all I need to silence my unquiet heart, my head congested with too much words and images and too much past. File the files that need filing and clean out the rest in sleep. But, another quote, the things I love keep me awake at night, and my art is like the night, and I forge creation out of the things I find. Of creation, my friend Charles again: Creation is, all else is not. Creation is graham crackers; Let it all crumble to feed the creator; Feed her that she may be satisfied. The Artist is, all others are not. A canvas is a canvas or a painting. A rock is a rock or a statue. A sound is a sound or is music. A preacher is a preacher, or an Artist. Am I an artist? Is this a sound or a sound or a song? Have I found that graham cracker in the old pulp paper pages that smell like vanilla and memories? I looked that up, as the paper breaks down the dreams are released in an intoxicated steam. Still I search Where are john, joe, jake, jim, jerk? Dead, dead, dead… They were not born before they were born, They were not born… Where are Leonardo, Rembrandt, Ludwig? Alive! Alive! Alive! They were born! And I was born in this wrong body with a mind that absorbs all the poison all the things that will hurt me, so I look in the corners and in cathode sick images of ancient days for the cure to the world's pain. Because I feel it all, I feel the child who cried for a simple, primal despair, I feel the melancholy pain of passage of Proust. I think what if what if what it what about. Am I woman or monster or artist? Bring on the multitudes with a multitude of fishes: Feed them with the fishes for liver oil to nourish The Artist, stretch their skin upon an easel To give her canvas, crush their bones into a paste that she might mold them. Let them die, And by their miserable deaths become The clay within her hands that she might form an ashtray Or an Ark. I need to scream this to save me. I remember the day we delighted in the sunlight printed on blotter paper. I swallowed it and she called me a goat, and our bodies were filled to the brim with our loving. Our skeletons were made of lightning, and our hair fell about like the Sargasso of stars. And I looked up from her arms and felt saved and redeemed. And my redeemer smiles still, and she lies but maybe not that she loves what I write and what I quote when I say Pray that you may be her diadem: Gold, glory, paint, clay, That she might take you in her magic hands And wring from your marrow wonder. For all that is comes through the eye of the Artist. The rest are blind fish swimming in the cave of aloneness. Swim on you maudlin, muddling, maddened fools, And dream that one bright, sunny night the Artist Will bait a hook and let you bite upon it. Bite hard and die! She is my artist and I am her canvas and I paint upon her. And she tastes my flesh. Maybe I can’t find the cure for the world’s pain, but maybe I can make the world that much better from what I have given it. In her stomach you are very close to immortality. Lights Fade Clap your hand Be seeing you
November 20, 2025 at 2:32 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Going to at least try to be creative and post a poem I wrote a while ago. Not great, but I gotta stop worrying so much about that
Hungry Heart of the Automatic Burn Out They say Or someone says Love is a power Of redemption Well, dear hearts, I'm gonna need a lot of love If I'm gonna make through the Eye of the needle I dreamed I was above it all Floating as a new firmament I used to float In the backs of rooms and the sides of Couches Sipping soft drinks My mind Hard light Dim I now have a problem with prisms To bend me around As light I dreamed I was floating above you As you floated above me Stretching forever In an unimaginably clear medium What do you dream of I don't know
November 20, 2025 at 2:26 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
How I look reading your posts
A picture of swamp thing looking wise
November 19, 2025 at 2:32 PM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
A blonde woman in a red sweater with long orange finger nails holding the head of a paper white vampire woman with blood dripping from her mouth
November 14, 2025 at 7:42 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
A painted image of Italian comedic actor Bud Spencer wearing a baseball cap that says I'm the genie. He looks on the stern side if indifferent as be gazes at you, ringed and bangled arms crossed. He stands before a swirling mist.
November 6, 2025 at 2:26 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
I is to in like to look and glean of movie.
November 1, 2025 at 2:36 PM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
October 20, 2025 at 9:37 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Hey man, nice shot
Comic panel of clark Kent shooting himself in the chest as a tv camera and two reporters look on in horror
September 26, 2025 at 1:35 PM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
share your favorite black and white movie
Still from Bound for the Fields, the Mountains, and the Seacoast (1986) of a woman in a kimono on a raft. A man is strearing with an oar
September 24, 2025 at 4:47 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Horse and cheese curry...mmmmm....
A plate of curry, horse meat, and cheese
September 21, 2025 at 4:52 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
What's going on in Ohio?
The folk-tale motif of vagina in armpit is known from Ohio to the East Indies.
September 17, 2025 at 3:54 PM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
September 15, 2025 at 5:50 AM
glowingskeleton.bsky.social
Drew my OCs at work today
September 12, 2025 at 10:14 AM