Image Credit Lauren Pollard
a greykeeper Dark Fusion
Listen to Live Reading
The Kills “Fuck The People”
Snake River Conspiracy “Breed”
Who wants to be normal? Par for the course. Run-of-the-mill. Just another one of the Joneses. Slow and steady wins the race – or so they say. But who are they anyway? Which powers that be decide what normal actually is? Is there a checklist that needs to be ticked? And should we not meet quarterly projections, are our asses then kicked? Do terms and conditions apply? Are we checked for emissions and if so, why? Can’t we just…
Or must all suffering be undertaken in silence? Reeks suspiciously of passive violence, don’t you think? Fret not, as here in the Citadel there is no CCTV, no roaming charges, no hidden agendas, or off-shore call centres. And only the very finest in hold music. Granted, there may be a medieval torture chamber down in the vaults, but that’s just last resort. Well, that and a rather merry sensory room for the lust-monsters amongst us – ourselves inclusive. No, this is a sanctuary for the moments when the white noise just becomes too overpowering. It’s drilled into us that we should tow the line and fit into our tidy little cramped pigeon-holes. Grubby little rags lie through their print, Channel Zero broadcasts…
to the susceptible, the rich get richer, poor get shafted, and anyone raising concern is then promptly sandblasted. It leaves us flabbergasted and we reckon that’s why the world hates Artists, you know. We’re generally regarded as the crud in the clay, pigeons to line up in the crosshairs and shatter. And not a solitary one of us matters. Unless our fame lasts longer than fifteen minutes, in which case, they’ll adulate us then hate us – and not necessarily in that order. Upset the status quo and they label it affective disorder and toss us in the trash. Where all soiled Artists go. There’s nothing like a dash of hepatitis to affright us. But they don’t care of our ailments. Only that we keep to ourselves our
And this is what stabs them with thousands of pointy needles. You see, Artists come armed with paintbrushes and easels. With quills that spill and refill. Blowtorches preset to cobalt. Not to mention those beautiful minds of ours – the greatest embellishment we almost humans can be bequeathed – other than our souls of course, but they traditionally don’t come into active play until we’ve gone a few rounds.
society removes us from its radar
and, if we’re being brutal by way of honesty, then it’s because they don’t wish to look at our melancholic faces. That’s fine by us as we have no great desire burning within to ogle at their shifting ones either. Give us caffeine and smokes and we’re happy mammals. The whole somber deal is something we reserve for the moments when they
lie to our bloody faces
Once upon a time, before flower faeries could score you Meth, we’d have taken it straight to the chin dimples. Grimaced out an agonized smile just to keep these detestable predators off our season trails. But if all good things must come to an end, then the same can be said for bad ones. Law of averages right? You know… Par for the course. Run-of-the-mill. Just another one of the Joneses. Well, fuck the Joneses with white-picked fence posts and 2.5 children watching on in abject terror. We want to be…
the beasts in the cellar
You know, the ones who fall through the cracks, just to seep back out again. Damn right, they’re not getting rid of us that easy. Fuck our skulls for long enough and eventually our hollows will become playgrounds for serpents. And these caustic cunts always pull out before we get chance to bleed on them. Which is where those blank canvases and parchments come in handy. Always thinking, see.
And there is such divine method to our madness. Artists, we mean. To be fair, many of us struggle to relay what that might actually be, but that’s why our greykeeper Dark Fusions are delivered through twinned tongue. I’m rabbit and he’s lion… no she’s rabbit… and I’m… no you’re… am i lion? So what would that make you? Don’t even think about roaring. It’s a mindfield we tell you, a veritable blast dome, and neither one of us can quite pinpoint the methodology to this…
with precision. Thank fuck and its family for that. Did we ask for all the answers? Not where the Merge is concerned. Reality doesn’t even make the speed dial shortlist, whereas fantasy accidentally calls us on WhattsApp at least once daily and we get to hang out like Nosferatu. How cool is that Orlok?
Looks like the count is out
and guess what
Better yet, there is no veil of deception to our output. We mine deep to the most blackened of ore just to keep on drilling and certain works could easily be mistaken as downright ill-tempered, nay utterly reprehensible. What can we say?
Art is honesty
but never ever to attack those in our proximity. That is not, and never will be, what we’re about. We’re lionandrabbit, just a pair of struggling artists who fell in and through love at life’s last bell. No inclination towards maiming, naming, shaming, blaming or anything else you couldn’t get away with in a public library. We really are…
now that we’ve found this. Now that we have this and hold this. And we just want to share that, need to share that, simply have to share that. As we are ashen without love. And handsomely so with it. So you see, this favorable four lettered word is our only currency. It’s also the method in the meticulous madness we’re courting. Take a solitary word to the slur or image personally and you’re barking up the wrong oak as we’re over by the willow, weeping deep red cedar. Life has gradually topped up our bitterness to the point where we just have to let a little dribble out. Lest we not forget that it damn near broke us. Did its callus ridden worst to…
even now it provokes us
but there’s a crazy little thing called…
and it just so happens that this bicycle is made for two. Leaner, meaner, keener and a darned sight more obscener – we’ve learned how to splice the fire and the ice and suddenly every parchment is canvas, with the solitary vice being versa. Hang this out and we shall reimburse you. As every single last shot to the dome pierces with the very shrapnel of integrity. We all know lions are courageous creatures and it takes tremendous conviction to burrow fresh rabbit holes. So we traded souls. And somehow…
created a monster
But here’s the upside. Monsters are fucking cool right? I mean, dudes got their own Inc. and shit. Sure, they are a rather lustful breed and will build up your buttercup, just to rape out the seed. But Frankenstein wasn’t built in a day. We monsters can be trained. Just so happens, our Citadel also has a laboratory and it’s the place of test tube dreams for a pair of ruffriding critters with grins for the shitters such as lionandrabbit. We positively ache for a spot of madness. And when we ache, we create. No more pars for the course. No more mills to be run. No more Joneses to be mistaken for and invited to PTA evenings when we wish to go prowling. None of that shit. Just eight paws, four peepers, one beating bloody heart which is Crystalline by design, one half grey and the other fiddy keeper, and we do believe we’ve got the…
side of things covered so what say we all have some fun with it. Searching for that which is quite clearly not there extracts much of the glee from proceedings. As we’re bleedingly honest, heart stompingly so, and it’s rather a crisp waterfall when you allow it to just wash over you. No brainwashing here, it’s all soul cleansing. No harmful oxidants, just charming deviants. Looking to recalibrate Art through the twin-charged tools at our disposal. Not a thing indecent about our proposal. Well, you know. Lust-monsters got to eat too right? We’ve been shackled for far too long and our tummies started growling. So burn us at the stake. But just remember to shed a tear of sorrow at our wake. Right now, we’re fast approaching beast mode and our only request is that nobody…
We’re endangered enough just through taking all five of life’s dusted knuckles straight to the cram hole. Repeatedly. And that’s just animal cruelty. Give us a home and we’ll give you ours too. Let us rescue you as we rescue ourselves in the process. Pick the cherries from our Prose and spit out any rapey seeds. But above absolutely all else…
TRUST THE BLEED
as you won’t find two other motherfuckers on this planet as brutally honest as lionandrabbit
L.H. Grey/Richard Charles Stevens