spiral cris

  • Coraline

“She wants something to love, I think… something that isn’t her. Or maybe she’d just love something to eat.”

I’m happy to announce that this illustration was select by LAIKA and the International Animation Festival Chilemonos for an exposition in my country.


Melancholy boy on his mechanical guitar
Sitting under the spire of molten night,
Strumming notes to grate against the embers,
To resonate a paean to an iron desire.
Underneath his tentacle chest, obsidian butterflies
Flutter their brass wings; these tiny things
Had a name, wailed by the silent strings,
Hailed by the silent streams of motor tears.
But you are a god of onyx, and you don’t have ears.

Melancholy boy on his mechanical star,
Dancing electro to neon this breadth of light,
Tainting footfalls to scrape away the clusters,
To move your will despite the wires.
Underneath his gray cape, the spiral cries
And he drowns in the slings, these awful things
Are endless, like sharp metallic offsprings
Impaled by your naive downpour of spears.
Your heft is immortal and he doesn’t have the years


There’s no such thing as a real aphrodisiac.
Empirical evidence has shown this to be true time and time again, but the cologne that he wears… even catching the smallest whiff can send your mind reeling into fantasies and memories of body heat and spiraling passion cried out into the dark. The sandalwood and rose can’t cover up the smokey amber underneath, like his own dulcet moans slipping out from those perfect petal lips and over his creamy skin when he holds you close.
The scent itself seems to cling to him even after he’s just showered, blending with his natural smell into the sheets once he joins you, drawing you in closer until your nose is pressed into the crook of his neck, kisses raining down on his skin as he lets you do as you like before pinning you down against the sheets, leaning in just a centimeter from your lips, perfection just a second away.

- Admin J