|October Is For Members Self-Portrait. If You Have Not Submitted A Self-Portrait, This Is A Good Time To Do So. For Our Benefit, The Self-Portrait Does Not Have To Look Exactly Like You. It Can Be An Image To Represents You. It Can Be A New One Just For Us, Ore Something You Already Have.|
You Can Read The Self-Portrait Literature From Our Writers In The Members Self-Protraits Folder, HERE:humanconditions.deviantart.com…
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|Welcome to Human Conditions! I see it as a combination of the two groups which inspired it, #So-Often-Bled and #Emotions-in-art. The edginess and imagination of #So-Often-Bled with the basic premise of #Emotions-in-art, capturing the range of emotions we experience as human beings.|
We are not for everyone. We are for serious artists of any media whose work deals with emotions and the condition of being human.
We would rather be a small, interactive group than a large group where everyone dumps their latest deviations. We want quality, not quantity.
~Original Founder Bark
Find The Rules And Group Standards On The About Page.
CalibanCaliban by Scarlettletters
They say this place
is the brothel
of my thoughts -
dirty gods and vacant wombs,
left at the top of these stairs,
but forgotten when the world skips a beat
and light crawls its way
to the bottom.
I watch what moves
from the window -
that brave new world -
and know I am piecemeal,
unmade and too rough to the touch,
my kiss an unborn thing.
I sucked from my mother's teat
sour as summer nettles
to be my wormwood,
bereft of fine manners
or a back to hang them on.
But all is not as it seems.
I only play the monster
when the crowd demands blood,
for my back breaks
like any other man,
my visage worthy of grace;
and I can feel my thoughts soar
the deft sparks of spring
longing to be uncaged
when beauty comes unbidden
and my sullen hide
shall turn like the worms in June
into something glorious.
EdieEdie by jade-pandora
Her skin of powdered rice paper
the scent of rotting orchids,
a drug-induced Noh dancer with
slow-writhing limbs akimbo-
silver-gilded girl of the moment
at the factory that turned out
Monroe silk screens, and porn
to the drone of a refrigerator,
from asylum to the Big Apple,
the apple of her father's eye
and of his desires, she'd sleep
among the gay lovers, pretty boys
with erotic names of exotic birds,
knowing she was safe for a while
as they quarreled amongst themselves-
who'd bring her chocolate shakes,
and chauffeur their princess
to her doctor's for injections
(she was too much a lady to do it herself)
until her fingertips became match-heads
setting fire to hotel rooms,
flailing from inside a closet
while bellboys stole her furs-
face of a comatose junkie drawing deep
on filter-less cigarettes
(she wasn't afraid). And yet, what deeds
have you, Edith, what deeds?
But wasn't she fabulous! remembering
back when she and Suky spent trips
screaming from an open convertible
InsatiableHe wonders what she hidesInsatiable by jade-pandora
behind that mischievous smile,
a silent crescent wile
and a glance of curvaceous skin.
The little black dress that shows
what's hidden from within
and artful hands that tender the sin.
How her eyes can melt his soul,
glittering of coal blackness
that flash and dance and burn,
and makes his flesh crawl and yearn
for the feel of her skin on him.
The way of tangled limbs.
His lover's mouth with its hunger,
insatiable till it's over.
Her body's desire renders
its pureness, and oils his body
as she moves like a serpent,
slick with her wetness,
filled by the whiteness of him.
Moonlit gleam of heavy eyes,
a shudder and a rush of sighs
when her tongue curls around,
to taste and take all he gives.
Her grin, and the joy felt within
at her lover's unexpected reaction;
to start a new kiss, to rise again
and quench her needy thirst
as the cycle repeats until
passion wanes and dies,
to coil round and lull them in
a shadowy, slow-motion sleep.
Where did that little black dre
blackberries, bramblesthere is a resentment buddingblackberries, brambles by toxic-nebulae
in my gut
as something from a swallowed seed.
dormant and deadly,
a steady outdripping of poison,
thick as a sap to be tapped,
to be harvested.
I fear it will overrun my
will corrupt the soil it grows in
with its violent outshootings—
it will turn every bit of me
into its grisly garden.
it will make you feel
Christmas Starts in NovemberWhat struck me mostChristmas Starts in November by muscularteeth
about the wonder I saw
on this little boy's face,
his head tipped back as I
walked past, his shiny eyes
full of colorful lights strung
below his pretty eyelashes,
was that I could remember
feeling something like that,
and I wonder where
To:And if I could beTo: by shairese9
like a ghost,
leave behind only a cadence
you'll always hum in the shower,
tap on your steering wheel in traffic,
never realize your body memorized my tempo
I think it would make
good-byes so much so
like a short winter,
bitter for only so long.