shake the mountains when they dance

Here are some leftover boys. Boy drawings. Scrappy little drawings that are a means to some kind of as yet not quite congealed end.

See I didn't used to draw fast like this. Now I do draw fast as a way of thinking and getting a handle on shapes and forms. But the fast drawings give me clues to take forward to more purposeful drawings and paintings. And yet the fast drawings are still tangible bloggable items.

Blogs make everything feel like an 'end'. Here are my drawings... bish bash bosh.

This leads to a sense of 'What was I doing?'

But I am definitely doing SOMETHING.



I guess I like fast drawings, but I don't want to get seduced by them to the point of forgetting what I was aiming for. That's what I was getting at.

This is a pouty exhausted Randy.





These are rough Cenas with Fred Flintstone for comparison:





This manboy used to smirk when he was younger:





WTF? Is what I said to myself when I re-experienced this one:





This one combines boyman meanyness with Milt Gross studies:





I do like big boys these days. I wish I was better with words and could say more why I draw them.

A little bit without rude words in of E E Cummings: 'the boys I mean are not refined':

'they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance'

I was looking for poems about boyness but that one's a little bit unsympathetic. I don't want to reinforce negative stereotypes about wrestlers or anything. Then I did a little search for poems with the word 'wrestler' in and I found this line by a chap called Robinson Jeffers:

The second-born has strength for his beauty; when he strips for swimming the hero shoulders and wrestler loins Make him seem clothed.

But that's enough of all that.