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FOOD FOR THOUGHT.

Welcome to my blog!

Hello my name is: Icicle Audacity. All I see are ghxsts. I'm the misguided stride for self improvement - a sadistic, futuristic machine. A hollow cold emitted through vibrant lights, it’s a warm as wool winter but I’ve got a chill I can’t shake. This is what I am & I think I’m fine in my own misguidance. My bones are frozen, my marrow has turned to ice - my body is just a body, a corpse without a head. I'm just a vessel & my brain has long been dead.

Dylan McAmmond
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"That's really the only thing that matters to me, is that I make art for a living. And if I make art for a living... I win."

Author Archives: Dylan

she winks rainbows. . .

. . .he drinks draino. I’m not a writer because I apologise for what I write. I’m not a writer because I hate the craft and the thorns it pricks into wounds – sticky and healing. I’m not a writer because I don’t give a fuck about your apostrophes and periods, full stops or half stops or broken wo  rds or legs. I’m a writer because I can look at any fucking […]

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living like ghxsts in this globe we can’t run from

Picture this: Each moment fades like days fade to nights fade to dreams fade to mornings fade to something fade to nothing and in the end it becomes exhausting. It becomes desolate. You’re isolated and you’re just stranded. You’re trapped on a raft with no direction to sail, because each route is blocked by the violentviolentviolent […]

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hold your breath

When you are so internal people can miss out on details about you and through deciphering what they can of the evidence you offer they can completely misinterpret who you are. “Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin and they end with no lasting memory made in between. Most days have no impact […]

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color my world with the chaos of trouble

Your future is here, your end has begun. You’re a dead man, red man running. The fishermen hunt you for fun. And so, said the chief, the settlers are settling in. Oh, here it goes – this is how a legend will end. It is something about our parents generation, they were taught/trained by the […]

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note to self

You’re going to make a lot of mistakes, most of them worth only a slight blush and a mumbled apology, but a few of them will seem earth-shatteringly huge. Always remember that though your world may be in pieces, the planet beneath your feet continues to twirl. Not everyone is going to like you. Accept […]

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YONKERS 2.0

(Fuck everythin’, man) that’s what my conscience said. Then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead. Now the only guidance that I had is splattered on cement – Actions speak louder than words, let me try this shit, dead.

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Manhattan silver

She raises the laurel, the gift of the earth, which is covered in crystals of a soft powdered snow. They gleam in the light; like ice; like mirrors. This covers the green leaves whose twisted path grows. They’re sticky with magic and lovely in smell – it’s the fragrance of flowers and fruits the earth […]

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YONKERS

I’m a fucking walking paradox.

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WWIII

When all is gone to ruin and dust, all that remains is hope and trust. When a little lad can only soldier on, then we know truly has our soul gone. When all about is refuse and rubble, when all the world is rife with trouble – When the world is left ashen and burnt then we’ll know […]

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child-like in nature

Whispering sins into open ears, spreading rumors to evade fears. Saying this and doing that, ain’t nothing wrong with fact. Careless antics about your day, shrug your shoulders, walk away.  Keeping cool ’cause you are, too, think nothing more of what you do. Close your eyes to enter a new world, subconscious revealing the fate […]

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inhale deep

A love child with shattered veins and dandelions in its hair sings songs that make me glad – you cannot see me. I have three rings, three pulses straight to the chest, three circles in my body – calling secrets and speaking poetry. My spine is doing wonderful things; fluid between disks warm and bubbling, like blood but my blood is fire minus the sting – […]

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imitation of fiction

Stories are imitations of life, an art of illusions and wishes and fate and comedic timing. Coincidental and neatly trimmed. Perfect in its disasters, kind of how the writer dreams of it; you know – authorial fantasies. Being able to create something. Mould it & shape it. Make it beautiful and make it how it […]

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