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CITRUS CREED

After ten years of cutting up dead things for money Citrus Creed relinquished his ashes, laid down his edges and lifted the inky lance aloft in the lunatic sacred quest to live free. Since then, he only goes forward.

A writer of at least two wrongs and a scribbler of filthy sibilant songs, he exults when his feather sways darkly fluid to its own occult music. Often though, the action of his acid is necessarily pressed into service etching letters less arcane.

Clichés are his only phobia. His dreams run wild like wicked twisted rivers licking the real world slippery.

Like any renegade visionary with a reluctant self-destructive penchant he eats a little poison, though he tries to eat more of the light.

Remade and remaker, he breathes both gentle and sinister Art from Arhanta to Odegra.

He doesn't have a cat... just now.

A son of Caledonia, he's watched the rising sun blaze shining roads on distant oceans and seen stone fields of flowers bleed in rows through drifting snow.

He thinks doubt is a crucial element of the human experience and that certainty of any sort is indication only of imagination carefully disabled.

If push comes to shove, he believes in love, but don't bring it up at the table.

By Citrus Creed:

Bananas





Authors