April 24, 2012
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Goatwater, Series #2, entitled "Cracked Figurines." The title of this Page is "My Eyes, Your Mouth, That Face." You will find a transcript the end of this letter. Make sure you zoom in to see the lettering and/or read the transcript below. I will post Goatwater 2, page 4 on Tuesday, May 1st.
Remember, if you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.
You can now link to the Table of Contents on every page. Click here to start at the beginning of this webcomic. Have a great week and remember that Goatwater is updated every Tuesday. Email any questions or comments to bassacards(at) yahoo.com.
If this is your first time visiting this site, or you are a regular reader, email me at the address above if you want me to add you to my mailing list so that I can send you an email reminder, every Tuesday, when I’ve added the new page. No spam, and I will not share your email with anybody else, just the link to the new page and some update information, if I have any. And feel free to let me know, at any time, if you want to stop receiving the weekly emails. Thank you for your support!
Goatwater-2-Page 3 - Transcript - My Eyes, Your Mouth, That Face
Officer
Last night, the oddly behaved object of my desire: the woeful, church carrying (woman, put the box down already) mixed breed, missionary-saint, Octaroon, caught me, a mud-brown, non-believing man, praying for her love. Reader, that fairish lady stirs me. As my name is neither Lord nor God, she remained wholly indifferent to my desire, and treated me as though I were a woolly, wounded goat, one whose deep wound rewards them not with a lady’s tender touch but provokes instead her infinite recitation of judgmental scripture. But if I wish to possess any part of her for even just one moment, whom is it, now, that I PRAY to? None other than the Deity Of The Tender-Loin, He who lords over that brown, bittersweet genital of dangling, un-divine disgrace, who coaches us solely towards coitus. After my victory with the virgin, I will crawl on my cold, black belly back toward my casket-bed in which I will warm myself with eight dusky bottles of Dreamers’ Rum, for yet another Octaroon-less eternity. But Dammit, she sho' is fine!
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Goatwater, Series #2, entitled "Cracked Figurines." The title of this Page is "My Eyes, Your Mouth, That Face." You will find a transcript the end of this letter. Make sure you zoom in to see the lettering and/or read the transcript below. I will post Goatwater 2, page 4 on Tuesday, May 1st.
Remember, if you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.
You can now link to the Table of Contents on every page. Click here to start at the beginning of this webcomic. Have a great week and remember that Goatwater is updated every Tuesday. Email any questions or comments to bassacards(at) yahoo.com.
If this is your first time visiting this site, or you are a regular reader, email me at the address above if you want me to add you to my mailing list so that I can send you an email reminder, every Tuesday, when I’ve added the new page. No spam, and I will not share your email with anybody else, just the link to the new page and some update information, if I have any. And feel free to let me know, at any time, if you want to stop receiving the weekly emails. Thank you for your support!
Goatwater-2-Page 3 - Transcript - My Eyes, Your Mouth, That Face
Officer
Last night, the oddly behaved object of my desire: the woeful, church carrying (woman, put the box down already) mixed breed, missionary-saint, Octaroon, caught me, a mud-brown, non-believing man, praying for her love. Reader, that fairish lady stirs me. As my name is neither Lord nor God, she remained wholly indifferent to my desire, and treated me as though I were a woolly, wounded goat, one whose deep wound rewards them not with a lady’s tender touch but provokes instead her infinite recitation of judgmental scripture. But if I wish to possess any part of her for even just one moment, whom is it, now, that I PRAY to? None other than the Deity Of The Tender-Loin, He who lords over that brown, bittersweet genital of dangling, un-divine disgrace, who coaches us solely towards coitus. After my victory with the virgin, I will crawl on my cold, black belly back toward my casket-bed in which I will warm myself with eight dusky bottles of Dreamers’ Rum, for yet another Octaroon-less eternity. But Dammit, she sho' is fine!
Goatwater
Copyright 2011-2012
words and images by:
Tiffany Osedra Miller
all rights reserved.
Copyright 2011-2012
words and images by:
Tiffany Osedra Miller
all rights reserved.
**scroll down to read the transcript to series 2, page 3**
