Concerning the works of Room 13: Osseous,

All artwork and words are original to
Hannah Carpenter Pitkin unless noted otherwise.


You've got a gold front tooth. I saw it from my seat. I'd pay you good money but I like it where it is. Your mouth is rich, boy. Use your words like an adult.


And Said With Such Ease, The Lady Vanished; Red Fingertips Of Rose, Angled Merriment And Equal Diminution

I am absolutely positive,
The red I just pasted on that canvas,
The wet I wiped from my cheek,
The sobriety I forfeit,
The angelic hue I cast,
The tone of my voice when I wake,
The way I use my thumbs to type,
The noises you hear from the hall,
The small whispers of a child,
The need,
The mess,
The life of me,

It's pretend like _______ said so.
_________ didn't make up the questions.
And lord knows the answers aren't there.

The way of it all is dismissed.
It never came so it never left.


i'm a better hack than i am a hoodlum
corner the word smith shift
subtle little chin cleft cover to cover like this
except you and i thrive homeless

didn't mean to leave you with all my charmless clippings
i cool in ice cubes from your fancy dream drippings
and you can call me the reciever
right or left ear dream weaver
at my side the unfolding songster
singing trickster makes this world stronger

they call me little reckless and him mister far gone
side by side we make the tall one
he was a wax president, made out with real hair tho,
smells like a beach accident, a corpse soul and sand mementos.
when such a terrible emptiness masticates you, and your bones splinter and your mind expires, and the only thing left is to sit alone and feel the teeth above and below and within you. that is when the world breaks. not long ago you felt wide eyed, but today the purpose is null. an empty hull of a ship full of broken bottles and ugly mirrors.

The well, the well. The water hung.

___ of greatness, whether stature affords a staggering difference; unknown. it is simple, i remember always touching on the razed road where one can with exceptional stupidity and curiosity, reach into the dark chasms of another world, so to speak. it's not living, in fact it's entirely dead. but what lingers there is the afterthought; every great revelation ever that entered our atmosphere, however brief, however static or mad. i let my fingers trace the wet bricks of that reservoir as one might in attempts to make a glass chime, but of the coaxing choirs below me, i cling to the most haunting drone. the deep dissonance. it lulls me into a bane that i have willingly nurtured . my hands are wet not with water, but with overflowing cascades of liquor and horrors and bewitching sirens that croon to me and everyone i touch. a nefarious baritone timbre lulls between floorboard and the small of my back. a fitting venue for the symphony of a glorious and coruscating madness. calm, rest.  and i see little beady now, with her aching lullabies that waft over tin roofs until the chickens come home to roost.