Saturday, September 28, 2019

Scott Silsbee writes

My heart is growing
a little bit smaller
with each passing day.
I know I shouldn’t 
talk about it.

Painting --  Juan Miró

Scott Thomas Outlar writes

Acidic Cycles/Meltdown Fever  
Rain falls heavy on my head/poison daggers
tease with cancerous intentions/inventions of decadence
A sky that won’t be silenced…
screaming hardships across the ocean
Burning oilfields in the distance/money making schemes
of madness/wounded is the animal…
once called human – Paradise lost
to the wages of war – What’s the score?
No one’s sure anymore
The fields of chaos weep…
plucking the poppies/popping the pills –
A Medical Industrial Death Machine
dares to dream
of keeping the populace fast asleep
Double down on the bleeding nightmares…
oozing out the prison walls/privatized –
lock you up and burn your eyes
from the truth/too harsh/lost sight
A flight into the realms
of cognitive dissonance/Stockholm Syndrome
A love of the oppressor
as the federal budget bloats/the Beast
sinks its teeth
into open veins/a strange
toxin dissolves into the blood
A knock on the door…
Is anyone home?
A vampire dressed to the nines… 
sleek suit/sleazy art of war
Roll out the red carpet
for the whore of Babylon/babbling
in strange tongues/twisted carnage
on the tip
of a tidal surge
swarming out at sea/a prophecy
of devastation unto damnation
Pestilence and plagues/vaccinated haze…
the waves rise/fall/
collapse inward/implosive indoctrination
from the cradle to the grave/betrayed
Shovel ready
jobs that never surface/left buried
where the bombs dropped/radioactive plumes
drift skyward/torch heaven
rain falls heavy on my head
Image result for urban deluge paintings 
Urban Deluge -- katy kuhn

Scott Thomas Outlar writes

Sweet Explosion 
Her veins are spiked with chlorella
aqua seafoam blue-green algae
with a drip of phytoplankton
pumping from the pores of velvet antler 
Her eyes are carrot juice lasers
candy cucumber lids of alkaline salt
seeping in where the violet aura
surges with a fury of synchronistic flash
Her smile is a pearly white paradise
coated in celery crunch gene therapy
keeping calcification at bay
while smooth ships sail nearer to shore
Her tongue is laced in ghost pepper fetish
sweating out the lust of combustive flesh
sending shivers down the spine of kundalini
in white ignition pulse of pineapple explosion
Image result for kundalini paintings
Kundalini Rising -- Barbara Rockhold

Steve Koons draws

Web of Existence

Steve Koons draws


Steve Koons draws


Steve Koons draws


Shamim Ara writes

You May Call It a Blasphemy

You may call it a blasphemy,
if I tell the world is cruel
when it is female,
and the weaker sex faces
some emergency case;
then it's to be judged by stronger majesty.
When it is the dark at night,
she is not allowed to go out;
she has pain, pain and pain,
she got the case for medicine,
yet nobody cares,
calls it pretended and
not to be cured at once.
You may call it a blasphemy
if I tell capitalism comes from zero,
practised between the two
and spreads...
You may call it blasphemy
if I tell capitalism lives in
men and women,
It's a never ending line
been supported by women.
 Dorşîn -- Zehra Doğa

Sufia Khatoon paints

Sufia Khatoon paints

Sufia Khatoon paints

Sheikha A. writes

When a laugh crinkles  my eyes to glint wild, know I hold you close. To nights dedicated to dreaming you into the pores of my being, I keep you prisoned. In between the layers of skin, of my face, I have you enshrined. A mausoleum of buried tears that surge out no more. The identity I now am, just one, is an independence of heart from its chest of safety’s escapism.
Image result for Iosias sepultus in mausoleum patrum

Iosias sepultus in mausoleum patrum (2 Chronicles 35:24) -- Salvador Dalí

("Josiah Buried in the Mausoleum of  His Fathers" -- His servants therefore took him out of that chariot, and put him in the second chariot that he had; and they brought him to Jerusalem, and he died, and was buried in one of the sepulchres of his fathers. And all Judah and Jerusalem mourned for Josiah. -- King James Bible)

Sheikha A. writes

Cobblestone Tears

Lampposts at the base loosen their steel
under the force of moss. The curtains
of my room are statues of fountains,
arching perceptively against the smoke
in the wind. Flowers pressed between bars
of iron gates, paper fans against luscious
velvet – this house has survived contrasts.
You will know my city for its beauty –
the nightly binging on shadows – voices
that pry into sprouting pods. Feet scale
towards an immeasurable sky. You will
never see a string of birds free like the kite.
Pigeons coiling their wings on unknown
rooftops, squabbles with domestic eagles.
April has arrived last night with a bang
of flies. Somewhere else, a neighbour
hadn’t switched off their lights.
Image result for cobblestone paintings
 Where Paths Cross -- Joseph Vega

Sheila Jacob writes

Blodwen’s Bones

They parcelled up my bones,
sent them from Cheshire
to Llandudno-look, here’s
the crown of my skull,
vertebrae, rib-parings,
fragments of hips, pelvis,
a scattering of limbs.
Experts scanned and probed.
Blodwen, they wrote,
(though I never answered
to such a name) was five foot
tall, had arthritis, secondary
cancer, carried heavy weights
and farmed on the Little Orme. 
Oh, my sad bones,
no-one heard your lament
when they pinned you
under glass. 
Sing it louder, tell out my love
for mountain slopes, wide
copper skies, the dance
of rain on my hair.

Souradeep Sen writes

Wait for me

My love,
Wait for me by the seashores
To the mountains do I go
For conquering my soul.
Come not to find me there -
For lost will I be
Lost and in utter disrepair.
Lost intermittently for friends
Lost probably for hopes
Lost forever from the dead past -
And its dreary woes.
But never for thee,
seldom for thy part. 

Lost will I be in the woods
And to those denizens -
More to those elves of hills.
Lost to those brooks and streams
Lost among the pine and cedar
But, them would I love
less than I love thee.

Wait for me by the seas,
For when I return
To thy invitation for a swim,
Purging the wisdom and the dross
Of those alluring spirits of the hills -
Wait until this love for thee
Erupts like a spring,
Flows in myriad fountains
Flies in unbroken wings.

Wait for me, by the seashore, my love -
For return I shall, love thee, I will
Wait not just for my going under
But for the beyond going
Or wait till the seas run dry
Vapours replacing its foaming brine.
This my only promise, this my love's sign,
The eternal sanction and seal -
Till I'm dying.
Image result for waiting by the sea paintings
I am waiting for you -- Samacca Art

Sunday, September 15, 2019

Vitaliy Mashchenko paints


Steven Fortune writes


(Inspired by the Legend of Zelda: Ocarina Of Time video game)

I. The Forest Temple

Negotiating vertigo architecture
in a tangled hotel of undead hosts
I stumble and wonder if I'm
simply sleeping in a side-effect
of what the Village Elder called
being alive

We never knew the word in the wax
museum hamlet of our youth
or the meaning of what happened to
the Elder...a meaning
I could not define for you
or comprehend for myself
as I set out for his pioneering
final wish

Childhood sleep painted no portraits
of a revolutionary field trip
Fate talked me into a vow of silence
I could not defy until the meaning
of your goodbye gift caught up
with the trot of my growth

The meaning
you could not define for me

Greener than the grass stains
on the splinter orphanage of my extremities
was I - the son of History -
in the ways and purposes of human skin
I would break from these unholy
halls of lurking art
disassemble all the royal blocks
sealing their ambition
and appeal to the Goddesses
for a writing off of this as a practice run
all for one sliver of vacation from this destiny
to learn the feeling of your fingertips
on the day I crossed the glorified
cliche of a bridge
for the paradox I thought
would drop me off with your gift
still flesh-warm and abstract
in my unprecedented hands

II. The Fire Temple

A childhood knack for rock gardening
was skewed into curled facade of chagrin
when acquaintance was made with a tribe
whose babies are raised on literal pebbles

(Rocks in the belly are sumo ambrosia
Cocoa and fruit are for artists)

Boulder entrees in a brainwashed beast's
volcanic vicinity humbled them from
poor choice of rival to diffident
prisoners of a war taken by tampered time
for a personified hog ride

Their penchant for dancing and brotherhood
euphemised the magnitude of my calling
from chosen to willing

The itch of their fabric was made bearable
when the molten necessity of their beatified
ruby's stolen nobility agonized me with
heat-seeking chicanes of insistent back-drafts
and door-painted mouse traps glaring
triumphantly from the come-hither perspective
of motion-fused hallways ignited

The gleam of their gauntlets implanted
a sumo invective in my demolition of
vindictive cells shushing brethren
who braved the red lake's rock causeways
for the release of their rambunctious captain

I coveted this summit's infernal virus
to thaw out the famine
unleashed by a tyrant's spite

The almighty ruby can dance on my chest
in the shrug of an integral bonus

III. A Night In The Water Temple

'When water fills the lake,
shoot for the morning light.'

Who's unearthly pen of purpose
spiked the medicinal lingo of
my life's mission statement with
the sweet calligraphy of a
redeemer's destiny

On what grounds of anticlimactic
credentials was I plucked from
the frozen context of forest green ignorance
and assigned to this twitchy box of a bath house
and its drowned doors spiteful currents
self-appointed damsels and
sea dweller duds

This I ponder as a hero
pampers his beleaguered feet
beneath the towel of an opportune torch
and inquires of his whimsical pet pearl
why an instrument of heaven's orchestra
could not compose a path to a shoehorn

With everyday gadgets of the gods
he is coming for my heart
and I will beat him with it
till the destiny of a redeemer wraps
its existence around the black dimensions
of my inferiority and makes
for the morning light

Steven Fortune writes


Defining me
is like spelling out
a hundred-letter word
Essence of existence seized
in a vowel-less commute
through a dreamless sleep
between the suns
of definition and identity
Applications of passivity
become of me then bail
on potential to become me
Nothing here to see
say the signature police
Move along evolving as you were
Vicissitude's aloof
to the morose settlement
cited only in a mime around
the fringes of inclusion's
stunned recess
Outspokenness seduces
in its transparent slip of tongues
Intellectual arousal cowers
under impotence of
aural relevance
Praying to the ghost of
Helen Keller for a shadow
based influence
I resent my senses
on the basis of
their comfort on a fence
Why am I denied
essential evidence?
What nuances seal
the appeal of pretense?
I can lay no claim to tragedy
I'm too preoccupied
with verbal travesties
and inclinations of Van Gogh's spite
towards awarded senses
I'm inclined to take my eyes first
like an inconveniently
enlightened Oedipus
or have them taken from me
by a bastard boy
keen to my attempts
at nurturing to health
the wrongings of divine right
Gloucestershire sauce
imprints a bitter stain
on my incessant appetite
for gluttonous libations
of assured affirmations
Oedipus -- Nykolai Aleksander