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Jon Thenes Sep 2019
in our very own room
all have fever.. privately
we feed it soft egg

we closet and build
create fabric, like insect
mouthwork, repurpose

outside of the home
dictated by company
we have shared madness

we tread the weather
we institutionalize
miss out on the world

societies pal
traitors to our piracy
mistrust our own mind

blinds drawn, in fierce study
apply to the retooling
head clay made better

the automaton
must bare some animation
unallied approach

wetter still and fit
your neutrons fend now and thrive
carry the tune outdoors ?
Amanda Noel Jul 2019
A cartoonist's beginning, with pencil in hand,
The comics and stories set out in newsstands.
A director's performance becomes the end,
When power is too much to understand.
Few good recollections are mentioned
of a man with a heavy hand.

But, back to a finer time in his career,
When his vision seemed clearer.
The vessel was a bit easier to steer.

Animating Mouse cartoons and Silly Symphonies,
Motivated by arrogance and crafty planning.
He was elevated by his tendency,
nothing less than quality,
As well as his intensity.

He was a theatrical man,
From what I can understand,
Enthusiastically grand,
On desks and tables he'd stand.

Passion in his eyes,
To bring ideas alive,
With overwhelming strides,
For perfection in lines.

Acting out characters with a musical composer.
Painting their unique frame in tune,
With the beat,
a keep up
in overexposure,
Exuberant in all motions, he was a dream holder.

in Flowers and Trees,
Before this masterpiece,
Attended the Art Students League,
While working for a lumber company.

A man in love with trees.
"Don't turn my Sylvia into a toothpick!"
One character screams.
A love story of vanity.

Even the Big Bad Wolf
Hid behind trees.

Those Three Little Pigs,
That Technicolor spritz,
Colors as vibrant,
As a minds image,
animation fluid.

Things were no longer black or white
a wandering cat, colored in sight.
Streams of hues floating, by
a splitting prism dividing light.
A cow who recognized,
The necessity of saving butterflies

But, he let his ego stand in the way.
Obstructing his view, the things he'd say,
Minimalizing, to decay of pay.
He thought he was the top of the world those days.

I'm sure it would have been different,
If he wasn't dependent
On something so relentless
Molding him pretentious.

Perhaps he would have had a better handle on plans,
A mind sharpened,
A feather like grip on the pencil in hand,
Letting thoughts in his mind decorate beaches with Sand.

And Trees.
Cartoon Animation Biography;
Burton F. Gillett
Alan S Bailey Jul 2019
Pineapple topped beach palms are tall in the clouds,
Echoes of bells tones trail in the sky so dark blue.
The sun is liquid honey, with a golden candy coating,
It is now that I look up and see my red balloon.

A song of harmonic laughter is full in the air,
Up it floats into adventurous magical territories,
Mythic beasts and sprites follow on clouds and stare,
Ticker-tape string trailing, windy chimed melodies.

The chalk of clouds are pillows filling the sky,
Darker and suspended in mid-animation, dimming.
The balloon floats still-ever higher in the light,
Lighter than ever, above the earth still spinning...
Michael H Jun 2019

Giving each other life
Closer and closer
Python in brains
Already there

Light blue
Animation with AI
Stark love

Reading fast
Choosing how human you are
Faux-morality dying
Jon Thenes Apr 2019
This bedroom got boring
I hold in my breath til I’m pressured
just short of pain
and result :
The wall at the far end pushes back into the darkness
the bed raises on longer limbs
Now there is more territory
Inviting in a new metabolism
some organic animation
A stretch of imagination
I miss The Monsters Under The Bed
Johnny walker Nov 2018
Lost In thoughts these days It
to where time there is mostly
spent, I have no worries for
whilst I'm
Protected In my own bubble of
thoughts I'm untouchable from
the rest of my surrounding
Almost like I'm frozen In time
suspended animation awaiting
to bought to live again where my
wife and I can live our life over
A poems of my thoughts of how future life If here now could be just dreaming as usual but keeps me happy
Asunna Mar 2018
Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Please stop staring at the hole.
With magic i could be one once more,
But fairytales aren't standing tall.
Ruby shoes run out of wishes
I'm sculpted, carved. just like pumpkin.
There's just no light inside. It's gone.
touka Mar 2018
I find myself

in improvised dances
to songs that scratch at the shadows
of songs before them

I find myself

in blue light that flickers
wavers by the bedside
sends out a sharp, musical sound
just when I feel it's gotten too quiet

I find myself

in colors, complementary
proud on the screen
flashing expertly in the heart of a scene

and I find myself

in the stories of people who are lost
who cannot find themselves
who jut out from their imposed pages
drenched, pouring the thick ink
that makes up the prose
of their pain and passion

so, I find myself

in silly, stealing, fleeting things
in things that time will wear, eat and tear
in pages, in notes, in shared thoughts and vibrant colors
but in each new finite, fictional summer
I find myself there
in its sugar-coated, sweetened care
how I'd love to tie my life up with
bareness, raw knuckles and fists
in a brawl that teases its brevity
and once it's won, maybe a true love kiss
tie it into a neatly knotted bow
and sign the end page with an authors flourish
Vexren4000 Nov 2017
The artist of the realm,
Makes the physics there as well,
The cartoonist is the rule of law,
In a land of his mind,
Forged by pencil and machine,
Color-coded and painstakingly placed,
Storyboarded and placed together,
In some sense of harmony,
In animations taken for granted.

Carlos Oct 2017
Here I've grown to accept the riddles of each day, to culminate into a coalesced mesh of disarray.
Never would the seeds down under sprout to see the sun at the mere sound of thunder.
X marks the spot somewhere dissolving in my gut, wrenching at the chance to give both some and none of which we call *****.
I've lost my faith in humanity,
I've lost humanity in my faith.
Yet I'd face my fate if only just to sate the state.
This flip book of stop.
Assimilates fremescent assibilation,
And similarly tastes terrible,
Savoring like dry sponge, and tied tongues,
It's incredibly trivial, just a trivia of syllables stripped up to simple tools.
Simple tools.
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