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Jeff Lewis Sep 21
In my dream, there is a broken bridge.
That bridge impossible to cross.
Yet, all is possible
                     in the land of dreams.
So,
why fret?
Except, this:
                     In my dream, there exist this broken bridge.
after:  "The Broken Bridge and The Dream", Salvador Dali
Art is a hell of a *******
drug, I tell you
it surreptitiously creeps
into you in a way that is
utterly indecipherable,

and lures you deep;
deep into it as the void above...

For the eye loves
what it sees,
and what's been seen
by the eye
is rather fascinating to the soul,

Amidst all these
Overwhelming emotions,
a harmonic converge
between the eye and the soul
is created,

Fostering a sui generis ecstatic rhapsody!
eve Apr 3
ego
Living a life for another, made by others,
Anticipating and considering all these expectations,
Especially, for the fans who tolerate the process of expanding education and inspiration,
We’re doing everything we have to do to fulfill the next agent.
We are the creators of a new generation, influencing teens with the power of our platforms,
Reinforcing the idea of an effortless motivation.
To plan ahead, we’re moving forward,
Toward the subsequent destination.
We are the driving forces of multimedia nations,
Narcissism and low self-esteem are the feelings we’re morally inclined to,
Feeling our own bodies test addiction to a single notification,
We’re living in endless rotation.
Our minds have grown accustomed to the routines of checking the number,
Of likes and comments on the recent,
Even, lurking and giving into the guilty pleasure of stalking,
If the previous line resonates, then you’ve just justified our statistics and analytics.
The only way out is through resuscitation,
Deactivating can be deemed the easier option,
However, those who signed up for it can argue that widespread messages are the modern communication for our adolescents,
Setting a model for the next, following, and upcoming conversation.
CK Baker Oct 2017
they’re pouring out of the
woodwork
those pretentious machiavellians
in ailing albino frames
eccentric masked figures
milling about the glow light
like night moths
in a cold london fog

lunatic gazers
with seeping moles
pinned by frogmen and twine
spider climbers
in hell fire
splitting seams
on the fading
and hideous ink

guards of the perch
stand on hades hand
while monsters and demons
with severed limbs
taunt the condemned
and wanting
souls of the ******

cauldron fire
in blood red sky
silent screams
hack and wheeze
gas lines broken
words unspoken
teetering backwards
in the dark shadows
of the phantom abyss
Kaitlyn Jun 2018
(an ekphrastic poem based on the painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper)

Four
solemn faces,
doused in gold,
like moths to flame,
seek warmth from the cold.
Darkness leers, but harsh light shields
these lonely creatures from their feelings untold.

One
diner desolate,
a waiter old,
and three weary visitors
are portrayed. The scene unfolds.
Most eat under the sunlight, unlike
these nighthawks who flocked from their households.

Some
loneliness darkens
hearts like blindfolds;
nighthawks’ hearts aren’t exceptions.
The woman red and bold,
the man in shadows, and another
man with a cigarette in his hold

are
isolated together.
They are controlled
and defined by solitude.
They don’t belong. No mold
fits them. They only have a
diner, each other, and lonesome souls unconsoled.
Cat May 2018
What is it about the water?
Like misshaped tiles the ripples scatter;
shifting at every swift motion and quake,
staring back at a man lost in a reflective gaze
Lost in a pool of his own thoughts;
He recognizes the drowning body
that sinks deeper as his mind descends

Should he linger behind inches of safety;
or should he let himself fall into ponderous
depths of transparent glass;
Eyes closed, he lets go and joins his enemy,
like a sail his body floats, effortlessly.
"Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)" by David Hockney
These mountains are but a stand of trees
to the man astride that horse;
dark eyes are
massive storm clouds
or shadows cast
by towering presence
hidden in the folds
of an otherwise ordinary
brain. Power? There
is no end to this man's power
except the end
that will always march
shattering sheets of glass ice
with hooves so hard
they weather mountains.

Does he see it? The horse,
whose everyday hooves crack
one film of ice among many,
sees it; has a face
- most expressive beast on earth -
that speaks aloud
against the cold that runs fingernails along
the raw interior of her throat.

Yes, this man, like so many men,
make choices, and choices
have troubling consequences.


There is darkness
in these mountains;
because mountains stand taller
than the common countryside.
Sometimes, their height brings them closer
to the sun. At midnight, their peaks
are more distant than the depths of a gorge.

See the deeply set, tempered soul
ensconced in that man's eyes?


The horse is very,
very tired, and sees more
than mountains, icicles,
wisps of frozen cloud -
she sees beyond these and
beneath these, to a destination
frozen shut in the folds of an
otherwise ordinary brain.
Power? The horse sighs
and drips chilled mucus
on snow. Her humanity
she pours out and only a
frozen peak can see.

*There are humans
making choices
always leading
to the cold.
For the painting, see
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9d/Paul_Delaroche_-_Napoleon_Crossing_the_Alps_-_Google_Art_Project_2.jpg
PH Apr 2015
perpetual expeditions amidst this hazy twilight,
periwinkled vistas ensnaring me in

buzzzzzzzzzzzz
the sound penetrates my ear drum

black and yellow rabble-rouser
this rambunctious little menace

a pomegranate
eternally ripe, giving me life

gilled, scaled, underwater creature
emerging from the deep, boundless rift

two tantalizing tigers
troublesome, treacherous

and she laid there—
undisturbed, unaware

jabbed in her side by a M1903 Springfield
soothed state rattled, shattered

wincing from the poke of the blunt end of the gun
the sleeping lady slept no more

poor fellows,
how were they supposed to hold on to it without opposable thumbs?
  
the distressed damsel appeared grotesque,
flailing and fidgeting at the sight of her surroundings

surface rocking beneath my feat,
my trusty elephant’s weak ankles shattering my already shattered stability

i had no more time for such nonsenses
buzzing sounds burned deep into my psyche

the soft-spoken horizon called out to me
calling for me to continue on into the enigmatic expanse
Marieta Maglas Nov 2014
Van Gogh wanted to mix a material rainbow of colors
From primary red, yellow and blue in the sense of divine.
In the Holy Light, the love time of the flower clock discolors.
The empty glasses on the tables lack the Holy wine.

The ideal round tables assume their infinite regress,
While huddling down in a stupor the lonely men around.
Their eyes do not see the sense of life and true noblesse.
From a corner view, silent colors search for the sound.

Tables for awakening, for life and for the fate's game.
In life, a complete circled awareness needs time.
In many forms, the epitome of tableness is the same.
It keeps a purple silence for the painted mother of thyme.


This irreconcilable demon -woman hung on the left wall
Needs that freedom engraved on the emerald green door.
The watch on her hand shows the time for a masked ball.
Destined never to meet are the parallel lines on the floor.

Love is for completing the time as pink is for the emerald green.
In the mirror, this nuance of green reflects the sadness of life.
Against the red, pink and white, in games, the cue tip can lean,
Because all the main complementary colors are at strife.

The white coat of the waiter is a symbol in the glow of the lamp.
The perspective looks somewhat downward toward the floor.
Extending to new dimensions, Eve sits or she just up to vamp.
The flowers wither and the life disappears after an endless war.
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