Claude Monet, Misty Morning on the Arm of the Seine at Giverny
Salvador Dali, Flores Surrealistas
Is this banksy?!Affirmative, this has been around since quite some time and has been used for canvases as well!
HA! Justin fighting off Succubi with the gnarliest of blonde mustaches.
All about the camera on my phone.
Artistry
The Architect
The architect…
The ambitious architect;
Aiming for immortal blue,
And true to a slew of concepts,
Building dutiful dignified extensions
That yawn for years
Against the sun’s suspicious
Yellow caress;
That pierce to tears
The solemnly splattered clouds
The wind had fancily dressed.
Hues of nature challenge
These dusty dead designs,
Then wisely recant their selfish rants
For walls will fall with time.
Regardless,
These grey giants awaken
From piled on progress;
Stretched with decisions and revisions,
To produce perfect pedestals,
Reticent but raucus rows
Reflecting burnt oranges
And limitless brazen blues.
But these proud towers are viciously viewed
By the architect’s calloused
And colorblind crew.
Suburbia (Part 6 of 6)
Indeed,
Life is fleeting
And death is firmly feared,
But reality…
It rises and grows,
An imperceptible ebb and flow
So worthy of the ellipses’ and etceteras
Vaguely kept in tow
That trail and trace the mysterious
Paths paved from digression
And acceptance of circumstance,
But this family persists to
Puncture this punctuation;
Breaking their necks
To achieve that desired effect,
Despite the hardened hope
That shines in all that’s left.
For with a glance,
The ambition of autumn is apparent;
Nature’s wilted youth
Falls with courage,
Faded and forlorned
But fringed with truth,
And fabricated
By the phantom fingers of fate.
-Jeremy Neighbors
Suburbia (Part 5 of 6)
Brother,
When will wisdom
Widdle your swollen heart
To rattle more comfortably
In its compartment?
Your ribs bow and bulge
With such symmetrical splendor,
Contorted by the discontent
And rapid red lament
Of a beating repeat offender.
Your personal prisoner pleads
To do more than just bleed!
Your angst transcends
That white cage which bows and bends,
Furnishing the walls
Where you whisper dreams in sleep.
Posters plastered with pride and promise
Shed light that windows cannot reveal;
Bright worlds undamaged,
Bandages for wounds never healed.
But underneath this flimsy skin
Is solid boring brick,
Sectioned with white cement,
Hardened and congealed.
Suburbia (Part 4 of 6)
Sister,
You’ve adapted to your adversity;
A flower fallen flightless
To writhe in weeds of woe
That flow to spite life
Wherever it may grow.
Blown is the wind against the stem
That held your young hesitant hopes,
But a stale familiar breath
Scattered your soft seeds
Among shallow and sterile soil.
You’re painted pink for pity
And adorned with jewelry
To conceal the zeal of a consistent hand,
And the voice of your ambition
Blends to silence
Amidst the fluorescent hum of the city;
As silent as your room
When the five-fingered anchor
Drowns those amiable eyes
Deeper in shameful shine.
Those swollen red vessels
Will forever stain my memory,
Ready to run from face to floor.
No sleep for dreams,
So what are dreams for?
