Malicoat -crushed dust on whatever.

"Captain Manuel Zora"- 1955 by P. Malicoat crushed dust on whatever.
This noseless portrait defies my preconceived notions concerning the stupidity of portraiture. Horses with holes sprout definitive translation. Mysical leaps and stylistic strangeness are merged in a face poised in inquiry. His features aren't longing for the future, he's set all that aside. He's barely illuminated yet strength crackles in wilts and lines as character breathes in brows and eyes. French grey, black and brown are a momento to his mettle. Need to get to Boston to truly see this Malicoat piece.

art is folly, hail beauty.

a spiritual love
is not too wise
for a materialist dream
under resourced and defying logic
printed, paid and outsourced.
a physical love is worshipped
as a happy dream divided
it pays the bills
but splits arise
within the lies of projection
as republics of the future detune
seeking hydrating lotion that potion wont dignify.
so keep it coming if your running
learn from them now, no, maybe later.

green dragons in taiyuan

scissored cortex sprouting anger

from where does your sorrow stem?
some aged and cluttered hem
is it a blasters cry for recognition?
you be a full grown man in precognition?
from wearing your suit in bed at night
from caging your life in a home so bright?
from giving humans a numerical code
or describing them as animals crossing roads?
from thinking the worst of natures' sounds
giega counters with epileptic pounds
did you deny and defy both logic and karma?
or let hatred eat you whole?
did you fail to breath with different souls
leave the invoice enclosed
with innerspring dialectic shadows
rush headlong into too many barriers?
you mean something somehow you matter
to someone you'll find, not long now.
"why not smile...you've been down for a while"

portrait art is stupid

imagined rocks
rise from fields
flowers, seraphum and steel

fluid skies this morning

this digital camera is nearly as pathetic as my drawings.

not for sycophants

sa

old sketch in china ...peak at huang shan- me in an imagined past life if such a thing should exist

vignette with retarded colour

amorphous scapes

shibboleth yet limpid

black and white roses

roses of all colours
who know right from wrong
who dance and bring
the lonely world a song
to you i gleam
upside down
swing through town
epigone epicure

adapt adept

better to change mildly
to grow up a little
than lie everywhere you go
better to piss in the wind
with originality
than mimic the demons that guide
the generalisimo's advertised suggestive speech
i could be wrong
ever, always but never
in a see ers mind or a tele pa's line.

painting with pins

last nights' splash