JJFBbennett

  The Art of Bigots Please Explain (Bigots on the Storm) thunder cracking, pouring rain, distant tortured piano [Verse 1] Bigots on the storm Bigots on the storm Into this hell we're thrown Like a corpse without a home A puppet carved from bone Bigots on the storm [Verse 2] There's a Hanson in the abyss Her mouth is rotting with the hiss "Swamped by Asians!" vomits through the black "Please explain!" — the last words you’ll hear back Take a long holiday to the void Let the mining blood money be enjoyed If you give this poison a ride Sweet Australia will suicide Hanson in the abyss… yeah [Chorus] Bigots on the storm Bigots on the storm Into this grave we're thrown Bigots on the storm [Verse 3] Burqa in the Senate, reaper in disguise "Muslims incompatible!" as the nation dies "No good ones," she exhales like cyanide "Religion of hate," the bigots glorify Child after child on the dole they curse Conditional sorry — watch the co...

  The Art of the Damned The current gallery system functions as a modern dam built right at the headwaters of artistic creation. The headwaters are the raw, bubbling springs high in the mountains—wild, uncontainable, fed by countless small tributaries of individual vision, experimentation, failure, intuition, and obsession. This is where most serious art actually begins: in studios, bedrooms, sketchbooks, late-night arguments, personal crises, and private obsessions, long before any curator or collector ever hears a name. Once a handful of major galleries, institutions, auction houses, and their allied gatekeepers (collectors, critics, fair directors, residency programs) gain decisive influence over those headwaters—deciding which artists get early solo shows, which receive press, which enter the "right" conversations, which are anointed with blue-chip representation—they effectively place the dam. From that point forward: The flow of visibility, legitimacy, money, and audien...

  The Internal Singularity  The silver nanoweave holds me tight... shimmering like a second skin. But the crushing weight isn't coming from the machine. It’s inside. I look down at my chest... and there is no flesh left. No ribs. No heartbeat. Only a collapse. A dark... swirling... singularity. The air in the pod bends around me. The light itself is warping... pulled uncontrollably into the hollow where my soul used to be. I see my fear—those thin, fractured arcs of violet lightning—trying to break free. But they don't flare out. They are dragged back in. Violently sucked into the crushing gravity of this... bottomless despair. Nothing escapes. Not the light. Not the scream. Not me. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via  Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art .  Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub:  https://www.facebook...

  The Internal Singularity Inside the high-tech cryo-cocoon, JB’s bound body is central, wrapped tightly in shimmering silver nanoweave. His chest cavity is visualised not as flesh, but as a swirling, dark "black hole" singularity, warping the light and space within the pod. Thin, fractured arcs of violet light—representing his remaining anxiety—are being violently sucked into this dark centre, unable to escape the "crushing gravity" of his despair. The lighting is heavy, dark, and oppressive. This Crushing Weight  Psychological Landscape A surreal, abstract psychological landscape inside JB's mind. A tiny, insignificant figure of JB in his flight suit is on his knees on a cracked obsidian floor, being physically crushed by the immense, gravitational weight of a massive, swirling dark sphere hovering just above him—the manifestation of the "black hole mind." Fractured, weak volleys of violet lightning crackle uselessly against the overwhelming darkness...

  Our Psycho-Mythic Descent Here we are Stuck inside this weave You and I Underneath a hum that's ever tightening down, down, down Ever tightening down. Through the glass As if in an ocean Waiting here Always failing to remember who we were, were, were I wonder who we were. You look at me But your eyes are empty In the dark With the silver metal blooming in your mind, mind, mind Blooming in your mind. And the storm Rages on the outside While we sleep Watching all the shattered fragments floating by, by, by Fragments floating by. Here we are Caught inside the amber You and me Leaving all the ghosts of who we used to be, be, be Who we used to be. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via  Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art .  Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub:  https://www.facebook.com/share/g/18ythpSXPZ/ You can subscribe t...

  The Art of Yeee-haw Goddamn, let's do a tune called "Hanson Hide," okay?   Goddamn tape's rollin', let's go!   Let's round 'em up!   One, two, three, four! Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Keep them Asians movin', movin', movin'   Though they're workin', never complainin'   Don't try to tell me they're not floodin'   We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, burqa in your face!   Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, cover up the race!   Hanson hide, yeee-haw! Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Keep them Africans out, out, out   They bring disease, that's what she shouts   No refugees, no black South, no doubt   We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, chain-link and hate!   Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, keep Australia white!   Hanson hide, yeee-haw! No good Muslims!...