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I am of the Primrose Empire

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I am of the Primrose Empire It is always dusk when the cycle resets, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shadows against the masonry as I plunge down the same discrepant corridor, a passage that bends against geometry, narrowing and widening like an inhaling throat. Past the broken gargoyles. Into the moss-eaten ruins of a seated angel whose stone wings have sheared away to jagged stubs. And onwards, deeper into the vaulted hush, drawn by an old, fevered pull toward the temple of the sacred primrose. Here, in the forgotten transept of empire, stands the...
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LOGS FROM THE VOID

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 LOGS FROM THE VOID To access the journals, consider subscribing to JJFBbennett via: Patreon - https://www.patreon.com/1809829/join   DeviantArt : https://www.deviantart.com/jjfbbennett/subscriptions Meta Subscriber Hub for exclusive content: https://www.facebook.com/JohnBennettArt/subscribenow?surface=pinned_comments The Highway and the Lost Soldier What began in Journal 001 as "T he Whisper of the Rust ", a haunting, ancient frequency in the desert static that lured travellers into the spinifex, soon became a physical threat in Journal 002 " The Salt and the Sinew ", as a crawling, unnatural drought began parching the land and its people, reclaiming their very moisture as an ancient debt.  Now, in Journal 003: The Tithe of the Living , this relentless hunger has materialised on the Stuart Highway as "The Thirst That Walks." Even the sealed, air-conditioned sanctuary of a tourist bus cannot protect the living, as a single open door is all it takes for t...
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Driving in Silence

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  Driving in Silence How do you approach an apparition? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett From our safe seats We gaze at the grandeur of the empire Driving in silence Generation in Generation out My YouTube Music Station:   https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCrxQKZRnAka3dliF7lp1-Ow 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 .  To support my art, feel free to  become a subscribed member via Patreon donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal    Copyright This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws . Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the sponsor's written permission is prohibited.
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The Empire of the Primrose

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  The Empire of the Primrose The city fell in a single night Holding it would take longer So the painters were summoned in the gloom And the saints on the stone walls... Were given his family's eyes   A bloodline was found for him Older than the walls Older than the kings who raised them Now even the iron earth must forget It ever belonged to anyone else... I am the vessel, I am the decree The apex of empire, the false purity Holding the pale coronal into the glare Chartered to conquer the silence out there A seed of cold fences, an ark of damp clay Bending the void to the shape of decay The cycle resets in the dusk of the dream Cobblestone alleys and banners unseen Down the discrepant and tapering throat Past broken angels where gargoyles float Into the wood of the rot and the mould Smelling of Devon and iron gone cold One yellow petal, immaculate bloom Crushing the soul with the weight of its doom Touch the cold stem—and the spires bend back Cobbles turn red on the furnace-h...
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The Empire of the Primrose

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  Empire of the Primrose poem The city fell in a single night.  Holding it would take longer. So the painters were summoned,  and the saints on the walls were given his family's eyes. A bloodline was found for him,  older than the walls,  older than the kings who raised them. Now even the earth must forget it ever belonged to anyone else. The Empire of the Primrose - Station 1 Do you have recurring dreams? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The cycle always resets at dusk, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shad...
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The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching

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  The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching The atmosphere over Pine Creek churns before it breaks. The sky stops being a distant ceiling, and tears open into a fevered, gestural vortex, churning in fierce ribbons of cadmium gold, raw ember, and bruised ink. Here, in the suffocating stillness of the build-up, the heat plays violent tricks on my inner eye. As the squall gathers, the twisting ironwoods and fractured ridges don't feel empty; they crawl with the uncanny belief of the Little People, low-slung, watchful phantoms spun from wire, red dust, and dry static, waiting out the road's fragility. Every jagged branch and swirling filament of cloud becomes a face, an arm, a sinister presence breathing inside the rising storm, drawing the traveller deeper into the delirium of the interior. Pine Creek Storm Front Torn black filaments of wind and shadow seemed to claw straight out of the atmosphere, dripping down like hot tar, twisting through the spindly ironwo...
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Location: Pine Creek NT 0847, Australia
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Artist statement - AI ART and Meaning

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  AI ART and Meaning What role does an artist play when employing AI? Artist statement by JJFBbennett If we accept that AI can generate vast quantities of statistically “meaningful” content from data and algorithms, then meaningful art may lie not in the output itself, but in its selection and framing. AI functions as a kind of unconscious, producing raw material at scale. The artist’s role shifts from maker to curator: deciding what to extract from the data’s noise, what to present as art, the context in which it appears, and the conversation it enters. The artist as the muddler and meddler in the centre of it all. This shift has an art-historical precedent. In 1917, Marcel Duchamp’s *Fountain* made a decisive claim: the artist had not sculpted the urinal but selected it, titled it, and placed it in a gallery. Meaning arose from the gesture of choice rather than the act of making. Walter Benjamin, too, anticipated this logic in his reflections on montage and editing: meaning can e...
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