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. 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 , Fl...
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Seeking a New Way of Seeing
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A political act
To rebalance the inequities
Trust intuition
There is a risk that our story will not be told
Our time doesn't have to be linear
Or by its means of describing us
In the busy work of creating an unfulfilling life
Who is in charge of my simulation?
When I am observed
I behave differently
Fearing my vulnerability
Fearing constant attack
My mind indistinguishable from reality
I step onwards
To self-correct my past errors
As I passively slip through multiple dimensions
With My Judgmental and Righteous Hands
In this game, I have two hands
One is for verity
One is judgment
One is bringing forward truth
One is for corrective measures
One is to bring alignment
One is to teach a lesson
As we transform onwards through this immense virtual space
Night Walking with Weapons
In distant places
Everyone is hacking each other
Everyone is grieving
Everyone overconsuming
There are those trying to reduce socio-economic gaps
Where enforcement is distributed unequally
And I keep searching for signs of what is to come
In my sleepwalks
Whilst I stumble around
Seeking a New Way of Seeing A political act To rebalance the inequities
I step onwards And stealthy transverse multiple dimensions
I have two hands To forge space
In my sleepwalks I hack around The distant places
I am night walking With verity With judgment
Godly Hands
Night walking like an American
Gather your weapons
Forge the intention
Demonstrate your propendency to exert violence
Through intervention
Through approval
Be with the one
Listen to your calling
Walk with purpose
With weapon in hand
Gather in the obedient
Prepare and train
In the presence of victory
God’s hand is with you
Godly Growth
Everything has become digitized
Everything has been even more effortless
Living life exponentially faster
But feeling incomplete
Pushing against the limits of our biosphere
Whilst disregarding the contradictory knowledge
There is only a thin blue line that separates us from the eternal darkness of space
Godly Hands Night Growth
My life has been nothing but a failure - Monet
Each night perfectionism
Each night insomnia
Each night dealing with my thinking difficulties
Dealing with "what ifs”
Dealing with “if onlys"
This way of thinking
This epidemic
It is the sickness, sadness, and self-defeating behavior
Of only seeing failure
Augmenting New Ways of Seeing
There are comparative and competitive winners
Observing human actions in controlled and stimulated surroundings
The Highway and the Lost Soldier The midday sun around Adelaide River does something violent to the bitumen. At forty-five degrees, the Stuart Highway softens like melting fat; it turns into a black mirror, rippling with an unnatural, liquid glare that pools over every low rise. That is where it waits. He is always trudging south, away from life and deeper into the blistering furnace, his boots making no sound against the tar. The Highway and Lost Soldier Standing From two hundred yards out, he resembles a stranded traveler you’d pull over to save. He wears sun-bleached, disintegrating drill cotton that matches the bone-white dust of the termite country, his head angled down at an impossible, broken angle against the glare. No broad-brim hat. No swag. No water bottle. Just stiff, unnatural limbs jerking with every stride. “Driver... look at his face. We need to stop—why won't he turn around?” He is no lost tourist. Could he be the linesman from the Overland Telegraph days who tore ...
The Terminal Horizon Highway The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Would you catch the Terminal Horizon bus? Travel sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, the...
Incandescent - Ode to the Endless Scrub Beneath the vault of fallen light Where red dirt cools to iron stone The ancient country meets the night Unyielding, patient, and alone Cracked earth yields to twisted root To hardy bark and spinifex Where time leaves neither mark nor foot Nor petty boundaries to perplex Rank upon rank the pale trunks rise A silent host that drinks the dry Repetition stretching past the eyes To where the flat horizon lies Trees behind trees in quiet grace A labyrinth of slender wood Carving the stillness out of space Where centuries have stood Above, the sky ignites its coal A canopy of smoke and ember Holding the continent’s deep soul In dark and fiery surrender No hurried end, no measured shore Just red loam, shadow, branch, and tree The scrub that breathes forevermore Into the quiet of infinity. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogge...
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