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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The Car Wash and Knight Manifestation
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The Car Wash and Knight Manifestation poem
The sun painted the sky with hues of blue and white. I thought of the extravagant modifications that made my life. The works of art, engineering marvels and artifacts of glamorous entrepreneurship. My mindfulness is constantly cluttered with style, passion and systemic expectation.
As the roaring of jet-propelled water filled the air, a hush quelled my anxiety. The Knight manifestation had begun. The shroud of my unconscious interconnections was stripped away. The shriek of Holy Land power filled me with awe and admiration.
The awe-inspiring delusion of valour and chivalry captivated and subjugated. They forced me to pay homage to the illustrious past, present and future. The symbols of power and emblems of order. Illustrated through famous battles that fought for our freedom.
History's influence is determined to find its place. Even in the most unexpected places.
The Car Wash and Knight Manifestation YouTube video
Symbols of Power and Emblems of Order poem
The sun painted the sky with hues of blue and white.
I thought of the extravagant modifications that made my life.
The works of art, engineering marvels
And artifacts of glamorous entrepreneurship.
My mindfulness is constantly cluttered.
With style, passion and systemic expectation.
As the roaring of jet-propelled water-filled, an air hush quelled my anxiety.
The Knight manifestation had begun.
The shroud of my unconscious.
My interconnections were stripped away.
The shriek of Holy Land power.
Filled me with awe and admiration.
The awe-inspiring delusion of valour.
And chivalry captivated and subjugated.
They forced me to pay homage.
To the illustrious past, present and future.
The symbols of power and emblems of order.
Illustrated through famous battles.
Those who fought for our freedom.
History's influence is determined to find its place in the most unexpected places.
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
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...
Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier The sky is bleeding into the dirt again, and the old hunger crawls up through my boots. It no longer matters. Time does not march out here. It pools beneath a dry creek bed, stagnant and unseen. But when the moon swells, heavy and bruised with copper rust, the cold in my ribs becomes a scald. The scrub does not burn with heat. It burns with memory. Through the tangled mallee, I see the flash of artillery, the orange-red roar of a barrage that never stopped falling, trapped forever inside the rib cages of these dead gums. I taste copper on my tongue, sharp as rifle oil and dried blood. The black heavens press down, bending the whole world inward until I am trapped inside a glass bead of fire. I pace the boundary where red light cuts into deep shadow, waiting for a relief column that lost its heading eighty years ago. Everything here is parched. I am so thirsty. But I do not want water. I want your nourishment. I want your dawn, your warm pulse, as yo...
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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