Most recent post

I am of the Primrose Empire

-
Image
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...
Post a Comment

Echoes of a Silent Scream

-

 


Echoes of a Silent Scream: Neon Nights and Dark Jazz Visions

Description:

Immerse yourself in the haunting melodies of "Echoes of a Silent Scream," a dark jazz musical exploration set against a mesmerizing backdrop of AI-generated faces morphing within artificial neon lights. This video captures the essence of loneliness and longing in a city that never sleeps. With each frame, experience a blend of soulful jazz and visual poetry, portraying a narrative of silent screams and unfulfilled desires in the urban expanse. Join us on this unique auditory and visual journey that brings the dark corners of urban landscapes to life.


Lyrics:

(Verse 1)

In neon lights, she stands alone,

The city breathes, its heartbeats drone.

Her face aglow, colors bleed—A soul in chains, the silent creed.


(Chorus)

The Sentinel's Waiting, watching the night,

Faces pass, out of sight.

Longing deep, unfulfilled desires,

Lost in the glow of neon fires.


(Verse 2)

A whisper in the urban sprawl,

Eyes search for truth where shadows fall.

In chaos bright, she stands apart,

A silent plea, a yearning heart.


(Outro)

In this glow, in this fight,

Seeking what’s just out of sight,

Her story's told in every hue,

A moment caught in city’s view.


Keywords:

Dark Jazz, AI Music Video, Neon Lights, Urban Loneliness, AI Artistry, Jazz Music Video, Emotional Jazz, Tech-inspired Jazz


Hashtags:

#darkjazz  #neonlightstatus  #aimusicvideos  #jazzvibes #UrbanScreams #ArtificialImagery #musicvideo  #AIJazz #LonelyCity#NeonJazz #EchoesSilentScream #jazznight  #aiart  #CityscapeJazz #SilentScreamSong






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 donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal  

If you want to acquire JJFB's art creations as an NFT - John's Opensea NFT profile is https://opensea.io/JJFBbennett  


Copyright

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.


Crypto Fear and Greed Index by PineQuery on TradingView.com

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Artist statement - AI ART and Meaning

-
Image
  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...
Read more

Blood Moon Scrub - Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier

-
Image
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...
Read more

The Empire of the Primrose

-
Image
  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...
Read more