The Ayes Have It (But She Don't) Everybody knows the bill is dead Everybody knows the Senate’s red Everybody knows the deal is done The major parties had their fun The crossbench bargains were all just show The whips have cracked, the whistle’s blowed That’s how it goes And Hanson always votes no. Everybody knows the bells are ringing Everybody knows the mud they’re slinging Everybody knows the clerk can’t count With all the grievances they mount Everybody knows that the motion’s lost Everybody knows what the lobby cost The Ayes go high, the chamber’s low And Hanson always votes no. And everybody knows that it’s now or never Everybody knows that it’s gonna take forever Everybody knows that the act is rotten Old amendments best forgotten Everybody knows the tellers move With nothing left for them to prove The red room puts on quite a show But Hanson always votes no. Everybody knows the maiden speech The lessons that she tried to teach About the fish and about the chips And the tig...
A surreal psychological vision: a male pilot encased in a glowing cocoon of nanoweave, thrashing violently as violet fire erupts around him. Flames are not literal fire but energy — psychic, electric, and cosmic — exploding from behind his eyes. The background collapses into a massive black-violet anomaly with swirling tendrils and burning light.
JB's body arches against invisible restraints, veins lit with purple energy. The scene conveys primal panic, loss of control, and raw instinct. High-energy sci-fi surrealism, extreme contrast, motion blur, cinematic intensity.
Vision I: The Violet Firestorm
It begins with the vice.
First, there is only the restriction. My body recoils—a violent, kinetic rejection of this cage—but the bindings hold fast. I am a pilot. My entire existence is defined by control, by the tactile feedback of the yoke under my thumbs. But my arms are pinned ruthlessly to my ribs. I feel the phantom vibration of the thrusters humming in my nerve endings, desperate to correct the vector, to pull up, but I cannot reach them.
The panic hits my gut like a physical blow, a nausea so profound it feels like I’m turning inside out. I open my mouth to scream, to roar against the dying of the light, but the sound is trapped in my throat, a silent vibration rattling my teeth.
Then, the ice hits. The cryo-fluid floods the chamber, freezing and burning simultaneously. It triggers the oldest part of my brain—the animal cornered by fate. The walls of the pod dissolve, and suddenly, I am watching from the outside. I see the Space Tourist—tiny, fragile, insignificant—drifting helplessly into the maw of the anomaly. It opens its throat and engulfs us.
Violet fire erupts behind my eyes. It is a full assault. I respond not with logic, but with explosive, automatic violence. I thrash against the weave, my lungs burning, incinerated by the desperate, primal push against the rising tide of terror. I am burning down, and no water in the universe can extinguish me.
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
Scene 1 In the cradle of copper veins, where the first byte flickered like a eucalyptus firefly against the millennial dusk of 2000, threads uncoiled—raw and unbidden, a post-punk snarl weaving through the static hum of dial-up dreams. Imagine the snare drum's ghost-crack echoing off Uluru's red flanks , not as a conquest but as a lover's bruise, blooming violet under star-pricked skin. Here, rebellion wasn't a fist raised in Canberra's marbled halls but a glitch in the grid . A Laughing Clowns howl warping the airwaves, sonic annotation—jagged guitar riffs splintering into didgeridoo drones , fading to the hiss of cooling circuits. The wire remembers: a young voice, pixels pulsing with the fury of forgotten tapes, cassette ribbons unravelling like the Murray-Darling 's parched secrets, whispering of bans that bind not bodies but bytes, burqas woven into neural lace, veils pleading for the light they obscure. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge Jo...
The Metallic Bloom "It starts on the back of my tongue. A cold, sharp tang of copper... like biting down on a gun barrel. Then... it detonates. It’s not a scream—it’s a jagged, violent bloom tearing through my throat. Shards of silver... iron... and rust. I am no longer a man... just a dark silhouette exploding into shrapnel. The panic is absolute." The Metallic Bloom video-poem It starts on the back of my tongue. A cold, sharp tang of copper— Like biting down on a gun barrel. Then… It detonates. It isn’t a scream. It’s a jagged, violent bloom Tearing through my throat. Shards of silver. Iron. Rust. I am no longer a man— Just a dark silhouette Xxploding into shrapnel. My body isn’t mine anymore. My voice isn’t mine anymore. The panic is absolute. 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 ....
Chrysalis This isn’t a tomb It’s a chrysalis . We aren’t being buried We’re being rewritten. 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 to my music via YouTube Music , Spotify , iTunes, Apple Music and Soundcloud 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 the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
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