JJFBbennett

  The Art of Malaka  Malaka (Rise Above 'Em) [Verse 1] Jealous cowards try to control! Mean-spirited cloth – cut from the same! Old comments rotting – fourteen years old! Doubling down – you got no shame! [Chorus] Malaka! Malaka! Special Greek word – for scum like you! Malaka! Malaka! Rise above! We're gonna rise above! Vile views – spreading hate and fear! Malaka! Malaka! We ain't taking it – no more! [Verse 2] Who’s next on the list? Indians? Greeks? Vietnamese? Women? Whose next to be cut? Major parties silent – lips sealed tight! Cowards in suits – hiding from the fight! [Chorus] Malaka! Malaka! Pauline and Cory – same rotten core! Malaka! Malaka! Ashamed? You should be ashamed! Hate, division, fear in the air! Malaka! Malaka! We’re calling it out – everywhere! [Bridge] Minorities marginalized – feeling the pain! Unheard, unrepresented – driven insane! This ain’t left or right – it’s decency! Common fucking decency! I’m angry – really bloody angry! How do you get away w...

  The Embers in the Ice The glass is cold against my cheek, a final barrier I no longer have the strength to break. My breath comes in shallow, ragged hitches, fogging the surface, blurring the world outside into a meaningless grey smear. The violet firestorm that once roared through my neural pathways is dying. I can feel it sputtering out—weak, intermittent sparks fizzling around my temples like wet fuses. The machine is winning. It's heavy, clinical blue light washes over me, drowning the last of my resistance in a tide of artificial calm. I am too tired to fight the silence anymore. I am just... drifting. 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 ,...

  The Event Horizon of Regret This is no star map; this is the geography of my own collapse. I am on my knees, the obsidian floor splintering under the weight of what hovers above me. It is a sphere of pure, swirling silence—the Black Hole Mind. It breathes gravity, pulling at the seams of my flight suit, demanding I fold. I try to summon the old fire, to spark some resistance, but my anger manifests only as thin, fractured volleys of violet lightning. They strike the darkness and are instantly swallowed. I am tiny. I am insignificant. And I am being crushed by the density of everything I cannot escape. 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 , Spotif...

  The Art of Bigots Please Explain (Bigots on the Storm) thunder cracking, pouring rain, distant tortured piano [Verse 1] Bigots on the storm Bigots on the storm Into this hell we're thrown Like a corpse without a home A puppet carved from bone Bigots on the storm [Verse 2] There's a Hanson in the abyss Her mouth is rotting with the hiss "Swamped by Asians!" vomits through the black "Please explain!" — the last words you’ll hear back Take a long holiday to the void Let the mining blood money be enjoyed If you give this poison a ride Sweet Australia will suicide Hanson in the abyss… yeah [Chorus] Bigots on the storm Bigots on the storm Into this grave we're thrown Bigots on the storm [Verse 3] Burqa in the Senate, reaper in disguise "Muslims incompatible!" as the nation dies "No good ones," she exhales like cyanide "Religion of hate," the bigots glorify Child after child on the dole they curse Conditional sorry — watch the co...

  The Art of the Damned The current gallery system functions as a modern dam built right at the headwaters of artistic creation. The headwaters are the raw, bubbling springs high in the mountains—wild, uncontainable, fed by countless small tributaries of individual vision, experimentation, failure, intuition, and obsession. This is where most serious art actually begins: in studios, bedrooms, sketchbooks, late-night arguments, personal crises, and private obsessions, long before any curator or collector ever hears a name. Once a handful of major galleries, institutions, auction houses, and their allied gatekeepers (collectors, critics, fair directors, residency programs) gain decisive influence over those headwaters—deciding which artists get early solo shows, which receive press, which enter the "right" conversations, which are anointed with blue-chip representation—they effectively place the dam. From that point forward: The flow of visibility, legitimacy, money, and audien...

  The Internal Singularity  The silver nanoweave holds me tight... shimmering like a second skin. But the crushing weight isn't coming from the machine. It’s inside. I look down at my chest... and there is no flesh left. No ribs. No heartbeat. Only a collapse. A dark... swirling... singularity. The air in the pod bends around me. The light itself is warping... pulled uncontrollably into the hollow where my soul used to be. I see my fear—those thin, fractured arcs of violet lightning—trying to break free. But they don't flare out. They are dragged back in. Violently sucked into the crushing gravity of this... bottomless despair. Nothing escapes. Not the light. Not the scream. Not me. 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...

  The Internal Singularity Inside the high-tech cryo-cocoon, JB’s bound body is central, wrapped tightly in shimmering silver nanoweave. His chest cavity is visualised not as flesh, but as a swirling, dark "black hole" singularity, warping the light and space within the pod. Thin, fractured arcs of violet light—representing his remaining anxiety—are being violently sucked into this dark centre, unable to escape the "crushing gravity" of his despair. The lighting is heavy, dark, and oppressive. This Crushing Weight  Psychological Landscape A surreal, abstract psychological landscape inside JB's mind. A tiny, insignificant figure of JB in his flight suit is on his knees on a cracked obsidian floor, being physically crushed by the immense, gravitational weight of a massive, swirling dark sphere hovering just above him—the manifestation of the "black hole mind." Fractured, weak volleys of violet lightning crackle uselessly against the overwhelming darkness...

  Our Psycho-Mythic Descent Here we are Stuck inside this weave You and I Underneath a hum that's ever tightening down, down, down Ever tightening down. Through the glass As if in an ocean Waiting here Always failing to remember who we were, were, were I wonder who we were. You look at me But your eyes are empty In the dark With the silver metal blooming in your mind, mind, mind Blooming in your mind. And the storm Rages on the outside While we sleep Watching all the shattered fragments floating by, by, by Fragments floating by. Here we are Caught inside the amber You and me Leaving all the ghosts of who we used to be, be, be Who we used to be. 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 t...

  The Art of Yeee-haw Goddamn, let's do a tune called "Hanson Hide," okay?   Goddamn tape's rollin', let's go!   Let's round 'em up!   One, two, three, four! Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Keep them Asians movin', movin', movin'   Though they're workin', never complainin'   Don't try to tell me they're not floodin'   We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, burqa in your face!   Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, cover up the race!   Hanson hide, yeee-haw! Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Keep them Africans out, out, out   They bring disease, that's what she shouts   No refugees, no black South, no doubt   We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, chain-link and hate!   Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, keep Australia white!   Hanson hide, yeee-haw! No good Muslims!...

  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...

  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 art of Capital I stand here today as an artist, yes, but first, as a laborer. And my studio? It's not a free space. It’s a nexus, a battlefield where the abstract force of constant capital meets the blunt reality of cultural control. They call it a free market. I call it a systematic monopoly over the means of production. You think canvas and paint are the means? No. Those are relics. The real infrastructure—the essential, invisible currency—is visibility, validation, and market access. A tiny, elite constellation of galleries, auction houses, and institutions holds a chokehold on these channels. They deploy their massive capital to secure their monopoly, thereby expropriating our economic autonomy. They don't just set the price; they set the very terms of cultural existence. The outcome is the proletarianization of the creator . We are forced to sell our labour power—our very souls, our insight—back into a system that ensures capitalist domination. Our creativity become...