JJFBbennett

  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...

  The Twelve Loops of Goodbye The fluid rises. The cryo-hiss is deafening. And then... the program starts. Twelve times. The system cycles, and twelve times I see you. It starts the same. The image freezes in the dark. It’s you, BK. Or... It’s your idea. You’re wearing the rig. The goggles are locked on me. I try to say your name, but my mouth is filled with ice. I love you. God, I love you. But you don’t blink. The Neural Glitch . Something is wrong. The memory corrupts. I see " corrupted code " trying to stabilise across your face. Your eyes... behind the lenses... they twitch. Microscopically. Are you hurting? Or is that my pain rippling through the connection? A low-frequency pulse warps your skin. You look like a stranger. You look like the machine. The Shuddering Breath . This is the one that breaks me. Total stillness. Then... a faint mist forms at your mouth. Condensation beads on the goggles. I scream at you to breathe! Just breathe! But it’s slow. Irregular. It’s a ...

   The Shuddering Breath I Became The cryo unit hisses open, and I remember my name: JB, pilot of the *Subi*. The med-techs call it “revitalisation.” My body hums with a new, raw power. Muscles knit with synthetic fibres, bones laced with carbon-filament. I feel incredible. Invincible. But in the polished chrome of the med-bay wall, my reflection is a stranger. The eyes are mine, but they glow with a faint, amber diagnostic light. The scar from the asteroid scrape is gone, replaced by skin too perfect, too seamless. They say they rebuilt me better. Stronger. To survive the long dark. But when I clench my fist, I hear a servo-whine they insist isn’t there. When I calculate a jump vector, the numbers resolve instantly in my mind, not on a screen. Is this their design? A monster of efficiency, crafted for a purpose I didn’t choose? Or is the monster the part of me that wanted this? The part that, bleeding out in my crippled cockpit, whispered *yes* to any salvation? Did I consent...