What Resides Inside the Trojan Horse

diagnosed with a severe case
of rot writer’s block,
visual prose seem erased…
thoughts siphoned off,

confounding to think straight,
they say it might be shock
counting sheep, awake
dismay, inside the flock

defaced by idle talk,
can’t spin letters together
stuck holding cans
line’s are cut and severed

typeface tender, now
originate lost sources
frustrates to render how
maps illustrate crossed courses

some sections aren’t on it
aims reach an abrupt end
dull to pinpoint logic
maimed, with a blunt pen

strong men seek refuge
between the leafs of inspired
hoping then for rescue
redeemed inside brief desire

within reach, is ire
becomes an unproven mirage
pinned beneath barbed wire
spun in a soothing massage

but I’m proving it wrong, damn it
refusing to be defeated
cut through throngs of panic
choosing weakness for deletion

Just Another Random Sunday

tucked away in a café
on a grey Sunday
far from being mundane
stray thoughts gone one way

listening to Coltrane
strumming jazz, eloquently
this melodic remedy
soothes like tonic, mentally

a steady hum of voices
nomads come in to seek
a retreat from the noises
of the manic city beats

consuming sweet pastries,
sharing in old stories
typing away, hastily
concocting allegories

a symbolic place to hide
despite the high windows
because within it you’ll find
your hypnotic pillow

dim glows, from overhead
illuminated fixtures,
simple words come to blend
in this situated picture

Gulag Goulash: Last Call (Revisited)

awoken near gallows,
mangled by reality’s strangles
mirror reflections allow you
to see from all angles
dangling bed sheets,
beneath, men creep…
manage not to walk chest first
into a sheath, exposed

cellular decay…
as the remains erode
wild oats once sewn,
now decompose
never chose to wind up
in a state, as such
lived only for the future,
but never thought of it much

and thus, you’re restrained
chained to carnal crows
soon to be tamed
in a carnival show
as a caged animal,
hit with cannibal prose
long, sharp claws
to tear at the soul

truly boxed in,
as the calendar shows
locked in a fate
that you never would suppose
but lo and behold,
this is where you’re sleeping
until your last hours
when Grim comes reaping

Got a Story to Tell

While I haven’t been applying myself recently with the visual arts, it has not been forgotten.   Project IE has been resurrected; the fusion of written word and digital design is back in the works.

A special thank you to those of you that have provided support, suggestions and a good kick in the ass to get me going once again.  Much appreciated, as always.

Here’s a quick preview of what’s to come.

There is always a story behind the one that you don't see/A side that resides nestled within the truth, solely/Far too easily ignored, by apathetic folks, mostly/Their cozy acts of detracting, boldly uncouth and lonely -Té

Il Mago, Pasta Monsta

While Toronto hasn’t been known to producing winning teams for the past two decades, their athletes can be guaranteed to provide entertainment.

Thanks to the fine folks at McCain, Roberto Alomar had kids everywhere jonesing to “Catch the Taste!”

After a period of inactivity, the movement continued through the power of Pizza Pizza and the torch-bearing, Turkish Delight, Hedo “Ball” Türkoğlu.  Who could forget the genius of, “Yes, Coach!”

This year, Andrea Bargnani not only stepped up his game on the court, he stepped up the ‘catch phrase’ game, as well.  In his spot, he managed to bring forth a hook, complete with six syllables!!! “Primo Pasta and Sauce!”

Clearly, more was planned, but it seems as though the director thought it best not to include it in the final cut.  A shame, indeed.

And just when we believed that the legend had concluded, the boys at the fine ‘The Basketball Jones’ gave us this…

Primo Pasta Monsta

Il Mago now takes his place in the long tradition of athletes muttering short phrases, in bad accents, hawking Canadian goods.  Welcome, sir.  Luis couldn’t have done it better.

Fortune Cookie Crumbles

There are times, when things go down
And you have no clue about what’s abound
Surrounded by more questions than answers
Some sift through facts, others approach a pastor

No matter which way or path you choose
Some kin may win, but other brothers gon’ lose
See, that’s just the way that the game is played
Lambs acting like Pac-Man, in an arcade

Biting off more than you can chew
Consuming humans, fuming that “you’se a fool”
With nerve, they observe the sad and pitiful
As they wonder, “is he really an individual?”

They gave him the ball and look, he fumbled
Running to the finish but… oops, he stumbled
Never thought for a minute you could be so humbled?
But, guess that’s just the way the cookie crumbles

Temple of Obi: A Series of Spatial and Body Deconstruction

Not too many people draw my attention with both their style and guile, the way this woman does.  Obskyura is always featuring in visually bold, artistically inspiring renderings of absolute yum!  Check her out!

*PRUDE WARNING* Some scenes may include nudity, daring poses, and tasteful grace. Poorly discerning viewers be advised.

Temple of Obi: A Series of Spatial and Body Deconstruction.
 via Obskyura.