By our magical surrealist and poet Eric Lastick
(1) SELF PORTRAIT: Sketch me a million faces of home. Knowledge is the lines which frame and uncover. God speeds time often…and right—-away; though it may not seem it. Judge us not, this weather storm, for seldom not seem, the forgettable hills we climb of frustration…and ‘in’ anger can change in the right dreams. The vivid through the cloud. VINCENT, as the mirror cracks with chard’s…and jacketed morning twists of nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand; as the one that remain is the hardest to face. No to a calm. Red cheekbone and strands of gray hair surround it’s bald claim. Self portrait must guide in all the vast—too the rest of the way. The mirror a vacant space, yet one must know that to leave it, is to really write—the brush stroke master to completion. Vincent begins to ponder. He sweats and steams in madness. Next a pause. Then a long look through all that is broken. Vincent paints away—with all the familiar colors who once again guide him. The rest need not said!
VAN GOGH…oil to wood: SHE LOVES ME…She loves me not. (2) SELF PORTRAIT…BLEND OF COLORS…wrap in the fold. Van Gogh reactionaries. Slow are the pedals of love—danced to wooded colors…brights and blends of sorrows; as the last waltz missed his brush hand. Ways a way’s in the distance, he does, as she, is mere color. Wooden blend of shades of this great art. This kind of care in the abstract mind of the scale…and wanderer. Beard’s cut and strip the corners of one’s mind in heartache. Blend the trim to the waste basket. Supply with ear. A sniff of blood and cold…as she has left the center square.
VAN GOGH stay steady the flower pedal of not…and glues to that very thought; although the favored fare lady is not at all far away…and in waiting! Van Gogh blinded by the naysayers of his very thoughts. This cold world, yet still, maybe in his next passing…one’s fine art will shine along with his perfect lady figurative or real? To have this dance. Blenders of colors. Wrap in the fold.
BOB DYLAN’S PAINTED WAX FIGURE DREAM: Dream wax-felt village spread-like-a-Honer Accordion of colorful tymes…childhoods of others. Of painters and of authors. Dylan Thomas draws his authentic cloud cover of words. Racing spectacles of looking glass of an animal world…animal crackers chews—too every place of worth. Greatly climb this situational …and a kind of debonair rebuild—oft earth and sky…and in that of dreams-capes; and of theirs so grounded—too roam gleefully . Structurally an endeavored of such mountains of Dylan-esk songs. “These mountains rock!” Trees sway–and live it up as nightfall fine filled ends. Dylan’s nature runners of much, much, more, than just money. The gold is panned of every waters’ holds. Fish and wild life. Rainwater streams. Cheeks bends and birches of birds weigh in. Strength–the free hand that paints of the perches and perfect nests of the calls of eagles, Green timberlines…need never be real. The fox who speaks in indigenous voices…a mountain lion song —rises with the Minnesota depths of it’s high-ball orange sun. Dylan brush, blush colors of followers young and old. Oh mother lion…calling card combing and anew.
A truly stunning original