ANT the RANT Brass Knuckle Poets Society's blog: "Words"

ANT ᵀᴴᴱ ЯANT

I'm a blue period Picasso stuck on a wall In the middle of a hall in Barcelona Trying to figure out how to get down 'Cause this solitude is bringing me down The paintings around me, they don't understand me

The S h i n i n g™

I philosophize, and interpret a pained man through Irish eyes. They don't smile, they just gauge intent and size; when it's necessary to descend or rise, to hold fast or sever the ties. The warrior's creed: it's do or die. And it's all blue, like a field of Irises beneath a Starry Night, like a genius, who severed his ears so he could feel the strife, and feel it so true, that he could lay it on canvas and make it scoff at you. Like a fennid who laid his life on the line, after he honed his spear, sheared off a hair, let it drop onto the leaf and watched it split in to two. You can't hear, but you can feel the tune, vibrate through bone and sinew. I'll make it all right, after I shed a tear or two. I'm just a man who's aura cruises from hue to hue. I'm just a beast who longs for the chance to unleash all the abuse, that he had to endure; that he had to digest despite feigned demure. Can you comprehend the magnitude? Nah, 'cause you're too insecure, to ever sacrifice to attain what you feel is pure. I keep it here, as a testament of the antithesis of reputable, because reputable is excrement. Acceptance means you acquiesced, gave in to selfishness and let your principles get bent. It's been assessed, my blood line is heaven-sent, ever-young; we'll go to war naked and make you irrelevant; so prodigious we'll go to hell before we ever become celebate. I gaze at the portrait, like a solitary fortress, and exonerate my intent to remain fidelis, stabilis et fortis. O'SEACNESAIG

ANT ᵀᴴᴱ ЯANT

Rich with depth and vision, convinced by my convictions, I come to visit, an exhibit of extraordinary men, gazing back to where I am, in low lit reverence, like a work of Rembrandt, I sit in isolation, having a conversation, with the shadows of my self-conscience, self-confident, I contemplate the context, that convex conflicting concepts, my creative edge, the situation sits within my brain, waiting for an exit from my head, an artistic outlet, catch wreck, my location, Los Angeles, in the midst of plastic-existence, I find realness, no longer willing to hide from my mistakes and sins, live as an exhibitionist, comfortable in my skin, bled red from when my good intentions were forsaken, a gallery of thoughts from within, amongst masterful creations, vocalizing the vices of a venerable vocation, my heart and soul, baroque, an artist of appreciattion, paint this perfect picture as plainly as it seems, pain stains the inseams, amend these ends, and what they mean to me, cut me, color me interesting, essentially, sketching my life out, one etching at a time, the fundamentals of foundation, a Philosopher in Meditation, inspired by the inspiration of religious indoctrination, the way he portrayed the plight of Isaac to the hands Abraham, the knife that left his father's hand, the sacrifice of his son, or The Blinding of Samson, elaborately designed, inspired by the divine, framed the frame of mind, captured the action within a dimly lit caption, questions and answers, a cataclysm, within my life's canvas, hang my hardships, like an emotional portrait, cut me open, rip my heart from it's hilt, as I lay lethargic, riddled with guilt, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, beautiful, the contrast between this, and to the portrait of Artemis, a regal visage, as she sits, before a manuscript, offered chalice, a chance for a sip, I consider this, in my silence, how does one discover such a talent, and from where does this exists? I suspect, inner dissonance, the edge of reason, perhaps the crazy creates the confidence, to be deep and distant, to dream with the esteem of a 16th century artist, I'd spend my entire life, wondering if, I had a portion of these gifts, would my works, be appreciated, would people be reached by it, or would all slip, within the cracks of an already fragile figment of an imaginative sense of self-entitlement, egotistical product of a hostile environment, angst ridden, self-subscribed artist, certifiably arrogant, piece of... HA! as if... I'll be the first one to tell ya, I'm as rad as it gets.

The S h i n i n g™

No matter the day or time, I remain in an insane frame of mind, 'cause I'm so far from normal, that I make my own way of life; no black, white or gray lines, just bursts of color surrounded by a frame of painful nights. I intake my reality and regurgitate painful plights; the stuff of mythos, impossible to imagine even if you might... have the gift of divine insight. Inspired from inside my spine, I wield a divine rite, as I juxtopose the dark and the light, contrast my instincts of fight or flight and give birth with a flick of my knife across the starry sky of my own mind; sprinkle diamonds across a background of blue malachite. How'd I get this adept, as I carve symbols and signs out of my inner rawness, minus the constraints of wrong or right. I step back and breathe, pleased with sight and exercise my God complex as I work through the night; proceed with coal and graphite to provide for my angels and acolytes. I translate my need to create, as I meditate and work in a zone without the need to hesitate. They tell me to give them a site. The voices sing to me. I let the music play and conduct a murderous symphony - what a pleasant scene to me. It isn't what seems to be. If I didn't unleash the beast, I'd live with the urge leave horrific scenery. Limits are bent elastically, as the voices scream to me. The choruses rise, as I exercise my calligraphy dynastically. Perfection forms from chaos, as I turn potentially into actually.

ANT ᵀᴴᴱ ЯANT

Potentially dangerous activity, static with me, is actually contentious, wrath be my delivery, this is how we live and breathe, nothing was given to me, except the gift, and that I give back to you free, style, when I organize with the team, the BK philosophy: Flossy: So we stay Shiny. Cocky: The 3rd leg makes the ego very bossy, Deadly: cross me and get paid by the tooth fairy. Your dentist can thank my after I let loose a flurry, The balance is in harmony, chaotic but disciplined, never an advanced warning, given to our adversaries. Consume the arteries of our enemies, like Aztec ceremonies. All is fair in war homie, survival only, even if it's me, on my lonely, with my springfield armory, XD40, war is what we bring to the party, the cold steel stings, hot led through your body, the gunpowder's burning, bringing surfer smells to your nostrils, like fiery rings to the eternal infernos of hell, running through your battle scenes, like an Aries, symbolically charging at the hill, horns forward looking for the kill, gorging, on those who fall before me.Brass Kuckle Poets, this is a call to glory! Let history recall this story. Let the way we display, say more about how we parley, than how our haters behave. May they stay, forever in dismay, for fear of our warrior-grade weapons made, for an enraged brain, fingers tighten, palms clinch, to form a titan's flamed fist, and beat it, against the doors of their unsecured fortresses, built from hay and dog shit.

The S h i n i n g™

I paint an unpleasant picture of parallel images repeated, in descending order until married at a central point of meeting: a frivolous band, who were blinded and conceited, liked to war on the weak and the mistreated. They made the mistake of engaging a group of rogues adept at martial techniques and scholarly reading, carnivorous collegiate. The blasphemous band, put their trust in the hand of an ignorant man and insulted that to which we were creeded. Believe it, merciless judgement was diligently deeded. Dealing death, Cernunnos at a sanguinary feast, I reared my horns and heaved my chest, as I beat it, hoofs cloven, blade doing the cleavin'. We collected red mud, every precious drop of red blood, leaves, flesh and ash, 'cause it was needed; left Michaelangelonian sculptures of the heathens, eloquently completed, as a testament to our ruthless demeanor; let the leader live, legless, to gaze at his meal in agony, too agonized to eat it; stumps seared to cauterize the wounds and staunch the bleedin'; scarred discs branded with Capricorn, a warning to all those who would read and heed it, to recall the river of blood, and like a parrot, repeat it. I carved a symbol on his forehead of a mediated goat-and-fish-scaled-tailed-bleeding, held his massacred visage over crystal clear water to give the coward credence, of our unparalleled pre-cedence. Images flash of his pregnant wife, before her journey to the afterlife: the horror of Saturn the Wing-ed, as I cesarian-sect her belly, like a DaVincian diagram, and starting with the arm proceeded to eat her third-trimester fetus; deliberate as Cronos, wielding the Scythe of Time, that leaves Mankind depleted.