Poems & Paintings (not for the Fanworks)

[darkphantomime]

Well, Ladies and gents, I come bearing Pictures of my high-demand Artwork. Hope you enjoy, and hope the mods don't fix it if it stretches the page a teeeeeeny bit...









All four of the above were painted in ONE night. Last sunday to be exact.

Now for a few more...





Painted with watercolor. I HATE watercolor because it's hard to get vivid color. This is a scene of puppets, a little violent because you see a puppet getting crucified...



This is another watercolor, but I was SOMEHOW able to make the colors vivid! woot woot! This is a painting of me standing over a bridge... there's a bridge like that near where I live, though it's not 100% accurate, I didn't have any pics to model tthe scenery on... but most of it's right.

EDIT: I editted them a bit, adjusting brightness and contrast settings, because the camera flash does stuff to it...

[MasterKeyX]

I like the very last one, because the colors in it are much more vivid than the others... and the person in the last one loooks very good.

My compliments, DPM. :)

[TP Zelda]

Ooh nice! :)

[Zelda Veteran]

They're nice. :P (DPM and i had a frank exchange of opinions Via PM, lets leave it at that)

Is there a prophecy? DPM's artwork possibly telling of things to come? OOOHHH THE HUMANITY!!! Sorry, I just saw that, and my mind went to work. It actually resembles a dead hand turned around.

[Commodore Axilon]

Woah, if those paintings get any more detailed they might explode! ;D

Just joking. They're good. I especially like the crucifixion one. How on earth did you come up with that? *prays to Puppet Jesus*

[darkphantomime]

It was the first project of Art II, and we had to do them around manikins or 'puppets'. So I decided to make something very surreal, because I have sort of  a fantastic obsession with puppets, so I ended up making that. You can almost see a little blood from them...

[Commodore Axilon]

I can see quite a bit of blood from ol' Puppet Jesus there, actually.

[MasterKeyX]

Eh, at least it gives your art an air of realism.

But just a question: why are you so obssessed with puppets, DPM? :-\

[Pyrgusfinn]

I saw a dragon in the second one.

[Commodore Axilon]

In the first one I see Master Chief duking it out with an octopus.

In the second one I see Hephaestus smithing something on his anvil.

In the third one I see Death coming to claim another victim.

And in the fourth one I see Toucan Sam flying through a hail of anti-aircraft fire.

[MasterKeyX]

Wow, either that's what DPM painted and we're all to stupid to unmdersatnd except you, or you just have a very vivid imagination... ;)

[darkphantomime]

These two poems should provide a sort of explanation for my obsession with puppets and mimes...

Dreams of a Puppet-mime   3-3-05

The puppets,
Moving out in all the forms.
Just as they mime, just they
Do not speak, they are my shadows.
Silence in the waking world when all
Are come with none;
That they call truth
Silence, when all the question asked forth
Came no reply.

But when yet alive, in dreams
Dreams, that one can see
Neither reverse truth, nor lies
Only to what they see
Shadows movements, life
But is there no truth in illusion?
Just as the waking world favors light,
Dreams that appear in color
Melt away, when put to the reversal
Of time, and illuded memory.

Even as silence
Through these ancient wooden halls,
Preclude not to a state of thing seen while empty
For when the shadow that light gave
Birth to, rising then forming
In ghosts, speaking not but to act
In that silent voice
Taken up upon a stage
Behind lighted screens.
"they repeat this in mimic whispers
repeated intervene"

Awake then stilled
Covered, then plunged in again
These rising mists in falling memory
Turning, phantom shroud
Then set aside in mid-performance
Phantasms stilled when covered, when reversed
Only to ask: What? How? Why?




Maybe in these silent halls, the soul
And dreams of a puppet come in play
For all those things in forgotten memory
Rising to entertain in infancy,
then just as much near death.
For when real, when seen
When I lent them my voice
For our wooden friends have souls,
To scream, to laugh, to cry
Then to look. coming from a stage,
Far off, then imagined
Far off, then coming forth
In silent theatres
In shadows, their final resting place
Then thrown in storage to rot and decay
Like bones in holy soils
The halls are their churches
And the waking world, their dream.


One with no face      2-15-06

On a wanderer, that takes from his lantern
The glancing hint of other faces
Without a distinction
Of the one who bears his face.

Among the pale ether of frozen statues
The voice of Leviticus
When set among obscure paintings
They call his name
But never hear the voice.

What is a mask for one with no-face?

In the shadow of disillusionment
What is it that we see,
When we move among the grave
Like sitting before one's eyes
Cloaked, without the name
Of the eyes or the face
That smiles in a cruel imagery
Of floating from the paleness
Of a veiled moon,
And a hallucinating stone.

Brother, do you know why I laugh?
Do you know why I recluse myself
Against all the other stones?

That war is a facet of the body
Outside, moving from place to corrupted face
Inside, disillusionment of one's blood
The mask and tempter of the winds
Take their place among the fell solitude
Among the numbing greyness
And everywhere appears another echo
That covers from one's face,
Where it bursts, where it freezes
Where it becomes cut
Like the ancient veins
Of one cut by an open scythe.

Look at the smile across his face
And wonder if smiling was meant
Looking sinister,
Or placing where the eyes meet the face
Across one's cheekbones,
And the eyes seem to desistablish
Against the look of an empty face,
Or from one who sees the undertone
Of the playing comedy of sin
And the voids we bear without the frown,
Only the laughter of the shrieking mime
Seems more realistic
Than a face donned in hidden vapors
And one's image frozen among the
Stoned disillusionment
Surrounding a deaf voice
And a place
Of stricter wood
And the verging
Of laughing whores
That paint themselves with scarlet letters.

When my face becomes itself a mask
Twisted and rubbery
Cut the veil with a blade,
And brother, I'll tell you
If the blood that seeps from my face
Is out of unnamed guilt
Or the endless maven
Of a fallen puppet's shroud
The theatre among the halls
Where the fantasy of disillusionment
Become hauntingly moving
Of ecstasy of an epileptic man
And the pale deadish face
With eyes moving everywhere
In an empty stare,
Of the endless echoes
From the disillusionment in bloody war
And the face that still smiles
Laughing behind the mask
Of a tattered shread
And a fallen, mangled body
Across the wooden floor.  


Amazing when you realize that they were written 50 weeks apart...

[alex]

ooo! i like the first painting...
its bright
i like it

[MasterKeyX]

The colors in the first painting match the color you have in your avy, alex. :P

Maybe I'm just going insane... :-*

[chibbiamerican]

pretty, i made one my wallpaper:3