Brick and mortar. Aerial architecture. Subcultural iconography. Over-populated. Under-developed. Colorcombinations seizureinducing. [blank] vs. [blank]. Urban jungles. Suburban wastelands. The last resorts of originality-deprived masses past-saturated with subverted cliche marketing advertised civilization down our choking raw throats.
The United States of America Bleeds Neon.
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Ghostbusters like TMNT playing Super Nintendo's Mario Brothers. Is it just me or do plumbers get a good subconscious reputation for being blue-collar knights-in-shining armor?
Only a strobedance shows our bones. Postmodern Danse Macabre continues till the DJ dies scratching his last wax-vintage-vinyl. [RIP Adam Goldstein]
Bubbles freshly blown from soapy-acid-trips. This must be what it feels like to pour water in space.
We're photoshopped together in a bizart collage for the xenophilia members of the cornerstore underground.
Videogames make play on fanaticism by rationalizing obsession.
Extreme lifestyle commitments impress the unbearably attached. Champloo. Lone Wolf & Cub. Rashomon. Samurai Jack. Ninja Scroll. Ghost Dog. Lightsaber Katana. Zatoichi. Akira Kurosawa. Rurouni Kenshin. Etc and so on.
Assembly-line marketing industry advertisements sell superfluous through art. Global Warming is caused by the atmosphere clogging with captured-talent released into green-house gases. The smokestacks burning brilliant failed-artist's masterpieces is proof enough of that.
Ultimate showdown between Mother Nature and Son of Man. The telephone-posts along the highway help fence the lifeline between your city and mine from being choked with vine.
Pop cult iconography. Funerary irony with a quasi-religious wake dedicated to the fallen of celebroyality of 2009. The king is dead. Long live the king.
Urbania is the next world-power. Up&coming like a Chinese Democracy or African hegemony. The people are painted. All we need is the space.
Burbclave, burbclave, quite contrary! How does your box-garden grow? With adobe hues, no-parking zones, and ticky-tacky houses all lined-up in a row.
Rawr-smash! Domo-kun's radioactive Hulk-like aspect is auditioning for the next Jolly-Green-Giant role.
Cartoonesque reinvention of edgy cool. Inherent cynicism diminished to increase accessibility for the uninitiated, or just plain curious. Being nonresponsive is no longer raging yo. Instead it makes you seem dead. Try harder to be less ironic to be more taken seriously.
Specular. Spectacular? Oracle. Oracular? The construction of words is much like the brush-strokes of painting. Nobody knows for sure what the results are until you see the whole thing and read it.
Confrontation between Man and Mecha. A tale as old as industrialization. Paul Bunyan versus the automated woodchucker. Joe Magarac against the piston steam-driven-engine. Now we've got the steampunk, cyberpunk, psychopunk sci-fi revolution. I, Robot to Terminator to AI to The Matrix.
Drooling lines of dye trickle down from twisted corners at the mouth as the ape smiles at us like The Joker drenched in rainbow.
Soft white city shadows play with invisible wind not stopping for the hues of blue and gray.
The maze of master-planned gated-communities. It's designed almost epileptic.
Rarified hues in the urban atmosphere burn all the more brightly when doused with nighttime. Signage to signage gleaming like a dozen campfires all competing for the favor of your time to sell the same story you will hear on every other night.
There are days when I can't help but to notice how entropic my life is, and how I see what seemingly goes unappreciated by society. It's like I'm still not where I belong, or where I belong doesn't exist. It's like being the scene of your own cultural arms-race, and there's no one to play with. If ever I met a person who had the same connection to this alternative world as I do, it might just save my artistic life.