This illustration is something new for me. I have not used a pen, only pencil and paint. Very liberating and fluid.
Somewhere along the way, I became inspired to follow through with less line and more color.
Fun and expressive.
I have a friend who loves sunflowers and see them while walking my neighborhood with Ozzy. While his leg is in a perpetual state of lift, my eyes are always observing and wondering how to illustrate.
They are in my mind’s eye.
They are tall, don’t think they have a scent and, complicated. Next time, I will concentrate on the intricate center, the heart of the beast. I may try a gouache for a more opaque, graphic background.
Introducing none other than Mr. Kane; Tommy Kane.
He is an extraordinary illustrator and teacher (Sketchbook Skool http://www.sketchbookskool.com) and travels everywhere to sketch.
I love this guy. He’s rough and tumble, but has a very sweet soft spot.
I totally recommend you buy his book (http://www.bookdepository.com/Excuse-Draw-Tommy-Kane/9780956873835)
Trickling some laughs and rippling steam,
allow my hands to palm the curve,
and smell my sense and shake the salt.
Ears and waves her boiler-room shy,
trust the touch; the experience of age.
Smell your sense and shake it hard.
Dance toes on scratch-grass roads, feel
the boil, touch the lip – don’t leave me alone.
Touch the sense and push it through.
Tap dance girls all smell the same.
Goofied smiles, such nervous sounds –
skin-squealed up like boards of steel.
Whine the wind for another tale.
Just some love for Summer, just
2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015
… the beginning.
With purpled haze and showered stars, the crowds heaved toward heaven, and bared their chests, with savage eyes that screamed alarms, who played with notes and placed hypnotic words, into colors embracing their nightly rage. I dreamed this rape, when all soothed purple; in mysterious beat, that stalked our moment in time; at the edge of our enlightenment.
God mend thine ev’ry flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law.
These apparitions danced, while the crowd drummed black, and with jungled code they conversed, lashing fiery tongues, until our black faced angels; loosened their hold. Oh worshippers, it was his vulgar-ripped hands, who captured our hopes, who demonized our little tap dancer; the Sermon Dream.
And it was replaced, our faith, our faith, our faith; with marbled bodies morbid, with murderous overtures, and hooligan priests, their despicable acts, the white barbarism. I saw these heavenly angels, who drank us drunk, les foules fâchées, je prie pour nous; poor mobs of seer poets, who lived in filthy hotels, with the distracted ghost of Madame Rachou.
Among the ancients, the artists, the Egyptians, injections of brutishness, and smoke from burning testaments, our moment reflected black to back, that found us huddled under hair, that warmed our skin with naked lightning, thrown from one hit peddlers, the movement went downtown with snickered grins and bust line pimps who fed us our chocolate dust. We ate their scraps and drank their piss, sipping to salvation, without the blood from He, who is never coming.
… the acts of violence, unspeakable joy.
The Angel birthed a disciple to wait, to sip his grace then dance below, to visit our tombs, and pray for He, whose second act, a delayed departure, flashes Broadway’s darkened corners.
The showered stars, the rancid thoughts, the hollowed chests; tracks of pity and fallen words, naked on porcelain lambs, cracked with hope that someone scratched; the King of hearts, the purpled belief, the tap dancer’s Dream.
Our faith, our faith, our faith; our bodies become the overture, the awkward rhythm, the Blood and Bread, the grace from He; who dreams of armageddon, then pleasures Himself with hymns of praise.
… the waters encroach.
Our fingers plug the desert, while waters gently pour; we lap dance grunt, panting to the written testaments; in mud, in blood, on the skinned infants who lost their chance.
We danced with a beat or three; to the rolling blankets; the humanity lost, and the gentle touched, by cold and rigid toes; crossed for the Calvary and furious charge.
The priests of marble, who prayed to Him; were found holding the lanterns, sweet trinkets, fast bullets and fresh water boogie; while the dark was lit, as a guide to His arrival. Hallowed by The name whose eyes openly screamed, who played with notes and fed the words, into colors embracing our nighttime rage.
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!
Barry Comer 2010 – Illustration 2015
Buzzing street lights in ‘65, while riding down broadway, I saw him raise a fist and knock on air, giving honorary mention, on a sidewalk, with licorice aromatics and things to come; a riot in mind and lost roads yet to try; I was driving down the hours, until the great eruption, the beautiful hydrogen plume, that turned my earliest stages to glass; of misunderstanding.
I chose deep coma puffs for months; hoping for a big bang difference, but saw more of the same, those political chants and the binge melody; spread my head from ear to nose, and dripped to a kneeling pose that hurt the knees; that he created.
There were buses choked with cigarettes and little fires that fumed high on revolution; I inhaled the moment, spiritual avenues of peace, ambience for a dime and phony masters of ‘68, who passed good karma as market produce, picked for it’s grace maybe taste; remembering a twisted paste, twirled around a pipe; I found his holiness smeared with rosin, powdered and heated in delicious spice.
Banging down the hours, in the hallway and on the walls, the musicians in the park, the harmonica boy and a licorice man who posed like Cleopatra, a fist pumped high, finding power far from the action, the corner vacation it had become; one year late and an intersection erupting intolerance; a fascist dialect foaming at the mouth.
It’s murder man, the sacrifice for love’s survival, the astute grew grumpy, coyly taking savage steps for attention, a smiling Buddha danced mediocrity, and the breeze cleaned the streets of licorice lice.
I pledged to mystic beasts, the iconic gods, who gave us head while swaying beads, killing rice cake hero babies, then slurped the carnage. That was the rise in ‘69, the fall of all, you young men, robed preachers; who stole the show. We worshipped your footprints, discovered nothing, but eased each in; so wild were our mouths.
The cold floating fogs in ‘71, let’s drive the dark, close our eyes, seeing cars in stars, luck was far from there, it was over. Time to surrender, the freedom, the ravished femmes, the man with junk, singing ancient song, who lived in trees, who coasted hills, whose licorice taste, his heavenly dreams; visit my nighttime history, and the years we lived.
2010 Barry Comer – visit Black Cat Poems.com
Illustration – 2015
Inspired by Harrie Nijland’s (https://harrienijland.wordpress.com/2015/04/26/shooting-posters-prt6/), Shooting Posters series, I decided to “shoot” one myself, rather sketch.
Outside of my local bagel shop is a telephone pole with hundreds of staples, nails, tape and ripped pieces of posters. Perfect to draw, perfect to get a nasty infection. These modern totems are everywhere in my city, especially in my neighborhood. I love ’em.
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