...the shadowy world of dehumanised thought...

Elke Albrecht


David Storey, “The Saint”


Mark Rothko 



Ambera Wellmann 


Prismatic Art 

 Nothing to ponder. This is the plight. 

- Clarence Major -

Nicola Alessandroni


Jack Sutherland,"Charm"

 And even the Abstract Entities  

  Circumambulate her charm;  

  But our lot crawls between dry ribs  

  To keep our metaphysics warm. 
- T.S. Eliot -

Daniel Huot

Marek Slavík,"Curved reality" 

"under the present brutal and primitive conditions 
 on this planet, every person you meet should be 
 regarded as one of the walking wounded. 
 we have never seen a man or woman not 
 slightly deranged by either anxiety or grief. 
 we have never seen a totally sane human being.” 
- Robert Anton Wilson -


Nicole Coson,"Ghosts of Human-likeness "

  "Bring enough words together they can bend space and time." 

 - Terry Pratchett  -

 
 Patricia March 


Emily Gherard


Vladimir Semenskiy,"Gesture"


Jordan Daines


Gaetan Henrioux


Jun Tsunoda


 Alex Beck, "Rainy Brain"


T30Gallery

 "Think of it this way: I was a pair of abstract eyes 
 walking around wearing my flesh as a disguise. 
 Living as such, there was no point in expecting any 
 form of societal responsibility or human reaction.” 
- Kiyoshi Kasai -


Megan Ewert 


Hannah Dean




Andy Denzler


Vladimir Semenskiy, "Wind"




Megan Ewert 


1. line - Clarence Major
2. line - T.S. Eliot 
3.quote - Robert Anton Wilson
4.quote - Terry Pratchett   
5.quote - Kiyoshi Kasai

(((

Joshua Bennett 


The Sobbing School 

is where I learned to brandish the black like a club,
you know, like a blunt object, or cobalt flashes of strobe
dotting damp walls after dusk drops the dark motion
our modern world can’t hold. There’s a process
by which bodies blend in, or don’t, or die, or roll on
past the siren’s glow so as not to subpoena the grave.
Mama never said surviving this flesh was a kind
of perverse science, but I’ve seen the tape,
felt the metal close & lock around my wrists, bone
bisected by chokehold. A crow turns crimson
against the windshield & who would dare mourn
such clean transition, the hazard of not knowing you
are the wrong kind of alive. But enough
about extinction. Entire towns mad with grief, whole
modes of dreaming gone the way of life before lyric,
all faded into amber & archive, all dead as the VCR,
all buried below the surface where nothing breaks, bleeds.