Suicidal
Tortured are their portraits,
Hanging.
A few undusted for many years.
And depicting scenes,
Of a life fantasized as serene and innocent.
Free of mystery and mystique.
Tortured are their portraits,
Tilted as if purposedly.
Tilted as if the feelings of being jilted,
By false portrayals stay as they are as reminders.
None seem to be hung centered.
As if set by one in a stupor.
Or hungover from too much reality.
With framed portraits depicting tortured scenes,
Of a crisp and pristined life...
On canvas and documented for authenticity.
But can not be quite lived right to such perfection.
And...
Suicidal,
For those making attempts to do it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
En Paris Ces't Ma Maison
En Paris Ces't Ma Maison
The Paris Skylight
Shines upon your rose room in the early morning.
Portraits of the sea
portraits of Monet and Renoir...serene
boating scenes
You saunter to your full-length mirror
you comb your soft silky hair.
Joy is in your heart...You have found
Paradise.
Your morning walk begins
You pass the Luxemborg Gardens
Le Belle fleur de jardin
A smile glistens off your face
The Arc De Trimphe...The symbol of Liberties de France
The beauty continues
with the Champs Elysees
and the Concorde
In Paris you have found your heart
your love
your home
Peter LeBuhn
Copyright ©2005 Peter B. Lebuhn
poem by Peter LeBuhn
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Mothe Earth Is A Vicious Crowd
Pollution, cain, and misery
Oceans of golden mystery
Armies boisterous and armies loud
Portraits of a vicious crowd
Talk to me, talk to me now
Hey man, youre all that I have
Me myself, myself and i
Were born to work and born to die
I have chosen my anthem of these I am proud
Portraits of a divided crowd
Talk to me, talk to me now
song performed by by Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I paint German artists whom I admire. I paint their pictures, their work as painters, and their portraits too. But oddly enough, each of these portraits ends up as a picture of a woman with blonde hair. I myself have never been able to work out why this happens.
quote by Georg Baselitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Angel
Like an angel, fly over your house
Like an angel, pass out wishes
Like an angel, I will move the arrow
Like an angel, I live alone
Im not livin what was promised
I am close but cant enjoy
Oh, Im not dyin
Oh, Im so tortured
cause I see all
Tortured, and all I cannot do
Tortured, all I should have done
Tortured, while I occupied a man
Im not livin what was promised
I am far from glorified
Oh, Im not dyin
Oh, Im not alone
Mind is not a celestial state
With idle hymns of praise
Time is short, I have an appointment at noon
At noon in hell
Across the waste of space and fields of air
I glide, alone at night
Oh please, please think of me
cause im, Im by your side
Im by your side, Im by your side
Im, Im right in front of you
Im by your side
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Get a Life
Get a life
You murdered this
innocent animal
tortured it
the living thing
and all you have to say
to me is
Get a life
A cow
A female
A mammal
A vegetarian
Why not kill me
brutally and spread
me across your car
instead
Why dont you get a life?
Preferably your own
btw. please dont comment saying - 'Maybe you should get a life' as this was my strong feelings towards this issue
Thanks
We English
We English
are drinkers of tea
We like to play polo
and speak eloquently.
We have framed portraits of the Queen
Hanging up on our walls
We smoke cigarettes
and dance at balls.
We have bad teeth
and spell colour like that
my Grandad smokes a pipe
and wears a top hat.
We all know prince Will,
pass our time in red boxes,
Buckingham palace is our 'ghetto',
and we enjoy hunting foxes.
poem by Frances May
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Constable
Crafty copper
Moments arrested
Portraits in custody
Come along there
Broken cart
You need a stay
In my oily cell
Up to prison London
You shall go
At owners pleasure
To rest and consider
Your pretty crimes
Prisoners tour Paris
So well behaved
A gold medal royal
Gains John
As is his dew
Up to London
Constable finds
A necessary means
To make prudent friends
But fortunate are we
For his real
Pastures, views and
Sublime scenes
Remain on the loose
In Constable country
No grammar school for them
No mercantile father
But free
For you
And me
poem by Jason Palmer
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American POWs from the last Iraq war, who were held prisoner and tortured by Iraq, are now being prevented by our government from suing the Iraqis who tortured them.
quote by Dana Rohrabacher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tortued by bastards
Tortured in childhood
And early teens.
Torture more day by day.
By some evil scum
That wanted his twisted pleasure.
He thought it was right to do it.
Right to rape and abuse a child.
Peice of fucking shit.
Tortued by more than 1.
Still stuck there
As it were only a day ago.
Tortured from a youn age.
All I can hear in my head
is its only a game.
Still stuck and tortured
By your vile face.
Some day
Youll get
What you desereve.
Then maybe you wont
Most bastards like you
are untouchable.
But you all tortued me
For your own
Vile reasons.
You piece of shit
Amy Kerswell
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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A Kinder Eye
In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light
He lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life
His speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both grace and speed
I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and bring his tea
To the world he was the master, his landscapes filled the gallery halls
But now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private walls
Subjects sitting-walking-laughing in playful flight or soft refrain
A thousand forms and colours, but every face the same
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream
A winters night when I arrived there, he looked so tired and near the end
And as I cleaned his bench and brushes, I wished out loud to be like him
He said that art was only longing, trying to do what cant be done
And though hed signed a thousand paintings, still hed never finished one
As I finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name
I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the same
Not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen
As she served his noble dream
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream
song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gallery
I fell in love in the gallery
where every painting
had a story still to tell
the portraits of nature
every hue of wild beauty
caught my soul breathless
I wandered through worlds
those places of such scenery
which caught, held my eye
I imagined the feel of the air
the scent which filled each picture
touching my skin, filling my nose
my eyes wide open feasted upon
such beauty the likes of which
I had hardly every seen
nether less thought to imagine
I walked almost listless
in no hurry to leave this place
I fell in love in the gallery
where portraits of nature
told me their story
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Minimalist
Crimson Is The Color.
'Where?
I don't see it.'
The fingerprint.
The artist has signed this painting,
Or lack of it shown...
With just his thumbprint.
'How did you know,
Crimson Is The Color...
Was the title of this 'piece'?
I see absolutely nothing.'
Look at the thumbprint.
What color is it?
They call him 'The Minimalist'.
'But...
Where is the other part of the frame?
Only half of it appears on the portrait.
Or whatever this 'blank' canvas is called.'
That's why he is called, The Minimalist.
You have to find the meaning within yourself.
'At 'that' price?
I can buy a brand new car.'
That's nothing.
I invested in one of his prized portraits.
Entitled, 'Blocked Nose'.
You should see it.
I have it hanging over my mantle.
Right above the fireplace.
'And you can't get one poetry reading?
And this guy is making a fortune?
You need a manager.'
Yeah.
You might be right.
But what I do isn't considered 'art'.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Streets Of Sorrow/birmingham Six
Oh farewell you streets of sorrow
And farewell you streets of pain
Ill not return to feel more sorrow
Nor to see more young men slain
Through the last six years Ive lived through terror
And in the darkened streets the pain
Oh how I long to find some solace
In my mind I curse the strain
So farewell you streets of sorrow
And farewell you streets of pain
No Ill not return to feel more sorrow
Nor to see more young men slain
There were six men in birmingham
In guildford theres four
That were picked up and tortured
And framed by the law
And the filth got promotion
But theyre still doing time
For being irish in the wrong place
And at the wrong time
In ireland theyll put you away in the maze
In england theyll keep you for seven long days
God help you if ever youre caught on these shores
The coppers need someone
And they walk through that door
Youll be counting years
First five, then ten
Growing old in a lonely hell
Round the yard and the stinking cell
From wall to wall, and back again
A curse on the judges, the coppers and screws
Who tortured the innocent, wrongly accused
For the price of promotion
And justice to sell
May the judged by their judges when they rot down in hell
May the whores of the empire lie awake in their beds
And sweat as they count out the sins on their heads
While over in ireland eight more men lie dead
Kicked down and shot in the back of the head
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The King and Queen and I
Oh, Scotty, have you visited the Picture Gallery,
And did you see the portraits of the King and Queen and me?
The portraits made by Longstaff, and the pictures done by Jack,
Of the King and Queen and Lawson and the lady all in black?
The King is robed in royal state, with medals on his breast,
And, like the mother Queen she is, Her Majesty is dressed.
The lady’s dressed in simple black and sports no precious stones,
And I a suit of reach-me-downs I bought from Davy Jones.
We’re strangers two to two, and each unto the other three—
I do not know the lady and I don’t think she knows me.
We’re strangers to each other here, and to the other two,
And they themselves are strangers yet, if all we hear is true.
I s’pose we’re just as satisfied as folks have ever been:
The lady would much rather be her own self than the Queen;
And though I’m down and precious stiff and I admire King Ned,
I’d sooner just be Harry, with his follies on his head.
We four may meet together—stranger folk have met, I ween,
Than a rhymer and a monarch and a lady and a queen.
Ned and I might talk it over on the terrace, frank and free,
With cigars, while Alexandra and the lady’s having tea.
Anyway, we’ll never quarrel while we’re hanging on the wall—
Friends! we all have had our troubles—we are human, one and all!
If by chance we hang together—hang together on the line,
And the thing should shock the Godly—then it’s Longstaff’s fault, not mine.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Human Work Of Art
No one on earth means more to me
Your painted pictures are the way that the world
Should be
Dont ever change it, I dont wanna live in this
World without you
Oh no
I cant explain, I cant define
What you do to me, but my senses are so alive
You tell your story and its all that I ever believe
Portraits and poetry are frozen forms of perfection
But they dont live and breathe
When my hearts in need they dont answer me
You - ooo oooh you are, youre a human work of art
Walking, talking inspiration
You - ooo oooh you are, youre a human work of art
You make me love, you make me care
You give me freedom I dont need when I know
Youre there
My search is over Ive got all of the riches that
Money dont buy, oh no
Your words are poetry and your face is more than
Perfection
The way I watch you move it only goes to prove
In everything to do
You - oooh oooh you are, youre a human work of art
Walking, talking inspiration
You - ooooh ooh you are, youre a human work of art
Youre my mission
Youre my goal
Oooh you liberate my soul
Theres no illusion, that your touch is gold
Portraits and poetry are frozen forms of perfection
The way I watch you move it only goes to prove
In everything you do
You - oooh oooh you are, youre a human work of art
Walking, talking new sensation
You - ooooh oooh you are, youre a human work of art
Walking, talking inspiration
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Wish Id Never Loved You
(ivor raymonde / mike hawker)
I wish Id never loved you
I wish Id never wanted you so much
And never thrilled to your touch
And I would not be lonely and crying
And hurting deep inside
Alone with a need that cant be satisfied
I wish Id never loved you
I wish Id never given you my heart
And watch you tear it all apart
And I would not be tortured, tormented and cheated
And surely my heart would not be broken in two
I saw you with another
I watched you hold her tenderly
And I could see as you kissed her
Youd never come back to me, oh
I wish Id never loved you, mmm
I wish youd never burned me with your kiss
Oh, how can I go on like this?
And I would not be tortured, tormented and cheated
How I wish Id never loved you
And I could see as you kissed her
Youd never come back to me
Oh, I wish Id never loved you
I wish youd never burned me with your kiss
Oh, how can I go on like this?
And I would not be tortured, tormented and cheated
How I wish Id never loved you
Oh, I wish Id never loved you
How I wish Id never, no, no, never
Id never loved you
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My portraits are more about me than they are about the people I photograph.
quote by Richard Avedon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best
quote by Frida Kahlo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I would wish my portraits to be of the people, not like them. Not having a look of the sitter, being them.
quote by Lucian Freud
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.
quote by Frida Kahlo
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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