What I saw that day the world turned to rust,
Beneath a red dawn,
Which fell like blood from the sky,
The burning red in my eyes,
Consuming all the time,
Like a snakes scales that shine different at night.

From Rust we are born,
Rust which comes from dirt,
Rust which came from the sea,
On the ghost of a whaling ship,
And forms over everything,
From ground to ceiling,
Crawled and vantage found,
Of severing, sweet, crumbling luster,
The steeple’s gargoyle and dagger’s handle,
I keep it safe for the God’s banquet,
Slumber, slip and place on the mantle.

by Laurence Fuller, 2023
@laurencefuller
www.laurencefuller.art

Rust II

A satire as sharp as a mosquito’s bite, the fable of The Art Critic & The Mosquito is a theatrical short that hovers between the grotesque and the sublime, probing the strange intimacy between critique, obsession, and desire.

In a sweat-slicked summer evening, an art critic taps away at her latest dissection of an elusive artwork that she simply cannot stand — or understand. Her frustration, wrapped in typewritten keystrokes and the buzz of professional fatigue, is interrupted by a tiny, insistent intruder: a mosquito.

But this is no ordinary pest.

Drawn by her discontent, the mosquito becomes a kind of vampiric muse, feeding quite literally on her lifeblood as she claws at the edges of understanding. The scene spins into surrealism as the act of critique becomes an act of consumption, of violation, of surrender.

With a painter’s eye and a poet’s wit, Laurence Fuller crafts a metaphor for how art takes from us, how criticism becomes a dance of intimacy, and how even revulsion can become a strange kind of affection. As the critic slaps her own blood across the surface of the painting she once despised, she realizes what she’d been missing all along:

It was love.

A fever dream of irony, flesh, and ink, Art Critic & The Mosquito asks: Can one truly critique what one hasn’t yet been bitten by?

THE ART CRITIC & THE MOSQUITO

A mosquito floated lazily in the hot Summer air,
Buzzing exactly in the same spot of that warm evening in the art critic’s living-room.

The study tapped, with sharp notes of a type writer, tapping out the latest essay dissecting an oeuvre.

The mosquito followed the sound that tapped throughout the house.
The air was so wet with Summer night and sweat of discontentments, the mosquito hung by barely buzzing .
Portraits on the mantle, their subjects sweat past the empty whiskey bottles.
Until he heard by closer proximity, her whispers and shrill exclamations at the end of a sentence;

“Why don’t I like this art?!”

She could not uncover what was it about this art which irked her so??

That raced her fingers by the night lamp’s glow.
The mosquito landed on her arm and lifted its nose,
To the air in order to thrust down into her veins,
Piercing her skin like a pin pricking balloon.
He gulped and gulped and gulped!
The sudden loss of blood at first made her giddy and she at the thought of her subject until her arm went blue and she stood up in shock;

“What, what?!”

But the mosquito kept gulping,
She grabbed the nearest book to swat what she thought was her attacker,
But as she thwacked the bug buzzed away, and she slapped her arm leaving it red again.
She went back to typing
Nearing the end of her column and pronouncing;

“Now then”

The mosquito licked his lips for what was the best feast of his life he had just tasted;
He must return to the banquet once again.
Yet this time as he landed, like a blood
sucking bandit, she was prepared.

And when she thwacked the mozzie!
Lifted up the cover, there was the painting
But covered in her own blood.
And at last she felt it,
It was true love.

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller
Adaptation of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis"
@laurencefuller
www.laurencefuller.art

The Art Critic & The Mosquito

At one time I thought he was a God.
He did change, from what he once was,
The charmer who walked in from the fog.
That charm turned from light to dust,
I watched, him sway the whole court.
With laughter and universal thoughts,
Until the time he did transform.
But first let me show you what he once was;
A giant on the stage,
Who could bring the mightiest King to his knees.
With a song.
The rise of the great Balong,
Astounding audiences all along.


Until he was stripped of all the feathers that once brimmed his hat.
The rules he chose,
That made margins one by one,
Along a desk that rest his head,
And grey did fall from the clouds unto his bed,
To fill his head with all the things,
That could trip out of step,
Or all the laws that fall upon his head.
The parrot that was his friend,
Did wallow in the scraps of red.

And there I sought watch him strong,
To watch him build foundations of the future,

But as the treasures did role in,
His thoughts turned only then to management.
It’s a strange feeling,
It started with a rumor that he’d changed,
He was a different man that passed these days.
That passed the halls,
And declaimed the ways,
Dictating his preferences and rules,
Which changed each day,
According to his plans, his knowledge,
His hands weighed down with documents,
Directions to which road was paved.

As wealth rolled in,
So did trinkets, trade,
A never-ending tide of gain ~
Until one morning,
He woke to find his hands withdrawn into themselves,
Fingers curled into brittle claws,
His spine arched into a husk,
His head folded into a helmet,
The colors that once swayed the crowd
Now dulled to grey, like distant rain.
The bold stories, declaimed aloud,
Had shriveled into memos ~ 
He once did set the world alight,
With a funny smile and endless fight,
Now it was only papers that he lifted to the heavens;

“Let me speak to the manager”

It’s not a good time,
We’d rather speak to people who had a human spine.

“His Name”

What are you doing up there?
I called his name all morning upon the stairs.
Lazy.
Just ignore him.
Taking a step back.
We’re taking a step back.
Now’s not a good time.
Wait until you’re feeling better.
Because we don’t want people to say.
Because we want that we just don’t want to pay.
This is just a little bit of money in the…
Don’t have expectations.
Something better come through for you.
Something’s got to give.
Yes let’s just pray that something improves.
Let’s see what he does.
Test him.
Make him feel… less than.
He’s not doing enough.
He’s not doing what we asked.
Why don’t you talk to him?
We shouldn’t have to.
Maybe he’s just not good enough.
Tell him reasons.
It doesn’t matter what he says.
Just fill his ears with excuse.
Is he dust yet?
No he’s still breathing.
Why is he still breathing?
You’re the expert.
Why aren’t you making any money!
I don’t want to hear his opinions.
It’s twaddle.
Worthless twaddle.
If he’s not going to work he won’t get any bread.
It’s predictable.
Does he think he’s better than his superiors.
How arrogant.
How stuffy.
Not the kind of person I want anything to do with.
Make him go homeless.
He doesn’t deserve a home.
Dismantle what he has failed.
What has he learned.
He used to be wonderful.
Don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.
You have failed your family.

End of discussion.

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller
Adaptation of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis"
@laurencefuller
www.laurencefuller.art

Metamorphosis Gospel

This piece is an expression of gratitude for the rains we experienced in Los Angeles this past week. Made me think about the beauty of rain, and the protection the clouds provide for us here on earth. 

What if there was a sound,
Where thoughts lived above the clouds,
And when it rained,
Each droplet spoke out loud?
You thought it strange;
Until each turned into a flower,
Once it hit the ground? 

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller
@laurencefuller
AI trained on the brushstrokes of Stephanie Fuller’s paintings @stephaniefullerartist
www.laurencefuller.art

Rain

Patience Is a Kiss emerges from The Fortune series is a meditation on transformation, memory, and the quiet pull of destiny. 

"I sailed into the night, through the luminous mist,
All the world was quiet, and dreaming in bliss,
Before the day of the dead and the week of reveling trysts, 
I sailed to the edge of the sea, 
Where the white birds fly into mist
The sand like the soft remnants of unformed pearls,
Or like stars rolling along the milky way’s verse,
I felt I stood on the world’s doorstep,
In the weeks before it all changed,
Time was falling like Autumn leaves in decay,
Life hangs on the balance of our next breathe,
And paradise speaks from within:
“Patience is a kiss.” 

I wrote my novel on scrolls and charcoal,
By the glow of the closest star,
A turbulence in the novel’s name,
“I’m swimming through wonders of the day”
The first chapter read like this;

“Never wait for a time when love is convenient,
When it tells us that it’s time has come.
For our ideals do not conspire around like in books and tales,
Love is found by our doing the things to match our destiny, 
And that which is destined by our thoughts, 
By the novels of our memories, 
And the giants we have caught.”
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Patience Is a Kiss is part of "The Fortune" series, exhibiting during Miami Art Week, December 2024 at Scope Art Show with Superchief Gallery, and with M2 Miami Nolcha Shows immersive exhibition. 
Cinematic Poetry by Laurence Fuller
Textures of paint AI modelled on paintings by Stephanie Fuller
www.laurencefuller.art

The Fortune ~ Patience Is A Kiss

We are all so stuck behind the veil of our own consciousness, do we ever really stop to feel other people's bliss?

That he disappears upon a time,
When the world’s agendas all compete against his wishes, the magicians box of tricks,

Only full of springs and napkins and empty wishes,
All the artists just puppets in the puppeteers closet,
To cut the strings that kept them tied to his fingers.

At last a man to peg all our ideas to a pinup board of psychological reelings,
The dust on his vest, evidence he’s earned his afternoon,
With paper and pen,

At last the nightingale’s friend,
A candle not here for long,
But here for the ascending comes above time itself,
We are caught between the notes of this beautiful song,
And his tones the strings of Endymoin’s violin

Dreaming in the shaded walkways of even beneath the summer’s heat,
Inspires in the poet, the most beautiful dreams.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller and Tania Rivilis
Minted for Victoria West's curation at "Subjective Art Festival" at Lume Studios.
Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller
Based on the portraits by Tania Rivilis @tania_rivilis
laurencefuller.art

Other People's Bliss ~ Panel III

We are all so stuck behind the veil of our own consciousness, do we ever really stop to feel other people's bliss?

The doctrines of their marching orders,
In the halls their sons and daughters,
A hold on the flags in our fields,

The way I see you,
Like reading the deepest book on the shelf,
My hand slips between the cushions as I recite silk around my shoulders,
And no fear of growing older,
A life now lived much bolder,

I’ve been thinking about my life,
From beginning to end,
Trapped behind my eyes,
Unknown to all my friends.
Could this shell know,
Are all around the manifest of my thoughts,
Do people grow?
Or are they often caught,

How can I know this,
But it was written in omens,
The tumbling crowds,
Rioters we love and fall,
The good, the great,
Have we lost romance?
In our world, not in our hearts,
It raises from our doubts with open arms,
And beckons to its calling all of ours,
The same arms we used to build this house,
The same arms that nurtured all of ours.
That we are angels on the beach in a sultry summer.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller and Tania Rivilis
Minted for Victoria West's curation at "Subjective Art Festival" at Lume Studios.
Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller
Based on the portraits by Tania Rivilis @tania_rivilis
laurencefuller.art

Other People's Bliss ~ Panel II

We are all so stuck behind the veil of our own consciousness, do we ever really stop to feel other people's bliss?

From one side of the moon,
The other the sun,
And in the middle we will watch all,
The cat, the pig and the owl,
To all the sea, we watch and see,
And never shall we run,
What is now, laying on the towel,
By me, that we cherish now,
An angel’s wings,
Flutter all the things and what we promise to our vows,
My love to this, we wonder in bliss,
A hundred notes unto us kiss,
The poems we allow,

A beautiful collaboration,
What we create,
Will be the port at every station,
What they say on this date,
And bring unity ~ unification,
Above the nations,
To make the whole world great,

Our family, our gardens dwell the trees,
The woods, the mountains and all the rocking seas,
Waterfalls through the night,
We love this life,
The books and art and poems we made
It was all for future generations.

Find my son,
Find my daughter,
What we left for you,
In the sculpture park,
In the library,
And in the dark,
It matters not what they say,
That day,
For the legacy was left for you,

The ringing bells,
The fables they tell,
The questions of our legacy,
For when we climb the first and last wrung,
Where they reach the top?
What do you see my love,
The world in an ocean’s drop.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller and Tania Rivilis
Minted for Victoria West's curation at "Subjective Art Festival" at Lume Studios.
Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller
Based on the portraits by Tania Rivilis @tania_rivilis
laurencefuller.art

Other People's Bliss ~ Panel I

Panel I of Winnie The Pooh Adaptation Triptych by Laurence Fuller

Piglet was very nervous, Christopher Robin had said there were Heffalumps in the hundred acer wood.

Adapted from the classic story by AA Milner
Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller.
Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller
laurencefuller.art

Heffalumps ~ Winnie The Pooh Adaptation I

Adaptation of John Keat's classic poem "When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be", by Laurence Fuller. Airdropped to the collectors of the Specters Triptych.
Cinematic poetry by @laurencefuller
www.laurencefuller.art

When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be (adaptation)

I’ve been thinking of specters of late, their presence in our lives, what are they here for? What do they want? Or are they really just a fragment of us?

Do you speak to ghosts?
How do you know?
I speak to them,
And watch them glow,
They’re everywhere,
They’re everyone that you know,
They’re all around.
You’ll see them everywhere in the shadows,
I read their words in the doctrines and manuals they left on the tables of 
Look at what they left behind,
I think they’re still here,
In the ecstasy of death,
We leap like giants from our skin 
All the while the angels sing.

Do you speak to ghosts?
Do you speak to them?
In the ecstasy of death,
We leap like giants from our skin,
All the while the angels sing.

The bells around my morning,
When they have tendered been,
The rake next to the cobbled walls,
The merchants bask in sin,
I think of all the travels of our ancestors,
And the stakes they claimed at last.
To build their homes and make their mark upon the mast.

When the person is out of body,
And the world is fractured in time,
The location unify our spirits is in the sacred wine,
They speak to others and to us, through the vessels of our being,
Memories are the bedrock of a world beyond our own.
Where ghosts are made at the omens place,
And question Kings upon the throne.

I often wonder if I am a ghost,
And I cannot transcend,
I speak to the living as they question my existence.

Hosted by the Holy Ghost
And it’s choir’s rendition,
A parade of the fallen,
Walks in our lives,
We are their ghosts, 
And time is our conductor,
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller.
Minted for FakeWhale's "Art Market" exhibition.
Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller
laurencefuller.art

The Ghost ~ Specters III

I’ve been thinking of specters of late, their presence in our lives, what are they here for? What do they want? Or are they really just a fragment of us?

Something felt different this year,
A visitor brought a specter which never left,
And it grew and grew and grew, 
Until the whole garden was subsumed;
With a light from the spirit,
Which glowed like music,
And glistened everything with it,
The air felt different,
Reflections off the window shine brilliant,
The very ground tingled between my toes,
Frost was all broken,
Engraved his name in the snow,
The smile on his face was radiant and changed,
When he spoke it drew blood from a stone.
I could hardly believe it was the voice of a man,
Though the day felt longer, we all grew younger,
And sticky sap from blackberries dripped,
The garden felt different this year.
I heard laughter from the shadows;
“Follow me I’m over here!”
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller.
Minted for FakeWhale's "Art Market" exhibition.
Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller
laurencefuller.art

The Visitor ~ Specters II

I’ve been thinking of specters of late, their presence in our lives, what are they here for? What do they want? Or are they really just a fragment of us?

There is no magic any more,
That time is done,
What was concealed is a wide open door,
You see the doves fly, their wings cover all the sun,
For when they flap again I’ll see your shining face revealed,
And what it was all for,

There is no magic anymore,
You’ve seen it all before,
Read it in books,
Watched the shows,
Seen the unimpressed looks,
They clap obediently at celebrities,
Because everyone else is taken,
Their half sunken eyes wanting something more,
More than makeup and shadows,

There is no magic anymore,
The ringmaster is a bore,
He unravels the same fate,
From the games he played before,
Put him too the task,
Ask questions not of the future but of the past, 
For he has no North Star.

I learned my tricks from the devil himself,
Wore his cards on my sleeve,
My heart in my vest pocket,
And you think you’ve seen them all,
But you haven’t seen this one yet.

Who is the magician?
And who is the mark?
We watch in wonder, 
At who was from the start,
A big surprise on the table,
Not a snake bite to predict,
Not a chess piece too soon,

Now listen to this fable,
Because you haven’t seen this trick before.

A cinematic poetry collaboration between NurArt and Laurence Fuller.

Visuals by @NurArt_

Poetry by @laurencefuller

Specters I ~ The Magician

Beneath the moving clouds in the sky that day.
It contemplated life, and saw the universe through spiritual eyes,
Like the world in his world,
Spheres turning with time,
As if time was turned by his watching itself,
And the clouds were the dew from his mind.
If I could only see through his eyes,
If I could only know what he knows for myself,
My world would be fixed,
And the world would be fixed,
My thoughts, my prosperity, my health,
And this world of others would not seem so seperate,
But a unified force,
If I could only capture this spirit for myself.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller
Includes the use of AI tools, and painting textures inspired by Stephanie Fuller @steffullerart

Spirit of HEN

Adapted from Shakespeare’s “The Tempest” and Caliban’s most tempestuous monologue ~ part of the Rust series of Shakespeare adaptations.

"I must eat my dinner.
This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,
Thou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst give me
Water with berries in't, and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,”

Performance by Laurence Fuller ~ @LaurenceFuller
Visuals and Sound by Von Doyle ~ @VonDoyl

Caliban ~ Rust

Inspired by the Digital Art conventions and Exhibitions we come together and commune all over the world. Created for the 2024 Nordic Blockchain Conference. 

Water breezing through streets,
The hot wet time, it drips easy,
We are this life arrived at last and sighing this afternoon,
The afternoon I met you,
Double espressos and a half finished tattoo,
Thought quenched the state we stayed in,
Beneath the trees shadows, statues swayed in the water ways,
Swans floating by in the shade.

Secret gardens by the palace the day before the big parade,
The day before, the day we saw,
They all arrived to play,
Boarders broken because we stepped on them,
We’ll fix it another day.

The elephants arrived, behind a pride of lions
I watched as she stopped by them
A sorrow in the blistering silence
Could the world conspire any better to create a paradise around her?
Monet had never seen a day so perfect,
Or maybe it was not the day at all,
Out of this ten seconds besides it
From lands afar, the glow of her skin still contained,
The arctic lights, the green sky, mains of wild horses
Sand from the South Seas and dust from paradise.
She rode across Europe, past the horizon once again,
Rode over plains, and fields and ice
The mountains a silhouette reflecting her life
In the day she stopped by the shore to watch,
The whales soaring through echoes,
By the penguins in flight,
She’s watched nature’s valley until dusk beckoned night.

Secret gardens by the palace the day before the big parade,
The day before, the day we saw,
They all arrived to play,
Boarders broken because we stepped on them,
We’ll fix it another day.

A bee hive that dripped with honey,
Frought with the valiant,
Pocket books and purses ready for a little money,
Coffers, hooks and curses to fish the coins from their paws,
The big red daze of the glaring stands filled with the astonished,
Tickle every sense and scintillation with anticipation,
For what can be seen through the blue smoke and haze,
Sun which burned their skin as they laze,
Simmering in those sun’s rays.

Secret gardens by the palace the day before the big parade,
The day before, the day we saw,
They all arrived to play,
Boarders broken because we stepped on them,
We’ll fix it another day.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller
laurencefuller.art

The Big Parade

There was a lion that never learned how to use its teeth or its claws,
At the first shadow of a snake it jumped and mewed and pawed, 
Shaking inside, just a frightened little mouse,
But that shadow was just a stick, how silly he looks, how ridiculous,
The lion sighs, 
“I never needed to learn how to fight, 
Upon my flesh a simple stick will not bite,”
The lion laughed and rested for the night,
Dreaming away and drifting through memories,
In front of him a whole circus he sees.
He saw himself a great ringmaster, all around they dance and sing,
He held a hat and a cane,
And truly believed it was for him they sang.
“When I wake up, 
I will be the one holding the stick”
He believed.
But when morning broke those singers turned to birds in the trees.
And it turned out it was not for him at all that music was playing. 
In anger he roared, 
“Where’s my stick?!”
He sauntered over and picked it up, hoping to reclaim his cane.
But wait, it was more scales than he had imagined, not hard at all.
It was the snake after all, and it bit deeper with a poison that felt like fire coursing through his veins, more pain than he had ever imagined, his blood turned to flames.
The lion roared… and then… collapsed.
The bird’s songs went on, and day past into night and time passed.
The snake had waited for its chance, throughout the night, 
It did wait and wait for the lion to grab the bait.

Adapted from the fable by Aesop ~ by Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller

The Lion & The Snake

Choose Beauty was originally created in coordination with a selection of artworks that was displayed at the Stellar Gallery at Lume Studios in Soho NYC on April 2nd

CHOOSE BEAUTY
Life itself is an oath,
It is the beauty we chose,
Turning hands clenched by the coast.
Falling curtains are what we love the most,
Ideas hang in the balance of what we are and what we know,
Within a persistent echo,
Digging in our past we find heroes,
With rings around their bones.
I acknowledge we’re only here for a moment.
Other’s wish for me to steer my mast in their direction,
Hoping to see in my eyes; their own reflection.
I know how you felt, when you found a voice to use language as a vessel,
To create the world around you in your image.
How many others wish to swim in your river and move your pen to their wishes?
To see their own ideas more beautifully expressed and enacted?
With all their failings redacted.
Where art hangs on the pillars of invention,
Where the wall, the floor, the earth,
To the void in our chests that see ourselves in unrest,
Glory waits for tomorrow, where fate is frozen.
Today kiss my face and tell my broken ears of a choice;
Choose love,
Choose rich,
Choose bliss,
Choose to dream,
Choose to kiss,
Choose beauty. 

Cinematic Poetry, written, produced and performed by Laurence Fuller
AI Visuals and Music created by Laurence Fuller

Soho Collection has been Curated by;
The VerseVerse 'After Ginsberg',
CryptGallery at Dream Hotel in Manhattan,
Lume Studios in Soho,
Nolcha Shows in NYC,
'First Drop' exhibition by NueroNexus,
Featured Drop on Foundation,

SOHO Frame ~ Choose Beauty

Sparrow has exhibited around the world from NFC Lisbon, Film3 LA & in Miami during Art Basel to Lume Studios during NFT NYC.

Vincent D’Onofrio and Laurence Fuller use the latest in technology combined with a good old fashion notepad and pen to create Poetic Cinematic Fine Art. An evolution in method acting and cinematic poetry in contemporary art. Currently exhibiting internationally. 

Graphite Method was born out of a time where the film and entertainment industries are in flux. And technology is rapidly evolving both the arts and every aspect of our lives. 

With 60 years combined experience in the arts, Vincent and Laurence are at the forefront of nurturing the ghost in the machine. 

Sparrow noir cinematic influences blended with poetic storytelling. Join Graphite Method, at the beginning of this spiralling narrative, as they lead you through an odd yet beautiful dreamscape where the world stops ~ if only for a moment, in the spectacular turning of these hours, along a scorched black path.

Sparrow (cinematic cut)

"And what’s he then that says I play the villain?
When this advice is free I give and honest,
All seals and symbols of redeemed sin,
His soul is so enfetter’d to her love,
That she may make, unmake, do what she list,
Even as her appetite shall play the god
With his weak function. 
How am I then a villain?
When devils will the blackest sins put on,
They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,
As I do now: Divinity of Hell!
I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear,
That she repeals him for her body’s lust;
And by how much she strives to do him good,
She shall undo her credit with the Moor.
So will I turn her virtue into pitch,
And out of her own goodness make the net
That shall enmesh them all." ~ William Shakespeare

Shakespearean adaptation, as part of the Rust series by Laurence Fuller, 2024 @laurencefuller ~ www.laurencefuller.art

Iago ~ The Villain

"Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions: but we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion." ~ William Shakespeare

Shakespearean adaptation, as part of the Rust series by Laurence Fuller, 2024 @laurencefuller ~ www.laurencefuller.art

Iago ~ Fig

What am I?
That which can be understand but not talk,
Speak but not be heard,
Writ with chalk or carved in chalk,
Given by the groom,
Or gifted by the lake on a warm afternoon,
Declared at the feet of a king on his throne,
I am a poem,

Minted for "Art Market” exhibition x FakeWhale (the first gallery exhibit with objkt)
by Laurence Fuller, 2024 @laurencefuller ~ www.laurencefuller.art

The Fool

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools,
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. 
It is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.” ~ William Shakespeare

Shakespearean adaptation, as part of the Rust series by Laurence Fuller, 2024
@laurencefuller ~ www.laurencefuller.art

MacBeth ~ Tomorrow

I sent her to you,
So her rust would seep into your heart,
To corrode the blades,
Into a pile of rust behind a horse and cart.

Snake skin peeled back,
Shed and left to flake,
The taste of rust on the breathe of a snake,
A dagger and a skate.

by Laurence Fuller, 2023
@laurencefuller
www.laurencefuller.art

Rust I

First light,
Ships stocked for the first fight,
Cannons firing at the front lines,
Their blood in the air this night,
We live at their behest,
Live and die by the crest,
But beauty is for all.
Laurence Fuller, 2023

Airdropped to the three collectors of "En Passant" Pawn Portraits.

Animated AI art, Music,
Poetry, Produced and Performed by Laurence Fuller
@laurencefuller
www.laurencefuller.art/web3

🍵teia.cafe

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