CHIP ART---it's in the bag! (Part 1)

With Real Toads--Poetry Potluck

And now, in our never ending effort to bring you the quirky and the weird, Catnip presents: CHIP ART!  There's a whole world of creativity out there in potato chip land...and I intend to discover it.  So check out these amazing images, all hand-picked by yours truly. (Uh...you'll have to cock your head to the left to view the cat properly--I couldn't figure out how to set him right side up.)  

In potato chip land, the law of the jungle applies--those that pass the test survive and become famous...those that don't get eaten!

This is just a taste for you (so to speak) as we'll be crunching  our  way into discovering some of the most incredible images ever found!  In fact, I'll be posting more this (Tuesday) evening...so come back in a few hours to see GEORGE WASHINGTON and lots more. CHIP ART...it's in the bag!   

P.S.  I will accept photo submissions of chip art--if they are unique--and credit you for the photo when I post it. (timschaefer41@Gmail.com) I intend to get you all obsessively searching through your potato chip bags for undiscovered art treasures!   Hahahahahahoohoohoohooheeheeheehee.... 

RISE OF THE FALL

Friday Poetry Fest

Poetry Picnic

d'Verse Poets Pub

St.George and the Dragon--by Gustave Moreau.

Night descends

like a straight razor in a morgue...

The cutting edge of the

moon illuminates a blood-spattered

canvas, as art imitates death.

From the tenements there comes a wail--

siren song to the thunderbeat of jackboots

in perfect sync, a mirage or a memory, but

you can't trust a fascist to tell you which.

In the night I sense that he

is soaring over the city

with his searchlight and his megaphone.

Solo flight in a jackdaw dream.

Brownshirt in a black sky.

He wears a silver swastika on a golden chain.

He has come to inspect my paintings.

I tell him that once viewed they

are no longer mine, but belong to the world,

like Saint George and the Dragon.

Pretending to be a Brahman with

high-falutin' ways, his tail switches

like an alligator who disapproves of my shoes.

His lips curl into a sardonic smile.

Flames shoot from the sides of his mouth

as he contemplates his next tactical move.

When I escape, the sky

is on fire in my rear-view mirror.

Pink flambe in a Black Russian's eye.

Is Paris Burning?

Quick, try to remember the year you were born...

and were you in love with Anastasia after all?

Across town it is ladies night at

the poolroom, where Miss Manners

is learning to let down her hair

as she falls off the chair,

lying in a lump like yesterday's oatmeal--

the foam on her lips like white caps

on a sea of unspoken desire.

Her words float in the air like alphabet soup...

Unhand that rainbow, you cad,

and let me color my world like

a purple-assed baboon

walking backwards on the moon!

The hushed gallery waits for her to tee off again.

While I sit lonely

by a fountain

where naked cherubs

are pissing away my dreams,

knowing that collaborationists

stalk their own shadows

while pigeons goose-step

through the square--

but none can tell you whether ghosts

sit up and listen to the footsteps

that echo through an empty museum.

Now, the edges of the world begin

to blur, like a painting by Monet.

I must draw my own conclusions.

And I am running...

RUNNING...

ducking down blind alleys

searching for the truth

that will open my eyes.