Oil Paints on Canvass. Palette Knives, no Brushes. -Simon A. Flynn


“In Service of the USA; STRIGIFORM SCIENTIFIC is a Federally Funded Effort to Improve Our Nation”

In a tunic of medical construct I inhabit this my cloister’s nucleus; a kind of Armillary Henge of my vantage and perceptual complexities reckoned via introversion and extroversion at fixes from the dead set origin which is my center of self and soul… upon points both external and internal to this self, I. I find my geospatial locale malleable yet permanent with my federal backing. I feel enmity from those who know their vulnerability and often seek forgiveness as much as the solution, as I admittedly believe that the impending depletion of bio carboniferous fuels will end this age in a calamity of famine and strife as the transportation sector collapses well before ecosphere death may cause humanities terminus. I mention my belief that the children of my age will not live to have their own children and grandchildren because I believe in science fiction perhaps in such a way so as to rationalize that the plagues and war, evolving frontiers and Mason Dixon prescription of divisive premise which is so undeniably some permanence of mantras in flux; has externalities beyond all that we are -which are faced by apparitional orders of we whom envision an eternity with God if truth be that we can not be saved on this earth. So, listen, hear, see, and perceive; for during these days now it is said that the end of biocarboniferous fuels and life; the final end of Christ’s epoch, and thus perhaps the end of time… has arrived.

Simon Flynn

Call or Text: 860 534-1737



Simon Flynn’s Poem*:

*clickable site photos and links

Haliaeetus Leucocephalus

Archaeopteryx Caduceus


“ae ae aesculapius of the aether...

…originates as archaeopteryx”

The aether’s archaeopteryx reigns…

aloft, sees in dreams… which aesclepius sustains…

for nature’s height hath caduceus brains…

So the ether’s archaeopteryx must…

rove the air, to tell… in trust…

adeptly weaving worlds… with words! …and while weaving… proceeds thus…

past warps, till woofs… are producing… weft…

by ginning thoughts… joining right and left…

quixotically native… and… in… too…

mind’s anticipant weir… and seldom through.

Read and written, into minds…

transitioning thee through these riparian times…

duplicitous, anadromous, parties mine…

by stories, lore, in science, in time…

proceeding… in studies… voraciously fine…

crux on that scene of most difficult brine…

from whence the sapiens chart; these the sapient times…

venturing from the silvic heights…

upon this cloth; this firma terre,

cried plane versus sphere in sacred rites

of mountain, meridian, land, sea and air

to order, learner… deciphering, tare

and place these cephal talons there…

into that sub limnol lair…

not thee? …and I… I… with cross to bear?

This and thus the learned yearner.

For born of open spaces, dreams,

where wanderers think… and… spirits seem…

The hearts and minds! …

of yearning persons…


A nation, built, with arch, with dome,

stands on lands, grains, timbers… lone

and free in mind this heart to roam

hath found thy dream, thy name, thy home.

-Simon A. Flynn

In Dialectical Wildernesses Demanded of Me is Verse

I fear departs an age of snarled ash snaths; once steam bent as the constitution’s oaken futtocks were, then gripped as landed scythes which anvils, stithys, fires did forge and curl in heat and steam… for reaping time when honed by stone, and close to temper, their iron chines would cut, until thence harvesting grains for breads then threshed, winnowed, and ground to loaves for feeding at thanks to strengthen those and theirs whom had thus forged upon the mighty sea and land this faith borne venture, at his command… and that such an epoch doth now wane for loss of brace trees, of greatest good, felled forward towards the oaken mill; as should.

It is as though o’er ramparts and bulwarks a spirit may depart… towards grander timber’s nominal yields this here forest now forgot? For “greener pastures” in meridian squares the meets and bounds departed?


Catalysts of a Biocarboniferous Age.
Aged Thinking on Life,
it’s Origins, and it’s Organization

I obey overwhelming force
The law being made of paper fibers for friends
Who all believe in orations understood whilst
Clubs and chains with threat of death facilitate

I’m dead, here and everywhere, impoverished.
Incapacitation and solitude being equivalents
I’m the disabled civil war veteran
And all know such as I must end in futility or a tome; engulfed by the modern mantra’s obtuse denials of each epic front contention’s singularity itself, fading like the blood into film and forgotten in the absentia of intelligence amidst statistical behavioralism for one’s acceptance of the modal intellect; scripted. The singularities contentions, at each front, aforementioned, unmentioned in texts… yet as shadow monumentally persisting. So thus too the victors seated silently Praying for their solitudes abatement
when no one wants to listen or hear yet for the Din of boundary archetypes prescribed to masses sleeping now in the maelstrom blaze, believing. Where thence and thereby no sheltered recourse to cognizance of the interstate border cline’s duplicity might be found.

And now only do I keep the faith.
Awaiting eviction to some blessed pad
or in prayer from cloistered cell’s distress; my call to her encrypted… singular,
For only that perfection; the woman to love.
Trapped in luxury.
A welfare recipient
Untrained to spar I failed to save my life
And now it is too late
And better to take the bludgeoning
Hear the complaints
Return to some semblance of sanitation
Clean my linens by winter
I want to leave the place disheveled and
advertise my sty. To say with force of melancholy frailty: “stay”.

It seems these decades sublimated yield now the literal and littoral; and thus that I as submerged thence have accrued mine luggage slowly. Mostly not with stuffs of nightmares causal familial scorn. Yet, with she my dreams fecund by deed, though maimed and grey my soul. My set midst Henge now waiting here, to see our stasis grand.

And, to further iterate my emotive, As now I disbelieve that blood, I’ll cross frontiers by sight of texts as knowing now it’s innocence. And, so, this is my report upon these decades done in service -recognition of which denied: With monthly meetings sure to heal: I wonder in my contention still by what methods states transcend the methods of a states, and if true imperceptible externalities -such as the civil war mortem of the bicamerality’s consequence- to the modal mantra broadcast hither and promulgated as being the one omniscience, might themselves be saved. Might in the chiseled stone we utter defined that specific Mason Dixon limitrophe’s description thus that denied no more the limits of place; federation would persist, Homeland be uplifted, God be perceived?