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About Traditional Art / Hobbyist Dakota James DawsonMale/United States Recent Activity
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Awesome work, the only thing I can say is that I think the painting needs more life to it, and by that I mean more people. I think it w...

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Hitler as Caravaggio (Oil Pastels) by dakotajdawson Hitler as Caravaggio (Oil Pastels) :icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 2 0
Literature
Loyalty
Loyalty, where does that bound you?
It brings you the love and devotion of the miserable.
The sad and melancholy sound of battle.
The cracking of bitter filled hope.
The deepest regrets brought to the forefront of your destitute desire.
The loyalty of loyalists is not for me.
Not for the man whose loyalties lie elsewhere.
The man whose blood drenched sword is set afire with the mist of Caledonia.
The Caledonian mist forever a voice for my loyalties.
Where do my loyalties lie if not with the loyalists?
May they lie with the traitor's who exposed the loyalties?
They must, for I have loyalty.
Just not for the loyalists.
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:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
Swans of Regret
Together they screamed.
All together in unison.
At the Eagle.
The Great Eagle who's boldness and depravity knew why they screamed.
It knew and remembered those nights.
Nights where the rape of swans began.
The "Great Rape" people called it.
Oh, such a dead as the "Great Rape" could only be done by the Great Eagle.
Who felt magnified by the molestation of such innocence.
Serial crimes committed by a glorious being whose name was God.
And he was great.
As he the Great Eagle appeared to be so.
As he was.
As the drama He brought.
Just was he in his own eyes.
A crime of divinity in their eyes
The sacrilege of Heaven born conspiracies.
Kind was he in his eyes.
Cruel was he in their eyes.
A conqueror in both of their eyes.
A conqueror of evil.
A conqueror of beauty.
How that Great Eagle flies.
With no care for the millions who dashed at his shadows of worship.
The incense of ritual never rising to the heights of his winded crevice.
King was he in Heaven.
God was he below.
Loyalty to the king
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Literature
Tyrannical Stoicism
I never want to feel again. I feel my regrets ever creeping upon my past embraces of decadent hatred. Those embraces who faces have the name of death. Upon their foreheads are advertised things such as "Just Jump", "Overdose", "Hang Thy Self", "Shotgun Rain", and "Drown". When will they ever stop their masquerade of blackened thoughts of powder keg dreams? Probably never will these perverse thoughts ever leave my leached mind of morbid redemption. Maybe jumping off of the times would satisfy their hunger. Throw back my head for the numbing powered pain. A rope to slither the beast to everlasting residence. A feast of shrapnel for dinner possibly? Or even the deep dark recesses of that man made atrocity of cracked boulders and melted ice. But there is also a voice of cold reason. Upon his forehead is labeled "Life", and his word is that of a thousand nations under an unholy trinity of jealousy. So many choices, what to choose? I could choose one beautiful everlasting death of suicidal p
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Mature content
Political Satire :icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
Golden Girl Libertinism
Pretty girls with stuffy faces and fluffed hair.
Such are the girls that I encounter on a daily basis.
Never though are there smiles or leaks of eye droplets.
Only the ever stern and statuesque facial expressions of stoic oppression.
These girls need a reason to just let it go.
To turn the cheek and let the other one be smacked.
Then give the offender a gift of physical trauma to the groin.
As they rise away from conformity and absorb the spirit of a libertine.
Idolatrous books are no longer needed for these golden girls.
Each girl has contained within themselves a raging bull of ferocity.
Capacity in every one of these girls to create an erotic psychology of sadistic fixations.
The hemorrhagic revolution of naturalistic self-desires preformed in a ritualistic depravity.
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:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
The Final Waltz
As to be akin in spirit with a creature of habit, I collapsed again.
There and everywhere across the rug were heard thuds and creaks.
"Strange are those people.", said the neighbors.
"See how they distract and transfix our eyes upon battered gates and cracked windows."
"Must they make such a ruckus?"
I awoke to wince at the feel of pointed sabers.
The cavity in my heart had reappeared during my hastily met slumber.
Not a very welcoming morning that was I can assure you.
All my senses were dulled and spiced at the same time.
What other tragedies were to befall me that day, I had no knowledge of.
My mind was not so refined at that moment in time.
Shades of firelight and veiled scarlet plagued my eyes.
California was set ablaze in the sight of my left eye.
While New York was drowning in some sort of thick red coulis that inhibited my right eye.
Whether these visions were just a decrepit imagination or diabolical prophecy is still unknown to me.
Despite the difficulties that sought to impa
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:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 1 0
Literature
Infantile Redrum
I cried a lullaby for the baby that laid beside the bed.
It's tender cheeks glowed with such intensity.
A facade made of porcelain that lacked understanding.
Always releasing threatening screams that I felt the need to muffle.
I achieved this sweet everlasting silence through the use of suffocation.
Never was suffocation termed a method of murder.
Suffocation was breathless freedom for the baby.
No longer was it considered a baby.
It was just a life that fell into the dark temptations of death.
Murder was not what captured my eyes.
As there was no tragedy in sight.
Only the makings of a perfect bedside lullaby were ever seen.
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:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 1 0
Literature
Bloody, not well done!
Crumbled nutshells beneath my feet.
That isn't what I seek.
Egg shells are a finer commodity.
Despite the ghastly smells.
I want a steak covered in onions.
Not a care echoed in the mind if it is rare.
Tongue and taste buds in need of a seductive thigh slice.
To the deaf chef.
I will give a check.
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
Tom the Hunter
As Tom sweeps the creek for bounty.
He finds that the honesty here is lacking
A sudden flutter of lapsed political designs unveil themselves.
Isn't it the hunter that will deceive and lie to it's prey?
The interrupted ones are ever the prey in Tom's eyes.
The powder is clean and crisp on this weary morning.
A feeling of oncoming mourning infests the air.
Each metallic shard is shaped into a circular ball to perfect the impact.
Tom is prepped and primed to fuel the lure of a lore.
A lustful rush that accumulates into a chase.
Tom hopes the prey does not see the eventual downpour of hail.
He marvels at how the beauty and chaos are compounded into perfection.
The prey is ever still to hear the falling leaves.
And so quiet as it longs to feel the Autumn wind.
But all it shall feel is a fiery headlight of crude ruin.
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:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
Screaming Tortured Quarter Pounder
Yes,
you made
my smile fade.
So I dice away.
Stop screaming!
Want a beating?
They gotta go man.
The pearly white sausages.
They are gone
with a snap and a crack.
Do you ever stop
whining like a swine?
That sluggish eel,
it needs to be culled.
Ah what a sight!
Looks like the herd
has been hedged.
My work has only begun.
Why keep up the illusion?
You don't appear to be an actor.
At least one who can act.
I need to quench my thirst.
How about a round of wine?
Its quite abundant I hear.
All stored up and locked away safely.
Up inside that body.
It's Time to slice.
Rich and luscious it is!
I'll take a drink
and gulp you down  
ounce for quart.
As for the leftovers.
I'll gobble you down
pound for pound.
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
The Boxed Ox
He heard it, a clout that was brought to life with the whisper of an Ox.
Rifle in hand he sought the clout that stopped his wrinkled heart.
Two bullets primed and shined to shear through the sheepish sins that grinned.
The night full of fury and fright as he was swept away by the squalls.
Being seeped through the flings of would be heretics.
The Ox confirmed a song that filled the pot.
The song that bawled the love of a son.
A seed of Eden had come.
A sight that was guaranteed to be so sure upon the sire.
Who was now hunted by he who is named Desire.
Desire of whom has designs upon the sire.
Designs fed to a rifle with a bolt that unlocked to unfurl it's larva.
To lure the Ox into a box.
Squared and sharp was the box.
A blinding tempest upon insightful lies.
A mist that sifted through the rough burrows.
The box that costed the son an Ox.
An Ox that had become a box.
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:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Mature content
A Deep Aroma :icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
Asmodeus!
Be that a mouth of foul slander I hear? Yes it may be just that! Oh the agony that creeps along sorrows that akin to a crow's despair. Pity upon the city whose crowning achievement blossoms into a crack filled snort. Each snort to that high of uttermost compassionate beauty. An essence of past glories and satisfying orgies. Yielding to squirts and burps of a reprieved rapist. Through the jaded eyes of a depraved madman who raves of slaughter and spice. These are the decades of the inherent one on high. He who dwells in wine stained sheets of luxurious comforts. Between spaces deep within the crescent. His' malice a tool for that price of passion. Deceit and cries of woe upon that of whom speaks his' name. He is the scourge of death itself, relying upon the prose of Baal. Whipped and snipped are his' abominations of "art". A skull upon the pelvis to display the lust of a buzz. A battery charged and prepped to quench the hunger that lingers in the curse. The church his' shrine to yield u
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:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
Anguish of the Boars
No need to set the net.
For there are no more scores of boars who soar.
Soared upon the wind with predictions alongside pernicious intentions that inhabit a silhouette of exaggeration.
Sounds from a cloud that channeled the ultimatum of boars toward the spores of spilled silt.
There the boars soared and roared their anguish.
Anguish directed at the distinguished bores who wore their bones.
The distinguished bores who delighted in the exaggeration of boars.
Boars whose hollowed psalms exalted the distinguished bores.
Downed were the boars from within the snare of a barrel.
By Sparked fumes that crackled and spewed.
Clubbed and snubbed were the boars that were found upon scores of sores.
Clipped and snipped that laid bare the stark wood and familiar feel of sap ridden bark.
So fine were the slices and curves of serrated strokes.
That cured the distinguished bores who found delight in the anguish of the boars.
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 0 0
Literature
The Musician's Woe
Around the bend it goes.
Beats of the melody.
Somber tunes of seething visions.
The Musician a compacted cube of solitude.
Lazy beats that pour from circular strums.
Crowds that drink their fill of self endowed embitterment.
Always an applause of tight lips and stale taste.
Muttered breaths that jut from frugal breasts.
The Musician, a shallow face of dimmed light.
A solution appears.
Knock and shock to cranium cells from a buzz of lush springs.
Bruises of ineptitude upon the Musician.
Meteors fly by in a hale of ecstatic bursts.
Another blinded game of glazed fazes.
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson
:icondakotajdawson:dakotajdawson 1 0

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Hitler as Caravaggio (Oil Pastels)
The face is Hitler's, the rest can qualify as some of Caravaggio's physical traits, like the hair and facial hair.
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Loyalty, where does that bound you?
It brings you the love and devotion of the miserable.
The sad and melancholy sound of battle.
The cracking of bitter filled hope.
The deepest regrets brought to the forefront of your destitute desire.

The loyalty of loyalists is not for me.
Not for the man whose loyalties lie elsewhere.
The man whose blood drenched sword is set afire with the mist of Caledonia.
The Caledonian mist forever a voice for my loyalties.

Where do my loyalties lie if not with the loyalists?
May they lie with the traitor's who exposed the loyalties?
They must, for I have loyalty.
Just not for the loyalists.
Together they screamed.
All together in unison.
At the Eagle.
The Great Eagle who's boldness and depravity knew why they screamed.
It knew and remembered those nights.
Nights where the rape of swans began.
The "Great Rape" people called it.
Oh, such a dead as the "Great Rape" could only be done by the Great Eagle.
Who felt magnified by the molestation of such innocence.
Serial crimes committed by a glorious being whose name was God.
And he was great.
As he the Great Eagle appeared to be so.
As he was.
As the drama He brought.
Just was he in his own eyes.
A crime of divinity in their eyes
The sacrilege of Heaven born conspiracies.
Kind was he in his eyes.
Cruel was he in their eyes.
A conqueror in both of their eyes.
A conqueror of evil.
A conqueror of beauty.
How that Great Eagle flies.
With no care for the millions who dashed at his shadows of worship.
The incense of ritual never rising to the heights of his winded crevice.
King was he in Heaven.
God was he below.
Loyalty to the king they said in Heaven.
Fear they said from below.
Anger shouted from above and below.
At the crimes of a God-King.
Never he loyal to his family.
To his wife, he was a regret.
To his children, he was a tyrant.
To his friends he was an annoyance.
To his subjects he was a boil of sores
To his slaves he was Tartarus.
To his enemies he was dead.
No longer was he that Great Eagle.
Now he be the broken tool of Heaven.
The great tragedy of the Titans.
So now he ran.
A Bull run a muck with fear.
Charging for redemptive peace.
That ill forgotten chalice of his past.
Gone back then was the atrocities of the Titans.
Back were they with his sins of lust.
And so he continued to run.
Forever trying to fly.
But downed to ground.
So the Swans could fly once again.
I never want to feel again. I feel my regrets ever creeping upon my past embraces of decadent hatred. Those embraces who faces have the name of death. Upon their foreheads are advertised things such as "Just Jump", "Overdose", "Hang Thy Self", "Shotgun Rain", and "Drown". When will they ever stop their masquerade of blackened thoughts of powder keg dreams? Probably never will these perverse thoughts ever leave my leached mind of morbid redemption. Maybe jumping off of the times would satisfy their hunger. Throw back my head for the numbing powered pain. A rope to slither the beast to everlasting residence. A feast of shrapnel for dinner possibly? Or even the deep dark recesses of that man made atrocity of cracked boulders and melted ice. But there is also a voice of cold reason. Upon his forehead is labeled "Life", and his word is that of a thousand nations under an unholy trinity of jealousy. So many choices, what to choose? I could choose one beautiful everlasting death of suicidal pragmatics or the continuous thousand deaths of tyrannical stoicism? I prefer that beautiful setting of silence. No more will those voices haunt me, for finally I will be set free! Breathe in that glorious aroma of venomous designs, for that is what I choose.

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Does anyone ever tire of those Romans? Those Romans with their Greek debates. Those Greeks with hawkish Persian passions. Those men of "Esteemed Glory". Those many men who are hated for their devious designs of scandalous debate and function. Does anyone tire of their eunuchs who crawl to their feet in a haze of feverous glances. Or their critics who just love the epitome of punishment, as if they themselves like to be beat. The "Body Politic" is a big fucker who fucks the hate of the hateful masses. The hateful masses of squished ecstasy who bodily inhabit the circle of "Democratic Virtue". Their paper decisions making more paper decisions. Do they ever just stop and get horny for something else to rub themselves against. I suppose not, for they just love those pearly golden goblets of legislative enslavement. Do they ever want to fuck something for themselves, besides fucking each other? Nope, they love each other's scrumptious bums of heavenly repentance. Then there's that half-baked Hydra of belief who name rhymes with three verses of six according to the tea hoarders of heavenly battle, and the cracked falsehoods of old. Really both the tea fuckers and the reactionary hoodlums of flaky truths are just a bunch of bratty toddlers whose purpose is universal damnation with a side of redemptive tyranny. So really, there is only one question and answer to these many oblivious buffoons of stage fright acting. Does anyone really give a fuck? Hell no.

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dakotajdawson's Profile Picture
dakotajdawson
Dakota James Dawson
Artist | Hobbyist | Traditional Art
United States
I'm an amateur free lance artist at the moment, but hope to become a professional one in the future. I love to draw, paint, and have an interest in photography.
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:iconscheinbar:
scheinbar Featured By Owner Edited Aug 4, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you handwhriting ~  F R E E S T U F F by AStoKo     THE TIME-TRAVELLER by scheinbar :iconredroseplz: the World: Alien by scheinbar lost friends by scheinbar
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:iconevelinlang:
EvelinLang Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2017   Traditional Artist
Thanks dear! :hug: 
Reply
:iconmatthewberglund:
MatthewBerglund Featured By Owner Jul 29, 2017
thank you for the fav
Reply
:iconemv-arts:
emv-arts Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2017  New Deviant Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the fav I am a dummy! 
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:iconshade-and-light:
Shade-and-light Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2017  New Deviant Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thankyou so much for the fav!! :D:D
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:iconzoleeart:
zoleeart Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2017
Thanks for the fav.
Reply
:iconadriennegelardi:
AdrienneGelardi Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2017  Professional General Artist
Thanks for the fave ❤
Reply
:iconnatallymp:
natallymp Featured By Owner Jul 9, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you so much for the fav! :)
Reply
:iconrajka57:
Rajka57 Featured By Owner Jul 6, 2017  New Deviant
Thanks for the fav. welcome in my little gallery ! good luck !
Reply
:iconcesaretanassi:
cesaretanassi Featured By Owner Jun 28, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thnaks for the FAV
Reply
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