Mit der Kunst auf dem Prüfstand
I
When Art becomes blind and falls upon its sword
Becomes cursed by desublimation, to placate the public horde.
If art demands an opinion, only the controversial has worth
Otherwise it’s as nothing – less the soil of the earth;
So bastardise and plagiarize, then desire the bloody loot
A bag of shit has potential, but never bowel of fruit,
Those who neglect the morality, still execute the heist
Applaud yourself again, you could be bigger than Christ!
Only the open minded can comprehend the recompense
Because savages understand not, and not of consequence;
So let creation be the Cathedral, of the unforgiven
An escape of the disturbed and those ingrates most driven.
Burn scripture and memories – have no lasting regret
The drugs and alcohol really does help one forget.
When life is only fleeting and creation inspires forever
Only for the proles, the insane and those exceedingly cleaver;
Should art also be delicate, tender and warm to the touch
Or like an anguished soul dissected, one adjective too much.
This perversion is more – it’s the cold feel of a razor blade
More honest than violence and cheaper than rouge trade
Be controversial or argumentative, be a bastard with passion!
Then hysterical and loud in such an outrageous fashion;
Call it degenerate indeed – to embrace the sound of thunder
To capture a relevant moment then left in awe to wonder.
II
When art becomes tired, becomes crass and stale
Of colour deemed intense, yet still remains so pale?
Discard the shallow beauty – resigned for a sinister caress
Of a squalid canvas exposed, enjoy pain where more is less.
See the wings of freedom, now left mangled and broken
From the Renaissance to pop culture; the final bitter token
Artist becomes the branded one, with the scar of the beast
Consumed the pig head’s course in culture’s mammoth feast.
So drench the senses in a freak wave of controversial highs
And reconcile to blind shock that bleeds out from tired eyes,
Art can be so gentle in beauty and most ambient of disposition
Like radiant shafts of sunshine through realms of dark attrition;
But to be relevant and honest, is the most noblest accolade
To inspire, to excite in astonishment – and not feel betrayed.
III
When art becomes honest, transparent in regression
Crucified by the nails of anxiety – all driven in by depression;
Bequeath little except untruths like propaganda phlegm
Talk not to the ignorant, explain nothing to them.
Still art can believe in wonderful and impossible things
Immerse, digest and drown in the emotion this brings;
Understanding this magic- it can be a petulant whore
But still the tragedy and anguish, I so totally adore!
It’s like kneeling at the shrine of The Bloody Saint Starlin
With the Mother superior’s banging junk, so just fuck off darling!
So who guards the Zoo Guards through the Aesthetic sorrow
When making one of opposites – when I question tomorrow
Notions of realism and of truth, were of opposites built
And the pure beauty of creation manifest itself in guilt;
Whilst stalking myself online – well I fell into life’s thinkhole
And envibe the memories of nowhere, without parental control.
IV
When Art becomes sex. On the canvas of virginity;
Passionately tender to a fault, its satisfaction to infinity
Yet reality is performing – such alternative sex tricks
While Art purely reflects; Everything that’s in the mix;
With the expressionist now exposed, then assessed at leisure
Gagged with soiled expletives, enjoy suffocation for pleasure.
And still one cannot escape – the very manifestation of truth
Or just denounce the establishment, then remain aloof,
Create montage of situations – of fucksex black and white
Embrace sweet twisted deviance, through a velvet-pain night.
But the necessities of this torrid life – deliverers critique in the raw
It’s like licking up cheap opiates, from a dirty toilet floor.
Watch the devout cringe while the vestry it is sacked
When Art itself is sentient, becomes both the temptation and the act!
Do theses interpretations betray – any false creative expression
Like morality stone structures falter, then topple in regression,
So ram the architectural hole with a sensitive palette filler
Then enjoy the delicious perspective, of each erect pillar.
V
When Art becomes nothing more than a facile excuse
Without insight or inspiration, totally without use,
To plagiarise and not develop is pointless to a fault
Without insight to the soul – drives creation to a halt;
Lacking in beauty, not so fresh and buoyantly bright
Like waltzing in a furnace in only fishnet delight.
The charlatan’s trash protestations resound with angry words
Just cheap pointless whitenoise to convince the simple herds,
Some succumb to dark profanity – blasphemy against the cross
I’m standing naked in a crowded room, in complete and utter loss.
So wash away the passion – that’s applied to each layer
And I assess the situation; like a streetwise poker player,
Now Art can still be dirty and have purpose as its good
As long as it remains genuine – well then dirty it should.
VI
When art becomes beauty that blossoms in haste
Like sweet smelling magnolia, so innocent, so chased.
But rampantly wild and unbridled of life’s curses
Still what bears the festering secrets – an inner pain it nurses,
Passion can morph like clotted emotions onto gilded brass
Dangerous images cascade down, as falling shards of glass;
Ordinary deities can’t comprehend or understand why
So when Art becomes plastic, then your dreams will surely die.
And these illusions hang like tapestries of the mind
A million effervesce experiences, so enthralling in kind,
Look to yourselves for forgiveness – you race born of mothers
I never lie to myself, I leave that job up to others.
So when Art is declared obdurate or nefariously made?
“Wreckers of civilisation “ such a glorious accolade
Where nuance and the sombre are narratively caught
Hurtling off the rails, Oh sweet deviant train of thought!
